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Chapter Text

The world lurched under his feet, or so it felt, and his heels dragged ungracefully in the damp soil as he fell backwards. Blisters formed and tore away instantly. Shards of broken rock dug into his spine and he bit at the pain that tried so hard to make itself known. Gohan might not train much these days, but the inherited strength of his forefathers felt like knives of fury as he reigned down his fists upon Piccolo. Damp soil and broken grass flew as they moved, releasing the fresh scent of a prospering land high into the darkening sky. With each hit, jade skin broke, and with each kick, long legs buckled. Blonde hair blurred past his vision and he wondered if Gohan had transformed because he needed to, or out of a long held, unwavering respect. 

He didn’t want to know the answer.

His mind wouldn’t have much time to contemplate that grim thought as a dirt covered fist came through the air towards him, he fazed out and re-appeared behind Gohan, delivering a swift and rib breaking kick into the half Saiyan’s kidney. The other man twisted unnaturally, air exhaling fast as the internal damage shifted his innards. Piccolo’s countenance flickered, It was a little below the belt, but he was having to dig deep. Losing this match so quickly was as unacceptable as turning it down in the first place. No sooner than his foot landed, a tanned fist drive through the muscles of his abdomen, deep into his stomach. Any sense of remorse he briefly felt absconded as blood gurgled in his throat and he tried not to gag. Desperately trying not to grimace at the metallic taste on his tongue and the harrowing pain in his stomach. His head automatically went back as the pain hit and somehow, underneath the sensation of his body breaking, he could see the stars faintly in the twilight. He thought of Namek.

Back then, and now.

Back when they had adventure, and he was strong enough to make a difference. He pushed the thought down and whirled around, raising an elbow to the other man’s face. It didn’t collide. Instead, his momentum carried him too far and he stumbled, feet sinking in the damp dirt. The scratching caress of old soil told him his shoes had torn. His face then met the ground in undignified surprise, and the dirt tasted like everything and nothing all at once as it rammed past his teeth. The blow to his back had been significant, and the crunching of bone must have made Gohan falter because he let Piccolo lie there for a moment. The Namek’s reserves were now as unreachable as his youth and his thighs and arms burned in an acid protest. Now his jaw was ringing. It started to rain.

The cold water felt sharp on the back of his head, the skin tingling as it fell more rapidly. His chest was bleeding now, he could feel the sting of the dirt meeting and mingling with open wounds. He could even feel the slow drip of  warm violet blood as it pooled in the curve of his ear, yet, all he could hear was the rain as it poured. The moment was over, and Piccolo picked himself up, wet gi clinging to his frame. The mixture of water, sweat, blood and soil made him feel like he was back on Namek, fighting Frieza and pulling Goku’s ridiculously heavy frame out of the water. Gohan had been so small and innocent with his bowl cut hair and positivity. Now he stood, orange gi and blonde hair soaked through, all happiness drained. Piccolo could see that the other man was done, but Piccolo wasn’t. Red blood had snaked its way down the half Saiyan’s collar bone and was darkening the blue undershirt beneath.

He had lost Videl last year, and Piccolo could see her wedding ring on a chain around his neck.

Gohan’s boot flashed in Piccolo’s dark eyes and he just avoided the kick, craning his neck backwards. He brought his hand up, green fingers looping around the other man’s ankle. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he dug his talons in. Gohan lost his perch and sailed through the air as the Namek threw him, not gently, straight into the trunk of an Acer tree. His Saiyan body went through the bark, and the old structure groaned as it toppled over. Whatever brave birds had remained beneath the leaves during their fight flew off in uncoordinated panic. The great red tree had probably been there for an age already, it had seen so much and it just fell, an aching groan of unimportance. Gohan’s skin smelled like sap now as his fists came in a flurry. The rain was falling heavier, and the Namek found it impossible to keep his eyes open long enough to track the onslaught. An odd thought of the use of eyelashes came and went. He tried to blink but every time he did, he was hit. And each hit felt like the last one.

He briefly wondered if he would be the last one. 

Gohan had little lines written in the corners of his eyes, and Piccolo knew that there was grey sitting at the temples under that shock of blonde hair. The boyish handsomeness though, that remained, no doubt still breaking hearts. He let the fists come, and the pink of his arms was starting to go red from the abuse, lining with violet as the skin tore. It was too much, but he wouldn’t say, Gohan had always thought him stronger than he really was. A hero worship that he never really grew out of. Even when the Saiyan’s surpassed him in strength, and he had become back-up, and then when he became a bystander. The pain of that had lasted a long time, and even now he would wake up and forget. For a moment when he opened his eyes, he forgot how useless he had become. He couldn’t even recall now when that moment had come, and passed. But now it is done.

His days of fighting the enemy were a fantasy story to tell children at bedtime. 

Gohan must have noticed the bruising build up on Piccolo’s arms and he pulled back, instead, choosing to kick those long legs from under the Namek. For the third time, Piccolo’s back hit the ground and old scratches screamed in protest. His arms fell to the side and throbbed in a numbness that told of terrible pain to come. He didn’t heal as well as he remembered. His gi felt clingy and cold against his skin as it continued to soak up the brutal day. The beat of the drops a song in the valley all around him. His eyes were half closed, he knew that Gohan might see it and stop soon, but it was dark. The air was pleasantly chilled in that damp way and rain pelted his face without remorse. He hadn’t won a match against Gohan in so long it was almost pointless to recall. But it still hurt like a hollowing, every time. 

It would hurt more when he did finally win, when Gohan was too old to fight well anymore.

That time would come sooner than they’d realise. He could already hear the faltering heartbeat sometimes, and the quick breaths that came with age. The half Saiyan’s heart seemed healthy now as it thumped furiously, in the heat of battle, and Piccolo fancied he could hear blood rushing through the younger man’s veins. His body was aching fiercely, now so filled with acid that when he moved the limbs they were seizing up. A clawed hand slipped in the wet ground, and he felt the grit moving to lodge itself under his talons. An urge to vomit crawled but he ignored it. He stumbled to stand and Gohan was incredulous, but not entirely surprised. The half Saiyan came at him, and Piccolo tried to raise his hands but they wouldn’t move any higher than his chest. Gohan realised too late as his fist crashed into the side of Piccolo’s face and he heard the cheek bone collapse.

Piccolo fell to the ground for the last time, his body thudding in a wet slap. Gohan pulled back in shock and his golden hair fell, now black and wet against his face. His dark brown eyes went wide. Piccolo caught the panicked look as he fell but he couldn’t keep his eyes open now as he lay in the disrupted earth. It was so cold. The water was now sitting atop the soil like a little river and he was almost breathing it in through one nostril. The pain in his face and skull was incredible and the blood was running freely down the ridge of his nose and dripping into the puddle of rain. If it weren’t so dark, the water would be violet now. Through the pain lacing in the fibres of his body and the deep ache, even through the incredible sense of defeat, he knew that he would recover. The sickness was back.

He would live. 

Gohan knelt down, one orange clothed knee sinking as he did. He knew that Piccolo would be alright but the concern was still overwhelming. The thought of losing his mentor felt unbearable. They weren’t just friends, it was like he was in love, the same uncompromising, unconditional love he felt for his daughter. And maybe at one time, something more. The only solace he took from the knowledge that old age was fast approaching, was that the Namek would naturally outlive him.

He never once considered that Piccolo didn’t want to.

W.

Chapter Text

Pale morning light wavered against the walls, swaying thick curtains in the breeze. Piccolo’s eyes opened but barely, pupils fighting against the light. He recognised the room, it was one of the pleasantly neutral spare rooms in Gohan’s modest home. He closed his eyes again and breathed in; the scent of sap, faint flowers and dew felt so familiar as to be melodic. Keen ears picked up the distant clatter of kitchen utensils and the hum of a tenor, the sound made him smirk. Gohan had taken him home before, either not trusting the Namek to heal in the confines of his waterfall, or because he was lonely. Piccolo suspected it may be a combination of both. An unnecessary kindness, his bones and tissues would knit together as well as they ever did, whether he was cocooned in cotton or if Gohan had left him face down in the dirt and soil, bloodied and broken. Such is the curse of being Namekian.

He sat up in the bedclothes and they slid down his chest. The cuts and scrapes were still present and he traced a finger over the jagged lilac bruised skin. The injured bones beneath had taken precedence, he supposed. Climbing out of bed hurt a little, kind of like that pain Videl had complained of, arthritis, if he recalled correctly. Like his bones were protesting about the weight he had shoved upon them. He used to weigh more.

His gi pants were torn, streaked with dried mud and he felt somewhat remorseful about the white bed sheets being white no longer. Videl would have playfully teased him about it. He padded slowly to the adjoining bathroom and oddly it felt a little like home. The tiles were surprisingly cold against the soles of his feet and he almost picked up one foot to curl his toes inwards. He hadn’t noticed that Gohan had removed his shoes. The sink ahead was simple, too small, and the walls, pale blue. A painted canvas of the ocean with colourful boats bobbing on the false sea spanned the gap between the mirror and the shower. Piccolo leaned down and turned the faucet delicately, his strong fingers always struggled with these fiddly human tasks. Splashing water onto his face, he scrubbed the dirt and dried blood from his cheeks, feeling the sharpness of his cheekbones under his skin. Gohan had commented that the weight loss in his face almost made him look younger than his years. Elf like, were Gohan’s exact words. Piccolo didn’t really appreciate the comparison. Pan had called him an elf when she was a toddler, had asked him to pass notes on to someone called Santa.

The pain of defeat made itself known as he looked in the mirror, seeing the evidence of slower healing than he was used to. He was still broad, strong, trained constantly, but the underlying structure was betraying him. His mind wasn’t as strong, too much time around all these humans perhaps. He craved sleep, rest, meditation and herbal tea. Even read a book or two from Dende’s many collections, though he would adamantly deny it if asked. The Kami often asked him to the Lookout with some barely legitimate request, and Piccolo always indulged him. The young Namek still felt like a child to him, but he had grown into an admirable man, who was wise well beyond his years. He materialised a new gi, and although he wasn’t fastidiously clean, it would do until he reached the waterfall.

He thought back to the fight, felt the crushing blow driving through his rib cage and a foot into his spine. How Gohan effortlessly crushed him. Gohan, who was ageing gracefully, who hadn’t fought in years, who’s main concern was when Pan would be visiting and would she bring the kids when she did. He flinched as a sharp pain beat in his skull, the headache brewing reminded him not to think too deeply. Jade fingers grasped the small handle for the bathroom’s cabinet door and pulled it open gently. A cacophony of pills and medications, balms and salves, greeted him in unfamiliar packaging. Another symptom of growing older, he wondered. He searched for the one Gohan had picked out before, he had known for some time that the Namek suffered from migraines but had the sense not to really discuss it. He picked out the small white bottle with a grey label and ripped the cap off, swallowed two with some water from the faucet and put the unsealed bottle back. Gohan was still humming downstairs, and he could smell spiced tea. 

For a brief moment he did consider going down to sit with his old student on one of those precarious pine chairs, sipping tea whilst he listened to Gohan’s gentle voice. Looking at the deepening creases around his eyes and mouth, listen to him complain about Piccolo’s lack of wrinkles. He thought of Videl’s ring, sparkling in the moonlight, and the pain so clearly evident in Gohan’s eyes. Haunted. His own embarrassment, of not only being defeated so brutally, but knowing that he would outlive all those who were stronger than him, and the legacy of his meaningless existence would be forever tangible, seemed to pale in comparison. Vegeta grasped this more than Gohan, the guilt, and knowing, Piccolo could see it in the deep black eyes of the smaller, older Saiyan. Gohan saw the bright side in almost everything, despite his own pain, and although he didn’t understand, the Namek did love him for it. He did love him.

Piccolo walked back into the bedroom and to the window, glancing down to the pretty garden below. He thought again of going downstairs, joining Gohan for tea like the younger man so obviously wanted. After all this time, he still didn’t feel comfortable. Like Videl was still there, watching. Only she knew more now, could see through Piccolo and into his soul, into his shadows. He felt, more than heard, Gohan arrive in the doorway behind him but he didn’t turn around. The half Saiyan smiled sadly, knowing that his friend would be desperate to jump out of the window and put distance between himself and anything human, unfamiliar, or comfortable. Even after all these years. Gohan leaned against the doorway and listened to the turning thoughts in the other man’s head. Absently, he rubbed one of the many bruises on his arm; Piccolo had fought as viciously as ever. 

The Namek jumped swiftly into the garden below. Gohan was disappointed, but not surprised. Even in the silence he knew that they would see eachother again, later in the week perhaps, for tea. After he visited the graves of his mother and Videl. Piccolo had a way of knowing when he was needed.

-----

Bulma’s headstone was simple but beautiful, it even had a quiet poignance that she lacked in life and Vegeta had mixed feelings about that. Would she like it? A part of him hoped that her spirit might even be enraged at it, that perhaps it would encourage a tantrum so catastrophic it would bridge the gap between them. A hundred years ago he would have scoffed at such a thought, might even feel disgusted with himself. He doesn't really feel such things these days. Or anything at all, really.

One tanned hand brushed the stone of the tiny, recently cut grass littering the grey marble. Clouds pressed heavy and damp above him, though the moisture didn’t affect his raised hair in the slightest. His widows peak had receded a little over the last twenty years, but not alarmingly so, though his black locks were now heavily peppered with white. Drops of rain, so reminiscent of the tears that he had once shed there all that time ago, ones that he struggled to shed now, landed softly on the stones lined up ahead of him. It had been decades. 

He held back a groan as he stood, choosing to believe that it was an adopted human habit rather than evidence of his advancing age. The dark suit was becoming more creased and wet as the seconds crawled by, the fabric growing increasingly uncomfortable, and he grumbled a little. She would have appreciated the effort, don’t you look classy? She would have been laughing. He looked up into the sky, thinking of those who had been left behind, buried deep beneath him in the dirt. Gohan would arrive soon, and he had no intention of meeting with the melancholy boy today; he was an ever present reminder of the legacy of their race, a legacy that had not been bestowed upon his own son. Kakarot wins again. The bitter thought made him sigh. Trunks’ grave lay just in his periphery and he swallowed a rare, raw pain. He wouldn’t stand before his son’s headstone, and sometimes refused to even look at it. Why hadn’t he inherited the long life? Could he not have given the rest of his own years to his boy? 

Bulla usually had a way of putting his heart to rest when it swelled in horror and sorrow, but this day he kept out of the sun; made sure he felt it. Out of honor, out of respect, maybe even just out of self pity. The energy of Kakarot’s offspring neared and he sighed. Despite his own intentions, he had grown an affection for the old kid. Projected love that no longer had a home, perhaps. They had known each other for such a long time now, and sometimes they did spend the afternoon together, nursing their loss without words or talking fondly of the past. Sometimes sparring. But not today.

Today, he was needed elsewhere. His friendship with the Namek had taken a long time to develop, in fact nearly half a century had gone by before he could even call it such a thing. The tall warrior had remained strong, and he had respected that, but the past few years had taken their toll. He had not lost Gohan yet, as he had lost so many already, but he would. The boy was still youthful and energetic but his human side was beginning to show. The human side that made death suddenly immediate, no warning, dawdling in silence along the way. Vegeta knew, more than any of them did, just how much time the Namek truly had left. Gohan’s passing would only be a sad drop in a mourning ocean; a thousand years to feel his death. Like Vegeta would feel his own family’s passing for another century or two to come. 

The Namekian would be meditating somewhere, no doubt, long legs crossed and cape blowing in the wind. It was comforting, in a way, like seeing Bulla’s wide smile and flowing teal hair as she ran to hug him tightly. Vegeta smiled to himself at the memory, at the warmth that she naturally had since the day she had been born. He lived for her, he supposed, and his grandchildren, all four of them. The clouds were darkening rapidly and he took his leave, allowing Gohan to have his own moments in the cemetery that Bulma had paid a fortune for. Such a practical woman.

Gohan glanced at the departing Saiyan as he landed, chuckling at his surly countenance under his breath. Not today, then.

Vegeta headed to the forest that Piccolo had more or less made his own, and although he had spent more and more time on the Lookout in recent years, Dende had mentioned in passing that his visits were growing fewer. The smaller Namekian had been worried, his every feature betraying his concern in an earthly sort of language that Vegeta had learned to read. Given a choice, he would rather not turn up in a human suit, knowing that Piccolo would gleefully take the piss, but he had not intended to visit. The feeling had come upon him; how close they were now. 

Rain pelted fabric as he flew, cutting with the breeze as it chilled his thick skin. Winter had finally hit, a little later than normal, Bulla had been complaining a great deal about the summer being a million miles away. Vegeta frowned as he grew closer, he couldn’t sense Piccolo at the waterfall. He was some distance to the East and the Saiyan adjusted his course, if he was being honest, he was oddly curious and grateful for the pique of interest. 

Great rocks came into view as he neared the ocean, colossal stones towering above the water, in a natural beauty that he had learned to love about this small planet. Sea salt sprayed up and over the lower rocks below the cliff that his dress shoes touched down upon. The scent was refreshing, and as he noted a lack of beach or any real human footprint he allowed a small smile at the scene. It was short lived. The feeling that brought him here was fading and it felt odd, growling, he concentrated harder than he had in a long while, searching for the Namek. Brooding clouds above had cast shadow over the cliff, and the sea was a deep, dark endless grey in its tossing reflection. He frowned again, not seeing much except for crashing waves, even most of the wildlife had taken its leave of this dark and turbulent place. A part of him wondered if he should respect the Namek’s wishes, he clearly didn’t want to be found. In the past somewhere, a version of him would have left.

Stepping out of his shoes, he walked to the cliff edge, discarding his suit jacket as he did. Strong muscles stretched the white shirt to an obnoxious point but feeling the chill, he left it on, unbuttoning it a little and pulling the tie loose. Black socks soaked unhelpfully in the moisture from the rock beneath and he inhaled deeply, reaching into the sea with his mind. He dived in.

Piccolo felt Vegeta arrive but he didn’t give it much mind. His chi was so low now that he most likely felt like a part of the sea life all around him. Hooded red eyes looked on through the great wall of water ahead, so deep now that he couldn’t see much of anything, except a glimmer of light breaking through the storm brewing above. He watched the dark grey, heady with salt, wavering, and sunk into the feeling of it pushing him further down. It was comforting, in a way. The gi moved with him, its purple looking black against the dim green of his skin. He let his arms drift, his legs detach almost, as if they knew they wouldn’t have a use anymore. Penetrating cold was clawing its way deeper, inside to flood his bones, the lack of body fat making its plight effortless. Gohan had found his lack of natural ability to float entertaining, Piccolo wondered if he’d find it funny now. His connection to the boy was as cut off as he could make it, muffled and distorted, like being underwater. If he hadn’t been so deep, so cold and so tired, he would have laughed at the irony.

Vegeta had to swim a considerable distance out into the ocean, chi propelling him, going much further down than he had expected. His training had remained as constant as ever, and he was quietly grateful as he shoved the water backwards with little effort. Energy was everywhere and nowhere, and none of it helpful at all. He stopped for a moment, searching with vision inhibited by darkness and becoming typically, and quickly, angry. What the fuck are you doing Namek?

The words hit Piccolo’s mind sharply, and warmly, like a familiar heat surging in his skull. It was unpleasant, and if he had the energy left to care, unwelcome. He exhaled the last of his lungs in surprise and let his eyes fall closed. His chi was so low now that he wondered if the pressure would finally start its work on his frame, he wondered if it would be exponential in its attack. Once it started, would it just be ever increasing until it crushed him? Would it even crush him? He had never felt so deeply cold.

Vegeta’s eyes widened as he spotted the sign he was looking for, air bubbles ascending ahead. He swam viciously downwards, and as he neared the Namek he could feel that strange, forever alien lifeforce diminishing. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was confused, expecting Gohan to already be here. Vegeta kicked back before he went too far, his shirt billowing everywhere with the water as he moved and the tie drifting uselessly upwards. He had already been searching for several minutes, five, maybe, and even as a Saiyan he didn’t have long before his lungs would start to burn. 

Piccolo’s were already on fire, the pain lacerating in its fury but he almost enjoyed pushing away the sensation, wondering how much longer it would last before his body was forced to act. Would his need to survive beat the pressure? He thought of Gohan, and how he would feel. Maybe he would never know, and his disappearance would just be another piece of history in the book of the boy’s long life, another soul lost. But he knew better, his heart would break. He opened his eyes slightly, as if considering coming up to the surface but he already knew it was likely too late. His lungs began to contract painfully. He couldn’t see Vegeta floating just before him, didn’t feel the strong grip digging into his biceps. The vastness was taking him, and although he was sure he hadn’t intended for it to, it did anyway. 

The Saiyan’s eyes were wide and fierce, he swore internally as he raced through his options. He could feel the Namek’s mind darkening, feel the chi dissipating into the water in forgotten rivulets. From this depth it would take more than a minute to reach the surface, he couldn’t just fly up fast, Piccolo’s body might not withstand the pressure change. He squinted his ebony eyes in the dimness, struggling to see his charge just an arm’s length away. The Namek looked so peaceful, and Vegeta felt his own heart clench in pain, anger and empathy.

Piccolo.

Piccolo’s eyes shot open, and with the last of his remaining energy he opened his mouth as his chest convulsed. Vegeta had never thought as quickly in his long life, and he rammed his mouth against the Namek’s open lips, exhaling deeply. Piccolo’s lungs received it, unwillingly and with a little of the ocean, but it might be enough. The Saiyan detached, being sure to close the jade jaw and seal a hand over his mouth. He wasn’t sure if it was technically worse to let him breath in water or nothing at all, was drowning the same as suffocating? He dismissed the thought. Swimming upwards quickly, with one arm secured around the Namek’s chest and one hand keeping jade lips closed, he felt the water become warmer. 

It was an impossibly long time, and his turmoil must have caused a fuss because he could feel Gohan’s chi barrelling towards them from the cemetery in the city. He could feel Piccolo tossing his head left and right in his belligerent struggle, felt the confusion and hysteria build in his thrashing charge. The lack of oxygen was making him act illogically, but they were so close to the surface, beyond the risks of pressure now. Vegeta raised his chi to finish the last leg quickly but swore, losing the last of his own precious air, as Piccolo’s sharp canines bit deep into his palm. 

He dropped the Namek momentarily, more surprised than hurt and grabbed at him, but not before Piccolo inhaled gulps of the sea’s thick water. Looks like it didn’t matter after all. Saiyan hands landed on the taller warrior, but Piccolo fought back, lacking in chi but apparently fluent in blind panic. He was delirious, pulling the ocean inside his lungs, convulsing and Vegeta had almost run out of time, he needed air as well. The situation had cascaded so quickly, he had approached this all wrong. He didn’t have much time to analyse how he could have done things differently; Gohan came crashing into the water in Super Saiyan form and put an end to the chaos down below. He grabbed both of them, Vegeta scowled, nonplussed at the impromptu rescue but grateful nonetheless. Both were hauled onto the rocks. Vegeta gasped in air dramatically, he hadn’t really been in any danger but it had scared him how close he had come to staying down there, against his better judgment. Did he really care that much?

Gohan shook the Namek, shouting his name. Piccolo’s skin was so deathly cold, pallid in the light emanating from his Super Saiyan form. Vegeta looked on, feeling helpless and idiotic, as if pulling someone from the ocean is a difficult feat. Bulma’s voice came floating in his mind, one of the many memories that lived, lost somewhere in the depths. It might not be in battle Vegeta, in fact I hope it isn’t, it’ll probably be your heart that you die for, you know. She had always thought him so compassionate, and he had always thought she was wrong.

Gohan was pumping Piccolo’s chest, too easily breaking cartilage and counting breathlessly. Breathing into his mouth twice, pumping thirty times, breathing hard, pumping, breathing, crying.

Vegeta pushed him out of the way unapologetically, remembering something and not really thinking it through or voicing it out loud. He breathed into Piccolo’s open mouth, ignoring the feel of his cold, damp lips. He breathed in ten times, pressed his chest twice and much harder, too hard perhaps. Ten more times, two compresses and on the first next breath, Piccolo coughed warm, salty liquid back into Vegeta’s face. Gohan’s relief was audible and Vegeta laughed, it was empty but he meant it. The half Saiyan lifted Piccolo into a sitting position so he could clear his lungs. His eyelids were hooded and violet, along with his cheeks, lips and chest where it would bruise later.

Piccolo’s mind cleared a little, and he could hear his own heavy breathing against the crashing of the ocean behind him. Nearly dry blonde hair hung around in front of Gohan’s eyes, and he felt something so sick and deep he couldn’t name it. Vegeta was on his knees just behind Gohan, thick hair wet and stuck to his forehead, clothes sodden and ripped. The younger Saiyan hugged Piccolo hard and made him cough, but he didn’t protest, he just sat there limp, staring at Vegeta’s ruined suit. When he pulled back, he could see that Gohan’s jeans were scuffed and his blue t-shirt had two words on it but for the life of him he couldn’t see what they were. Both Saiyans looked odd to him in regular clothes, wet and breathing hard. How peculiar.

Vegeta had something unreachable in his eyes, like he knew, like he cared, but he didn’t. The same eyes Piccolo had seen down below, in the water, but they had been strong and fierce and full of feeling. Love. Had it been love? Would he even recognise it?

Vegeta stood up, relief now giving way to tiredness and an odd sensation, maybe because it was such a strange event. A part of him thought it was familiar in some way, and a memory of Broly attacking, the Namek screaming in his face whilst violet blood dripped onto his skin, telling him to get a grip flashed in his mind. We’re even now. He wanted it to be true, but they weren’t, because he would do it again and again. His chest felt clammy.

Piccolo opened his mouth, he had half intended to say thank you, but no sound came out. He didn’t even mouth it.

Vegeta heard it anyway.

Chapter Text

The fallout from that particular incident had been significantly more dramatic than Piccolo had anticipated. Not that he had imagined any actual consequences, hadn’t considered anything beyond how far he could sink and for how long could he stay there. Would he be able to swim back up to the surface or would the universe decide that his time had finally arrived? It was just a theory, a question that went unanswered, and it wasn’t the first time he had ventured out into the dark, the cold, or the deep looking for that conclusion. To say that Gohan was obsessively furious would have been an understatement. Vegeta had clearly told the half Saiyan exactly what he wanted to know and even though he probably had no right, Piccolo felt betrayed and resentful. 

The younger man had wasted no time at all attempting to imprison him in his beige home, smothering him in all its blandness, herbal tea and human niceties. Twenty four hours ago he had been sinking, drifting away into an abyss so blissful and empty he could have stayed there forever. And now, here he was sitting at a wooden table in a neutral, square room with slowly knitting bones and a sore throat, listening to Gohan’s angry breathing. Guilt. That would be the primary reason why he was sitting here allowing this to continue. The secondary reason would be that he felt weak and tired, and third? He wasn’t sure if he cared enough to leave, or stay.

Gohan poured chopped potatoes into a pan and set it to simmer, thinking and staring angrily into the white kitchen tiles lining the wall as he did. He could feel Piccolo sitting awkwardly behind him, elbows tucked in and back too straight, looking bitterly at the back of his head. The terror had given way to relief, which had made way for confusion and had finally settled uncomfortably in a chasm of unadulterated rage. How dare he? How could he? He had asked himself, and Piccolo, over and over. No one seemed to have an answer. Videl had once, when he had told her impatiently that Piccolo was avoiding him and he didn’t know why, years ago. She had whirled round at him, dark hair flying everywhere, blue eyes flashing with frustration, he had seen and chosen not to deal with the jealousy there. ‘I don’t know Gohan. I haven’t done a degree in Namekian psychology. Have you?!”

It was a comment that cropped up in his ramblings from time to time, more often than it should really. What did he know about Namekian psychology? He had spent a lifetime applying human systems to Piccolo and coming up blank. He sighed, stirring the white fish and vegetables in a garlic and white wine sauce. Videl had taught him many things, cooking being one of them. Absently, he thought of the strong scent of the food and he knew for a fact that Piccolo would be finding it abhorrent. He felt bad, but not bad enough to openly acknowledge it. He heard the Namek stand, heard an involuntary cough, and light footsteps travelling up the stairs. 

Piccolo had seriously contemplated leaving but he had promised Gohan that he would stay for two days. Over some invented concern about after effects and liquid in his lungs. Apart from a wounded ego and some crushed ribs, courtesy of two Saiyans hammering CPR into them, he physically felt fine. They would heal, almost flawlessly no doubt. The door to the bedroom Gohan had unofficially given him creaked as it opened, and he was grateful for the cool pleasant air passing through the window that he always kept open just in case. The breeze touched his skin and he shivered, touched by the memory of Vegeta’s face, stern and concerned ahead of him in the dim light of the ocean’s deep. It carried with it a hundred more thoughts of the Saiyan prince. He blinked them away, and suddenly, he closed the window. With eyes closed, he leaned against the frame and fought back the nausea stirring in his stomach; the taste of sea salt on his tongue. 

A part of him missed the rush, the adrenaline had been so intoxicating, and then the floating, fading into nothing. Like battle, but so much more involved and private. One day it would be too much, he might go too far and there would be no rescue, but he didn’t mind. How Vegeta had sensed him, found him, and almost pulled him out had been so unlikely as to be suspicious. Or had he been so careful to fall from Gohan’s vision that he had forgotten about the prince’s keen perception? He made a note, morbidly, not to make the same mistake next time.

-----

Unbeknown to him, Vegeta had already considered that the Namek would make alterations to his movements to avoid detection. He was older, wiser and had far more life experience than the Earth borne Namek, Kami’s memories or not, and already knew well the rabbit hole Piccolo was busy burying into. How deep it goes. He kicked the gravity chamber up a notch and tried to focus, the humiliation of being caught unawares by a frantic Namek, in water not deep enough to drown a Saiyan child, weighed heavily on his pride. The sight of his serene features, like those of Bulma when she finally passed. 

He continued training, not wanting to get too distracted. His eternal chase of power; his rock. The drama had actually given him something else to think about, at least. 

-----

Piccolo sat on the floor, crossing his legs and although meditating without his turban and cape wasn’t ideal, he persevered. If he left the little house Gohan would likely give himself an aneurysm and he was already losing patience for the other man’s bothersome worrying. The carpet felt soft, and he closed his mind, levitating above it, pouring all of his remaining energy into creating peace. The image of Vegeta’s face again, distorted in a deep blue hue, crawled its way into his vision and he once again pushed it away. Then Gohan, grabbing Piccolo in strong, sure hands, vivid green eyes narrowed in concern, and all that irrational fear falling away. He dropped to the floor ungracefully. He hadn’t been able to meditate well, save the odd occasion, for months and he guessed he could add this to the long list of reasons why not. It might even be a year now. And certainly years since he did it every day. He leaned back against the wall miserably, the plaster unforgiving and hard against his skull. Jade eyelids closed, reveling in self pity and hating it, but doing it anyway. 

Gohan sat down with his dinner, almost throwing it on the table. His reliable appetite was a little lacklustre but he shovelled in a few mouthfuls for his sanity’s sake whilst he thought. He heard Piccolo close the window, heard another bang, maybe him jumping? He fought the urge to go up and check, knowing it would not be well received. It was only a matter of time before his guest left of his own accord anyway, Gohan was aware that he had almost no influence over the surly Namekian at the best of times. The fact he was using emotional blackmail to keep him here for a day or two was not lost on either of them, and he ran a guilty hand through a greying temple; the control gave him a shiver of pleasure that he felt ashamed of. Standing abruptly, he poured boiled kettle water into a mug, adding a tea bag and a spoon of sugar, and headed upstairs. 

A knock on the door woke Piccolo, who hadn’t even been aware that he’d fallen asleep, and he coughed but didn’t respond.

Gohan pushed the door open, not waiting for a proper response. All that anger he’d been nursing so fervently dissipated quickly, falling to the pit of his stomach as he looked at his former mentor. Piccolo was seated with his back propped against the wall, long legs stretched out so far the man’s bare ankles lay below the bed frame. His hands hung loosely in his lap and he avoided looking at Gohan, no real acknowledgement, just staring ahead. The half Saiyan moved towards his friend, choosing to sit on the bed facing him, sock covered feet planted firmly on the outside of each of Piccolo’s calves. The cup was presented with a soft smile, and Gohan tried not to convey his intense concern through chai scented steam. 

The sun was setting now, casting a low, warm glow in through the window, and birds were fluttering home. In this light the half Saiyan thought Piccolo’s skin lit up beautifully, his perfect complexion soaking up the rays, looking no older than thirty years old. The Namek didn’t take the cup, instead just looking at his old student, gaze filled with annoyance. But Gohan was patient, decades of teaching mixing with his affection; he would win this battle. And Piccolo knew it. What he didn’t know, but suspected, was that Gohan had no intention of letting him leave. Not this time.

He placed the warmed cup on the bedside table and stood, placing tired hands on his hips and sighing. As he left, trying not to storm out, he told Piccolo that he would run a bath. He spoke so gently that it irritated the Namek, he didn’t deserve Gohan’s kindness and even though it was well meant, he’d prefer something more raw. Actual anger, fighting, anything. The sound of running water rushed along his long ears and slowly, petulantly even, he pushed himself up the wall. The strong scent of salt, seaweed and blood was still heavy on his skin, and even though he much preferred the waterfall’s soothing caress, the bath would do. 

Steam filled the room nicely, clearing sinuses he hadn’t even realised were congested. The bath did not look quite big enough, ordinarily he’d complain but Gohan was in a peculiar mood and he didn’t want to provoke an argument, which in itself made him laugh. Didn’t he want a fight? The purple gi fell to the floor gracefully and he turned the tap, water tapering off into the tub. Lifting one foot gingerly, he dipped his claws in and then plunged to the bottom. It was incredibly hot. He hissed without realising, and almost withdrew it. It wasn’t the same as falling in the ocean but it fed the habit, a little. Emerald skin was turning ever so violet quickly.

Gohan wouldn’t like this . He sighed, irritated that the thought had even entered his mind. His claws struggled with turning the cold tap on and off, but it gave way without him causing too much damage, eventually. He stepped in, it was still hot enough to sting but nothing too evident. Water climbed up his chest to just about cover his upper arms, knees remained bent but it wasn’t totally unpleasant, snug maybe. Aching skin soothed under the water, and he felt the gentle tingle of something, a salt or something that Gohan had added. Colourful bottles were dotted around the tub and he picked one up, looking closely at the thick amber liquid inside, moving viscously as he tipped it. Unscrewing the cap was awkward, but worth it. The scent was soft, oaky even. Another container was opened, this time revealing a dark brown goo. It smelled chocolatey and he fondly remembered Pan’s single minded obsession with the substance as a girl. He hadn’t even thought of that, for decades, and how quickly the memory was here to stay. Distracted, the open bottle brushed his upturned nose and he reared his head back, the liquid having gotten on his face and up one nostril. He must have made a surprised sound because Gohan knocked on the door, making him drop the bottle into the water. 

No answer came, and so Gohan pushed the door open and bit his lip at the sight before him. All the scrambling to find the tiny bottle had created bubbles in the water and a sweet, chocolate aroma filled the bathroom. The half Saiyan knew immediately what had occurred and he laughed, heartily, for the first time in days. Piccolo was horrified, but the sound was so welcome he couldn’t help but chuckle faintly under his breath. Violet tinged cheeks and the small smile, fangs poking out, made Gohan’s heart clench. He stepped into the room, confident that the bubbles would provide his guest with enough modesty to satisfy social norms and grabbed a new sponge, he passed it to Piccolo, along with another one of those small bottles. 

“I got this the other day, I thought you’d like it”

Piccolo didn’t know how to respond, or even understand why Gohan would purchase such a thing for him. Nearly a hundred years had passed though and he had learned to say thank you, even appreciated the gesture. He couldn’t help but wonder if the younger man was projecting. It made him feel odd. He nodded his thanks anyway and opened it, knowing that was the next expected step in these situations. Gohan watched his guest inhale the gentle scent of sweet orange and vanilla and his eyes wandered to the red pink muscles of the man’s upper abdomen. Gohan glanced away, realising that the Namek was now sat upright and unknowingly baring most of his torso above the dissipating bubbles. His waist was narrower than he remembered, and although strong pectorals still stood confidently, he couldn’t help but notice the muscle loss. Gohan sat down on the tiled shelf next to the bath, pale trousers feeling a little damp with the steam. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The Namek looked at Gohan directly and inhaled deeply. A part of him wondered if he had the boldness to wash himself whilst they spoke. Nearly a century’s worth of familiarity, and the answer was a resounding no. He leaned back and regarded his old student. Maybe it was time to give in at least a little. He opened his mouth, with all the intention in the world but steam filled it and no words came out. 

Or maybe not. The half Saiyan smiled wryly, for Piccolo that was so nearly a ‘oh go on then’.

“Well, I’d like to talk, after you’re finished.” Don’t make me beg.

He nodded, giving the other man what he wanted may accelerate the return to his precious forest. It may even alleviate a little of the constant guilt.

Gohan left Piccolo to finish up in the bath, knowing the Namek would be anxious to be clean again. He had been thinking deeply for a while and he had come to several conclusions, possibly incorrect ones, but he liked to think that they were well considered. He was expecting the Namek to behave a certain way, they were both generations old in human terms, but then, Piccolo wasn’t human, he was Namekian. One that had always seemed so intelligent, strategic and strong. Had he confused that with maturity? Piccolo’s behaviour did reflect that of a stoic, wise warrior and an excellent teacher. It also still came across as stunted, misunderstood and awkward. Sure he laughed now, occasionally, and he had mellowed considerably since the angry young man who had hurled a child into the wilderness to survive on his own. He continued thinking, making a mental note to speak to Dende about it, perhaps the Kami would have some insight. 

Stalker-like, he caught Piccolo leaving the bathroom, knowing the Namek would slope off given the slightest opportunity. A newly created outfit hung from his clean skin, and he smelled fresh and faintly sweet. It wasn’t a gi, which surprised him, although it shouldn’t. His old friend didn’t train as obsessively these days, and had a whole other wardrobe of hybrid Namekian human clothes that he donned almost randomly. Long sleeves and a high neck, all dark grey. He almost asked if they were pyjamas, but swallowed it. Surely not.

Gohan gestured to the staircase and they both descended. It was after nine and the living room would be warmer with the fire, rather than the chilly single bedroom that Piccolo was probably itching to dart into. The fire was crackling, and Gohan stoked the logs some, watching the flames lick and spit in reply. 

----

That was six months ago. The demi Saiyan pushed black rimmed glasses up his nose and leaned back, thinking back to that halting conversation with his best friend, in front of a roaring fire. Trying to focus, he typed confidently, having done it so many times before. Seventy four percent would be the overall mark he’d give this essay, an admirable effort from an energetic student who had nervously handed it in, one day late, and over email. An alarmingly charming rhetoric about events that were now history, but like yesterday in his mind, digital in reality. How he missed paper. 

Piccolo’s Chi had last been sensed five weeks, 6 days and approximately 12 hours ago. 

Not for the first time, he felt bitterness well in the back of his throat. The Namek had played him so beautifully that night it might even be poetic. Gently placating Gohan in the warm ember light, making empty promises to his old student, humming tunes of mended bridges to the ageing Saiyan and all the while, in the air, the scent of sweet oranges and vanilla. Closing the laptop, he sighed and took the glasses off. Strong fingers rubbed at his nose and squeezed, as if the indents would actually smooth out and the burning sensation would disappear. Vegeta’s energy echoed far ahead of his arrival, over the top as always. White Saiyan boots landed and Gohan smiled at the sight of the blue and white uniform through the living room window. Vegeta had long since dressed in human clothes, a respectful nod to his late wife perhaps, but this? This was business. They had both searched with Eighteen and even Seventeen, Goten, Pan and Bulla had joined in when they could, everyday for three weeks. After that Gohan had reluctantly agreed to scout once a week, though his mind did it every day, sometimes actively, sometimes in memory. The smaller Saiyan had said it plainly, though he fancied a sad sort of anger in his words. He’d even used his name. It’s becoming less likely that we’ll find him alive, Gohan. 

It’s not like the words needed saying, he already knew well what logic dictates. But he also knew that he would know. Piccolo’s death would be like a sudden impact, he would have felt it. Unless he did just fade away, softly and gently , like putting out a match. 

He thought of those ruby pink abdominals, how withered they’d be in his death, his corpse a silent whisper of the man that once was. Stop it.

Vegeta waited outside, his muscled frame solid against fluttering wildflowers and insects cluttering in the soil beneath him. This garden had been a fine one, at one time, Videl had grown green fingers in her later years but it now lay in disrepair. A lot like they did, he supposed. Waiting for the half Saiyan brat would take time, as it always did, and he crossed burly arms in thought. The vainer part of him wondered if his greying hair was more evident in this glaring sunshine, and did it look as dank as he felt. Was he still handsome? A female friend of Bulla’s had flirted with him today, he was almost certain of it. In an almost outlandish contrast, a part of him also thought of how much time Gohan had left; this situation had made the younger man’s heart take another spluttering plunge into the erratic. Youth. That word had meant something at one time. 

Now it just resonated with watching your loved ones grow up, wither and die. He had another word for it. Borrowed time.

A butterfly came near and he leaned back, away from its obnoxious brightness, fine lines creasing as he did. He had grown an enduring affection for his rival’s spawn, even thought of him for no reason at all sometimes, but it didn’t live in the same place as the affection he had for the Namek. Piccolo was his equal in so many ways, had been to a darker side, had fought with him in the glory days, had absolutely no interest in people and their crap, had so much time to come to do exactly that. The stoic Saiyan swallowed unwelcome emotion as he waited, more patiently now he had so many years on his back. 

You had better be alive you fucking, stupid Namek.

Even if just it saved Gohan from living out his final years in absolute total despair. Eighteen landed next to him in a graceful wisp, as he thought of the younger Saiyan, and the grass barely registered her. Black trainers, grey jeans with a pale pink shirt and silver jacket made her look exactly as young as the day he had met her. He’d begrudge it if he had the energy, but Vegeta hadn’t slept since this whole fiasco started. Since he had plunged into the depths of the Eastern sealine to find the entirely problematic and apparently emotionally complex Namekian. Here they were now, mounting yet another search effort because of the one thing he had tried to keep at arm’s length. Love. He hid a smile. How human we have become.

Eighteen glanced at the smaller man, although he fell just below her height she knew it riled him as much today as it always did. Gohan would be out soon, he always took his time, faffing with things that don’t matter. Not that she was any different, having spent the afternoon filling out elaborate paperwork to have her great, great Granddaughter admitted to a good school when she turned four in one year’s time. A moment ago it had been Marron. Those childish, large blue eyes bobbed around in her mind, and for a moment, and not for the first time, the sight of her beautiful daughter wasn’t clear anymore. She thumbed the gold necklace adorning her sharp collarbone fondly. Inside, an image of Krillin and her daughter; frozen in time. The perfect husband she had not deserved. The man who was so full of honour and goodwill, that he would be here right now if he were not instead in the ground. Together with his friends, Goku, Yamucha and Tien, Puar and Chiaotzu, Master Roshi and that comical pig, Oolong. Fists clenched and ready to find their friend. A friend who clearly hadn’t known just how very loved he was.

The blonde had become quite the matriarch in her family and adored it, in her own cool, calm way. Vegeta didn’t think she’d changed much for it though, although he didn’t think any of them had. He spared her a glance, a smile in the blank expression there, and she returned it. Her voice was demanding as it fell across the garden, shouting for Gohan to hurry up. 

The three of them jumped into the air, headed to the Tsurumai-Tsuburi mountains. A place that Gohan had avoided mostly, although Eighteen had started searching there independently. Once Vegeta had spilled the story of Piccolo and the drowning incident, she had quickly realised that the Namek was on a very self destructive merry go round. He was still very strong, with an ego and self belief system that was borderline narcissistic to boot, so she figured he would go to the one place that might be able to beat him. For weeks they had scoured the forests, the deserts, the West and East oceans and everything in between.

Vegeta had refused to wear warm clothes and snarled at Gohan, who was flying competently despite the oversized thick winter jacket, scarf, woolly hat and gloves. The demi Saiyan’s spirits were high, even though he felt so lost without Piccolo. A character in his life so integral that he wondered if there was even a story to tell without him. Eighteen had suggested this with exuberance, some evidence her sharp blue eyes had spotted, and he tried so hard not to get his hopes up. It hadn’t worked. This was the first lead they’d had.

Mountain air began to bite terribly as they neared, the air drying and feeling light as they ascended to the North’s hostile hills. The night seemed closer up here, like endless twilight and bad weather all mixed up in a way that said ‘stay away’. Gohan landed on a high peak, noticing that Vegeta and Eighteen landed on the one to his right. He smirked. Like best buddies them two. Actually it had been three, together with Piccolo, before he had gone off the grid with a dramatic ‘fuck you’ a couple of years ago. Gohan was Piccolo’s best friend hands down, but they were something else, equally important. His people.

He tried to think, deeply searching with his mind for any sign of his mentor, aching desperately for a sign. The search began, and be damned if he was leaving without Piccolo, dead or alive.

-----

Piccolo felt them arrive somewhere in the back of his fevered mind. A dreadfully long time later, mahogany eyes so warm they made a mockery of their surroundings blurred into his vision. So close, if he could, he might well have cried. 

Vegeta’s dark eyes looked on, somberly and blankly, as Gohan dug the Namekian out of the snow and ice. The younger man’s frantic movements made his already aching head throb in sympathy and he rubbed rough hands together unconsciously, wishing he had given his pride a day off and worn a damn coat. Gohan was making progress, finally, and Eighteen stepped forward to prop Piccolo up whilst the demi Saiyan wrapped his own coat, hat and scarf around his mentor. Vegeta waited stoically, with rose tinted cheeks, looking intently at the Namek’s dry, violet lips. There had been a pulse, apparently, but if true, there was no evidence of it on that cold, silent face. 

Eighteen and Gohan headed to Kame House whilst Vegeta fetched Dende. He had been rather surprised when Dende met him en route, he stopped for a moment, narrowed his eyes and huffed before following the small Namek’s trail back to the Island. Gohan had likely already contacted him, and as usual he was the last to know. My time is obviously very valuable.

-----

Gohan breathed in the sharp sea air slowly, relieved and exhausted. Dende had healed Piccolo as much as possible, but the cold had sunk its claws deep and it would take time before he would be at full strength. Being deprived of warmth and water had taken its toll, and the little Kami had said as much with a telling frown on his delicate features, before returning to his usual optimism. It was so nice to see Dende again, he made a mental note to do more of that. The warm sand felt oddly pleasant underneath his fingers and he smiled, Eighteen had been right about coming here. Vegeta was busy in the kitchen cooking, a revelation which had left Gohan speechless for a while, even in the wake of recent events. Eighteen had directed the Saiyan to condiments, fresh food and rice all the while speaking coolly on the phone, not betraying an ounce of her happiness at finding Piccolo alive. Goten’s voice on the other end was audible in its excitement, and Gohan smiled again. He hadn’t seen much of his younger brother lately, not since he had spent most of his waking moments thinking obsessively about Piccolo.

He tried not to think too hard, or too closely. They had found him in time and alive.

----

Piccolo laid still, staring miserably at yet another bland human ceiling, listening to the ocean lapping cheerfully against the small shore. His ears flicked at Vegeta muttering curses as he cooked and Eighteen calling people to tell them he had been found. He hadn’t even realised he’d been missing. Muscles and bones ached intensely, and he frowned at the weak state he now found himself in. A mixture of irritance, tiredness and shame only deepened his displeasure and he forced himself into a sitting position. 

The distant tingle of Dende’s healing still thrummed on his skin, the gentle but powerful probing of the young Namekian had brought him from whatever partially conscious state he had been in. He could still see Gohan’s alarmed warm eyes and feel the sensation of being swaddled in fabric. He fondly remembered the feeling of deliriousness and wanted desperately for it to come back. Maybe because he was embarrassed, or maybe because it was preferable to this intense awareness he was now faced with. 

Eighteen watched her Namekian friend sit up stiffly and she smirked, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed. He noticed her immediately, keen ears most likely picking up her steady artificial heart beeping away somewhere deep in her chest. He looked away quickly, but she caught the mixed emotions swimming in those dark eyes, her face flushed with affection and sadness all at the same time. She pushed off the doorframe, her white blouse looked stark in the sunlight, and Piccolo wanted to say something. She wandered down the hall before he could, shouting for Vegeta to put the kettle on. Gohan heard the yell from outside and knew immediately that it was likely to be for Piccolo.

He stood, brushing warm granules from his clothes and bare legs roughly, where they had tangled with the hair. Although he was undeniably thrilled that his mentor was alive, well and awake, he dreaded the next part. The part where Piccolo would say nothing, dismiss him, they would argue then the Namek would disappear. Maybe next time we’ll let you go. The thought made his eyes well up momentarily. Maybe it was just the anger talking. He was still so incredibly angry. 

Vegeta stirred vegetables in a thick, lightly spiced sauce and Gohan’s stomach growled. The older Saiyan nodded to him and handed him the ginger and lemon tea, it was a strong flavour, but he said something about it being good for him. Bulma’s favourite, apparently. Gohan smiled gently and took the cup, gliding up the stairs almost reluctantly to find himself at Piccolo’s open door. The Namek sat on the side of the bed, his bare feet flat against the vivid blue rug on the floor. He had rematerialised his gi trousers, but remained bare chested in the humidity, something that Gohan knew he wouldn’t have done in his younger days. It was almost odd, but then, he had seen Piccolo bathe, cook and change Pan, look after her every other weekend, and not once hurtle her into a large rock in the wilderness.

Emerald skin looked mottled, dotted with bruising, or, his mind informed him, frostbite, Gohan wasn’t quite sure. His ribs were starting to show, some of the muscle had been eaten away but miraculously, he looked better than he should have done for his advanced age. A shadow of himself, but still a pretty good one for half starved, half frozen. Gohan handed the cup over and Piccolo took it gratefully, his throat was so dry as to be unbearable. The heat of the water burned the damaged skin around his lips and he grimaced, Gohan’s gentle but firm voice actually startled him. 

“It’s hot”

He exhaled and looked at the demi Saiyan. Ah, it’s that bit where we state the obvious.

Behind the disarray of greying hair, canvas paintings of boats and quaint sea sides filled the walls, and little status of lighthouses and shells were dotted everywhere on painted white wood. He didn’t mind it, though he would never admit it. His love affair with the ocean had been a lifetime long, and he hadn’t ever mentioned it to anyone. Gohan interrupted his strange introspection.

“Are we going to talk about what happened?”

Piccolo’s frame was rigid, and he dropped his now burning gaze to the dark amber liquid in his cup, cradling it carefully in his long, bruised fingers. The strong resolve and resentment were beginning to ebb away, and guilt and indifference were ready to rear their heads. He said the only thing he could think of.

“I’m not weak. If that’s what you’re thinking”

Gohan’s face looked comically puzzled. A hundred years, and his mentor was still obsessed with being strong and impenetrable. The vanity. Whatever Piccolo lacked in a will to stay alive or healthy, evidently it had not affected his hubris. It actually warmed his heart.

“No. No-one is saying that. We’re just worried about you”

He didn’t respond and instead straightened his back and squared his shoulders. Gohan knew well that he was preparing to leave. He thought it funny that he knew the other man so well, one movement, and it spelled a novel of decisions. The mattress depressed as the demi-Saiyan sat down, and he laid a heavy, strong hand on Piccolo’s shoulder. The bones felt a little prominent, but still he felt dwarfed.

“No”

Piccolo turned, and at this proximity Gohan’s single, small word felt a little confronting. The younger man’s eyes were determined and even a little sad. The Namek instantly scowled, drawing Gohan’s gaze to the cut, bruised violet lips. High cheekbones were flushed and he was obviously able to feel anger as much as he ever had. It’s a shame you don’t feel so strongly about your health. Piccolo placed the small china cup gracefully on the bedside table.

Sensing his mentor’s growing dark mood, and the likelihood he would leave and he’d have to go through this all over again. Because let’s face it, I’m going to keep saving you, like you did so many times for me. He grabbed the other shoulder and moved Piccolo to face him, forcing the Namek to bend a long leg on the bed and grab Gohan’s wrists. It was such a human position to be in that Gohan almost faltered. As long as he had lived, he knew that Piccolo would still find this far too intimate and confusing, so he ground his fingers into the jade skin, not really caring that it was probably hurting. The guilt for that would come later.

“You’re not going this time”

Sharp, white canines bared in barely contained indignation. A foot apart, Gohan felt his chest bob in a fear he hadn’t felt since he was a small child standing in water, crying for his mother. He swallowed it, and instead focussed on the recent memory of Piccolo laying limp in his hands, mouth agape and lips iced and cracked, his heart flickering weakly. Dende had said that he had been starving, his body shutting down even though he was surrounded by frozen water. He didn’t know if it was deliberate, but Gohan did. It had taken hours of slowly feeding him water to get him to this point, not that Piccolo would remember that. 

“I’m not a child Gohan. Let go”

The words were laced with a ferocity Gohan had all but forgotten about. He suddenly grew concerned that Piccolo would overwork himself trying to get away, and Dende had warned them about how much rest he needed. He had also given Gohan some old Namekian books, partially translated by Mr. Popo, who he presumed learned the language whilst serving Kami. It then became clear to him that Dende had at least some involvement with their efforts, perhaps leaving breadcrumbs, alerting Vegeta when he had sunk into the ocean. He had known how his kin was spiralling, alone, felt unable to interfere and yet couldn’t stand idly by. Vaguely, he wondered if the younger Namek had broken some unwritten Kami code, but he didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he did the only thing he could remember at short notice from one of the books he had been given.

He moved forward and pushed his forehead into Piccolo’s, and loosened his grip slightly. He imagined having antennae would make this work better, but he couldn’t do much about that. The contact had the desired effect, and whether or not the Namek was even aware, he dropped his hands from Gohan’s wrists to the demi Saiyan’s chest, probably in an attempt to push away, but no strength came. Through their long dormant psychic link Gohan could feel a wave of tiredness, relief and a wallowing, deep sadness before it was abruptly blocked by Piccolo. They remained in that position for far longer than the demi Saiyan had expected, twenty seconds maybe, with eyes closed before Piccolo pulled away. The taller man was confused by the strange action, and disturbed by how natural it had felt. In fact, if he remembered, Dende had done this very thing to him years ago and it had been an invasive and bizarre experience; but it had done the job of soothing the young Namek who had been in fits of tears at the time. 

Dimly, he wondered what else Gohan had learned with his massive, unwelcome, interfering brain. He swallowed dryly. The guilt was back, this time because before he had shut down the link, a tide of Gohan’s hurt, betrayal, concern and love had flooded his mind.

“Alright. I’ll stay,” he added quickly, “for a short while.” He surprised himself by just how much he actually meant it.

Gohan genuinely smiled, and it was honestly the best thing Piccolo had seen in a lifetime. He had a game plan of repair to implement, and finally, he could begin. Vegeta hollered up the stairs that dinner was ready, and to ‘bring the green bean to eat his green beans’. 

The table was set up in an endearing example of domesticity, or so Gohan thought, and Eighteen was laughing whilst Vegeta smirked in return, telling stories of their past and present. Of children and their antics, old battles and enemies. A spark between them made the demi Saiyan raise an eyebrow. Piccolo showed very little emotion or interest but Gohan suspected it was more weariness than an unwillingness to participate, though there was that too. Vegeta addressed Piccolo directly, not really having much skill in beating around the bush.

“Eat your dinner, I don’t cook for the sake of it Namek”

It was abrupt, but the gentle look in the older Saiyan’s eyes betrayed the warmth he felt. He had a special spot for Piccolo since the old days, his fellow not quite in, not quite out, not quite human, not quite strong enough. Just not quite. He knew that Piccolo felt this shortfall as much as he did, even more so, without a family of his own to draw strength and support from. He thought of Trunks, and returned to his meal. 

Piccolo raised a fork with a mouth full of vegetables and honestly tried to eat it. He had refrained from eating food, and recently, drinking water to the extent where effort was now required. Not exactly in a bid to starve to death, as he knew Gohan thought, but rather, how far could he go without before he passed that point. The finish line, that point where you can’t go back and join the race. You just stop. Can you even win a race like that? Does it even matter?

Two moutfulls were managed before he returned to feigning interest. The food would help his strength return, and inside, somewhere in the hollow, he was grateful. In that same void, he still felt sick, but he felt better.

-----

The night was a bitter one, not because of the cold, although the breeze did have teeth. Blue and white striped curtains fluttered at the window, teasing a view of the bright stars overhead. Thick salted air wound itself all around him, and Piccolo inhaled deeply, enjoying the feel of it laying heavy in his lungs. The faint sound of the other three steady heart beats in the house lulled him, Eighteen’s in the room opposite, had a slight electronic hum that was oddly comforting. Vegeta’s beat strongly, as all the Saiyan’s did. Gohan’s hummed slightly faster, and he couldn’t help but listen intently for any missteps. The younger man’s had an awful habit of changing rhythm now and then. On nights as quiet as this, he fancied he could hear the stars. 

In reality, it was distracting. One of the many reasons he chose to live in the forest, far away from humans and they’re fragile physiology. His reverie was interrupted as he heard shuffling, a door open and close, and then soft footsteps heading towards his room. A curse came to mind at the possibility that someone might actually be checking on him. Vegeta pushed the door open without knocking, knowing full well that the Namek was wide awake. Wearing nothing but boxers, he walked towards Piccolo, who was seated on the bed with legs crossed, skin still healing slowly. The Saiyan had a peculiar look in his eyes, and Piccolo narrowed his own in response. The smaller man stood next to the bed for a moment, and the Namek felt his chest grow warm and clammy. Suddenly the room felt cold, really very, very cold.

He opened his mouth to give the Saiyan a mouthful of abuse but when it opened he couldn’t speak, fluid filled his throat, spilling down into his lungs. The ocean had risen to the 1st floor without him noticing, and Vegeta had shoved his head down under the water lapping at his bed, tanned fingers strong and thick and murderous. Through the water, he could hear Vegeta’s sour words.

“Isn’t this what you wanted Namek?”

Frantically he tried to push upwards, all the while searching for Gohan’s Chi. He couldn’t feel it, couldn’t hear the gentle electric hum of Eighteen, couldn’t even see anymore. The sea kept rising, and against all his will, he inhaled water. It burned, and it was intense. He wondered if he was crying. 

Gohan shook Piccolo awake violently, and the Namek blinked, gasping for air and coughing. Confusion written all over his features. He accidentally hit Gohan, who took it gracefully enough but with a grimace, and stilled as he took in his surroundings. Eighteen and Vegeta stood in the doorway, concern etched on their shadowy faces. He looked at the floor, the rug thick, black and in the dark. The ocean just carried on lapping gently outside against the shore. 

Three more nights went by, and three more nightmares. 

-----

Gohan had insisted on sleeping on the floor next to Piccolo’s bed, despite the Namek protesting for a multitude of reasons. Not only was it extremely insulting, it was also unnecessary, since Piccolo rarely slept, and detested lying down. Although it was becoming more and more common. His patience for this kid glove treatment was rapidly declining, as it always did. Pride aside however, he couldn’t keep breaking Gohan’s heart.

Whenever he did sleep, his mind kept going into darker places. First it had been the ocean, then it had been the ice, his father’s memories followed suit and now he couldn’t distinguish his own memories from his father’s and those from fantasy. He might be uneducated, but he was intelligent and he knew well enough that it was yet another sign that his mental health was declining. And it was declining fast.

The awareness of it was almost unbearable. As time went on, more people were becoming aware and more of them were getting involved. People with opinions that actually mattered to him. He rubbed his forehead in frustration. Gohan peered up at him from his position on the floor, and Piccolo cursed himself for not realising the other man had been awake. It was night number four, and Piccolo was reaching into resources he didn’t even know he had in order to stay awake and not risk yet another humiliating event. Am I even awake now?

Gohan placed his hands underneath his head, lacing his fingers together, regarding his Namekian ward. Not that he would ever dare use such a word out loud. Piccolo laid down despite himself, in order to avoid Gohan’s kind gaze. Soft linen felt cool beneath his bald head and he frowned at the bland ceiling yet again looming above. His eyes must have drifted closed because the mattress depressing startled him and he glanced wearily at the demi Saiyan. Gohan barely acknowledged him and closed his eyes, clearly comfortable and secretly amused that he had trapped Piccolo between himself and the wall. The Namek was half inclined to shove the other man off the bed entirely but thought better of alerting Eighteen and Vegeta.

It hadn’t escaped Piccolo’s attention that Vegeta had also remained at Kame house, although he now knew that it may be due to loneliness. Doesn’t anyone have a life around here? The hypocrisy escaped him. 

Fatigue pulled at Piccolo’s senses and he absently touched his own evident ribs as he drifted off. He would later deny entirely that Gohan’s presence so close helped him sleep that night.

-----

Gohan awoke to Piccolo’s dark eyes looking into his own. They had a touch of ruby in them in the gentle white light of the very early morning.  It startled him, and he would have laughed if not for the intense look on the Namek’s face. Against his better judgment, and later on he’d blame the peculiar hour, he raised his right hand up to rest it against Piccolo’s cheek. He half expected the Namekian to recoil but Piccolo remained perfectly still and it was evident in the faint violet underneath his eyes that he hadn’t really slept. Gohan felt his heartbeat leap forward ahead of him, it had been such a long, long time since he had been this close to another person. Piccolo blinked, and it happened for Gohan so incredibly slowly. Smooth green skin that had yet to age in any discernible way felt like alabaster under his calloused fingers. An intense desire to move forward and kiss away that haunted look, if only for a moment, almost overwhelmed him.

Vegeta slamming his bedroom door and cursing loudly, something about the lack of black out curtains, shoved the thought violently from his mind and he flinched, withdrawing his hand. Piccolo swallowed, and Gohan laughed, mostly in embarrassment and an alarming amount of guilt. The idea that he might be taking advantage of his friend, betraying his wife, how good it would feel, how lonely he truly was, the intrigue. It all ricocheted around in his skull.

And like so many things that were happening lately, he put the whole incident in the back of his mind.

----

Piccolo’s mind whirred away whilst both Saiyans devoured their breakfast. Gohan continued on as normal, and the Namek wondered if what happened was another trick that his fevered mind had conjured up of late. He hadn’t slept at all really, the sound of Vegeta and Eighteen having sex in the room opposite had been loud and unpleasant. Memories of hearing Goku and Chi-chi all those years ago, back when he could leave the house in disgust and enjoy the privilege of not being obsessively followed by three concerned people. He had also been unwittingly privy to their quiet and revealing conversation about himself and Gohan, and then the predictable conversation of regret and guilt. They had put it down to the odd situation, and how in their old age you do things, things that at one time...It had been going on for quite a while, intermittently, and casually in every aspect, apparently. 

Piccolo would normally have felt intense revulsion, but instead he had laid there, listening anyway and staring at Gohan’s sleeping face. Watching the man’s tiny movements and following the deepening lines of his older face as he dreamt. He had felt an indifference, mingled with a distant affection, so uncharacteristic and suffocating that he could feel Nail and Kami flickering with concern in the back of his mind. 

Eighteen lit a cigarette and wandered outside. Some kind of odd awareness that she probably did that every time she slept with someone the night before entered into his mind. She looked back, as if her cool blue eyes were acknowledging the thought. Or perhaps she was just now noticing his long ears, and wondering if he had heard them.

She actually assumed he had. Eighteen was actually wondering if he had enjoyed it, something to think about perhaps. When she wandered onto the beach she yelped in surprise, and that in itself it made the rest of them pause in shock. Seventeen walked by his sister and into the house, a half smile gracing his confident features. Piccolo almost felt himself perk up at the development, the other Android being someone whom he had respected a great deal. Gohan smiled broadly, but the Namek did have the presence of mind to notice there was a distinct lack of kindness in it. 

“How are my favourite people?”

His tones were all cheerful, yet monotone, and Piccolo caught himself smiling at his demeanor. Vegeta’s gruff voice betrayed none of the happiness he probably felt.

“What brings you here?”

“Well, I know this means nothing to you people here on sunny island, but it’s Christmas! I brought gifts”

His thumb pointed back to the bag of goodies that sat in the sand, the one that Eighteen was already rifling through. Piccolo frowned.

W.

Chapter Text

Gohan had forgotten all about it, or rather, had not celebrated it particularly well in so long that he had no need to remember it. Christmas. Pan did usually visit but didn’t always stick around long, not for lack of wanting to, but rather because she had a hundred other people to visit as well. He respected that. Young people were always so busy, he briefly wondered if he had been the same. Seeing his grandkids was always a pleasure, and he did still have gifts to wrap for them back at home. 

Seventeen helped himself to a bottle of cold water from the fridge, clearly a part of the furniture here. Vegeta only grunted at the mention of the holiday, pretending as if he didn’t have a plethora of relatives he was excited to get back to. Piccolo looked on absently, hoping his expression would absolve him from any involvement, verbal or otherwise. No such luck.

“Seventeen’s right, it isn’t very Christmassy here. We should all spend Christmas day at mine this year”

Vegeta scoffed, but not too loudly, in case Gohan took back the invitation. They had all agreed to remain together at least for a little while, to give the demi Saiyan some support with Piccolo, but he itched to not be trapped on the tiny island. Eighteen ignored the entire conversation, instead shaking the boxes Seventeen had brought to determine their contents. She did eventually pipe up, all contempt and mirth.

“This had better be booze, brother”

Gohan laughed. Piccolo sighed, knowing he would be given little choice in the matter. He swallowed his scorn, if only to see Gohan’s eyes light up again. It was soon decided that everyone would be invited, and although they wouldn’t all come, Piccolo hoped Pan would. Seventeen remained for an hour or so, lamenting a new employee he had hired, his new wife, and his lack of ‘giving a fuck’ above all else. Piccolo tried not to listen but even moving out to sit on the shore had not silenced the android’s soothing tones.

Vegeta, also tired and uninterested, joined the Namek on the warm sand. He held out a cold bottle of beer and Piccolo raised an eyebrow at the beverage but did not take it.

“Fine, don’t have one”

The Saiyan plopped down onto the beach, his shorts riding up a little as he did. As much as he didn’t appreciate the size of the island he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed the warm, sea air. It reminded him of holidaying with Bulma years ago, but back then he had dragged his feet. It soured the memories a little now. The minutes stretched on, fairly quiet with only the distant sound of conversation from inside. He was content to just sit there, sipping his beer in a comfortable silence with the Namek. He regarded Piccolo in his periphery; the taller man did look a little better, well, considerably better than he had when they found him in the ice. There was a calmness to him, but there always was, and Vegeta wondered if they were doing the right thing by interfering. It wasn’t lost on him that all their collective loss was now funnelling into one desperate attempt to keep their wayward comrade on his feet, whether he liked it or not. There was also that other thing, the softness he felt for the taller man. A feeling he had done well to ignore until he had dived into the water, and all of a sudden that terrible affection had swallowed him whole. 

Seventeen waved at them both as he took off, flying gracefully over the water.

-----

It was Christmas Eve, according to Gohan, and Piccolo scowled as the demi-Saiyan attempted to hang another sparkly silver bauble on one of his pointed ears. The younger man was taking liberties and although it drove the Namek mad, he allowed it. Vegeta just grimaced at the display, from his position on the sofa, wearing a vivid red Christmas jumper with a big blustery image of Rudolph in the middle of his chest. Eighteen had delighted in purchasing jumpers for them all, and had even found one for her tall Namekian friend, in dark blue. Gohan laughed at Piccolo’s sour expression, not being able to help the cheer he felt from showing on his still boyish features. His modest house was decorated with tinsel and shiny balls on long chains, candles lit and pine cones strewn everywhere. 

Their impromptu Christmas party was only beginning, pizzas had been devoured and wine and spirits were pouring so freely that even Piccolo had ended up with a glass of champagne, which he found so bizarre it made his ears lie flat against his skull when he sipped it. Vegeta watched the scene in front of him; Gohan wrestling unsuccessfully with Piccolo in a game of ‘pin the bauble’ and Piccolo trying earnestly to prevent it whilst not causing any actual damage to the house. Vegeta knocked back his glass of single malt, not caring to savor it as he tried not to admire the Namek in his fitted pale blue jeans. Eighteen landed on the sofa next to him, chucking deeply, knowing exactly what the Saiyan was looking at. She had a bottle in her hand and kindly poured Vegeta another. 

“See something you like?”

Vegeta’s dark eyes regarded her but betrayed nothing. She smiled then, returning the unreadable gaze with her own sea blue orbs. He frowned slowly, not really knowing what to make of the comment or her flippancy about it. They had been sleeping together, on and off, for a few years and he expected her to be at least a little bit jealous. Or something. It hurt his ego, but he wasn’t so unaware of himself not to realise that it was an extremely selfish thought. She had made her intentions clear at the start, perhaps if he’d had been as honest then he wouldn’t be so flabbergasted now. Maybe she had known all along. Something in her cool regard told him he was right. 

He grunted at her, crossing his legs in a huff. She was beautiful, looked great in her oversized white sweater and she was serene, not to mention the sharpest woman he’d ever known. Next to Bulma, perhaps. But she wasn’t the Namek. Decades had passed before he realised that he had more than just a passing interest in the Namekian, certainly not in the beginning, not even in the years after Bulma’s death. It had taken a long time for both of them to mellow, and unlike himself, Piccolo had mellowed like fine wine. The younger man’s introverted, intense composure went from angry and confrontational, to quietly playful and wise. He smiled easily, and when he turned those black orbs on the Prince, Vegeta felt pulled in by something in those alien eyes. As Gohan did, he imagined. Until recently that is, when the Namek shut down, as if it was check out time and he had forgotten to book another night. 

The demi-Saiyan stood next to the Namek, by the fire, and both looked to be genuinely enjoying themselves. Vegeta hadn’t acknowledged his own feelings until it was too late, and still questioned them, but Gohan’s love for Piccolo was so innocent and pure that it made the Saiyan want to scream. He knocked back another whiskey, hoping that the alcohol would obscure his oh so perfect view of Piccolo talking and Gohan laughing. 

The night continued and to Piccolo’s own surprise, he found himself actually enjoying playing one of their silly party games. They all sat cross legged around the coffee table, moving tiny metal figures around a board, purchasing land as they went. He delighted when Eighteen’s little top hat landed on one of his properties again and he flashed a sharp fanged smile at her. It made her scoff and she slammed her pretend money down, but inside she felt warmed to see his competitive delight. She knew they weren’t out of the woods yet, but maybe this was hope. Piccolo felt himself sway a little, he so rarely consumed anything but water that suddenly drinking several glasses of wine was starting to have an impact. Gohan looked no better, having accidentally slid his little metal dog into the middle of the board several times. He had also tried to rescue Piccolo’s own piece from jail, but Vegeta had put a stop to what he called ‘petty human cheating’. 

The game seemed to go on forever, yet Vegeta and Eighteen were only growing more and more competitive. Piccolo took a moment to sit back, shifting slightly in the unfamiliar denim that the android had all but personally shoved him into. Apparently his gi pants didn’t ‘go’ with the jumper she had purchased, whatever that meant. He tried to ignore the pit of his stomach, which still ached, and his mind, which still sank. He was enjoying himself, at least, and not for the first time wondered if alcohol might be the perfect lubricant to fool his friends, and himself. Eighteen laughed then, loudly, at Gohan who had fallen asleep face first into the board. Vegeta even spared a smirk at the demi-Saiyan and stood, stretching his bunched up muscles. 

“I’ll take him to bed”

He lifted Gohan easily, and Vegeta couldn’t help but think of the little boy with the bowl cut hair flying around with Saiyan armour on. He smiled as they ascended the staircase.

When he returned, Eighteen had carefully put the game away, declaring herself the winner. He sincerely doubted that she had actually won but couldn’t care less, his mind was now so addled with spirit he probably couldn’t even spar with one of the humans. She flashed Vegeta a huge white smile and said goodnight, planting a big wet kiss on his cheek. He flushed violently and Piccolo widened his eyes at the gesture, he hadn’t actually seen any evidence of their relationship until now. The Namek knew he had drunk too much because he actually asked about it.

“That was friendly”

Vegeta scowled at the Namek, he pondered not saying anything but couldn’t help it. He needed the other man to know.

“Just a bit of fun, you know”

Piccolo’s brow furrowed, as if Vegeta was accusing him of being an undercover Lothario. The Saiyan grabbed the nearly empty bottle of whiskey and offered it to Piccolo, who declined, before swigging directly from the bottle itself. They moved to the sofa. The Namekian contemplated heading to bed but felt compelled to spend some time with the man who, very recently, had saved his life. He could also hear Gohan snoring already, and since he was in the adjoining room, he didn’t exactly relish experiencing the sound up close. 

Piccolo still felt slightly awkward on sofas, despite having years of experience trying to fit on one, and posed a little oddly. Vegeta glanced at his companion, noting the Namek’s tense, rigid legs and his straight back. He pressed a strong hand into the taller man’s abdomen and forced him to recline into the cushions. Piccolo felt oddly decompressed as he did and tried to ignore the warmth of Vegeta’s hand as it pressed into him. Vegeta had presented a little bit of additional unease into his already chaotic life lately, since he had seen the Saiyan in the ocean in fact. He didn’t know why.

He had a fresh reason to dislike the smaller man, however, as Vegeta asked rather plainly.

“Ready to talk yet?”

Piccolo sneered, feeling all at once like the whole Christmas pullava had been a ploy to make him vulnerable and play on that weakness. The Saiyan saw the idea play on the Namek’s unusually open face and put a stop to it at once.

“It’s not what you think. Actually, Gohan was quite adamant we don’t talk about anything serious this weekend”

Piccolo found that news equally unwelcome. In fact, he was starting to feel aggrieved no matter what and uncharacteristically wondered if that trait ever annoyed his companions. This is why he lived alone. His sharp talons pulled at the dark blue sweater and the little white snowflakes stretched as he did. Vegeta thought it suited him, but didn’t want to risk sounding sentimental or complimentary by saying so. The Saiyan offered him the bottle again, and this time, against his own judgement, Piccolo took it. 

It tasted vile, and he tried to suppress a cough as the liquid burned its way to his stomach. Vegeta blinked in surprise then, when Piccolo actually replied.

“I don’t know why”

The Saiyan turned to face Piccolo, bringing one leg up onto the sofa. He wasn’t used to being eye level with the tall Namekian and this close, he could see into those deep eyes. His stomach stirred in warning as Piccolo continued. 

“It’s not that I want to die, exactly…but”

Vegeta felt him struggling and resisted trying to finish the sentence for the younger man, like he would have with Trunks or Goten. Piccolo’s long fingers circled the nearly empty bottle like it was his only rope to reality. 

“I don’t...want to - live, either, I mean. I don’t know” 

The honesty felt heavy, so succinct and yet so much went unexplained. Vegeta was wise enough to know what the other man might be trying to say and could empathise with the uneasy Namekian. Telling the truth was difficult, for someone like Piccolo, maybe even nearly impossible. Vegeta’s own memories of his deep depression after Bulma’s death fluttered in front of his eyes. A similar pain echoed in Piccolo’s dark depths. 

The relief felt dramatic to Piccolo, as little as he had said, like he had finally vomited after years of feeling sick. His eyes fell to the red background of Vegeta’s jumper, how it stretched across his broad shoulders, still as muscled as when he had reigned terror down on his home planet. His own frame felt light and woozy, and he felt guilty then, like he had let his depression eat at his own flesh to stay alive. Guilty because Vegeta, like Gohan and Eighteen, had lost so much and he had the audacity to threaten them with another death. But Vegeta didn’t look accusatory, didn’t look pitying. He could only see understanding in the Prince.

Vegeta took the bottle out of Piccolo’s fidgeting fingers and swallowed a gulp of spirit before handing it back with a raised, almost amused brow. Piccolo laughed then, small and breathy. This was Vegeta’s way of saying it’s okay .

He took it from the older man, feeling that burning slurp down his throat again. A swirling appreciation for Vegeta squirmed in his being, and he felt himself consider things that normally wouldn’t cross his mind. He pulled a leg up to copy Vegeta’s position, marvelling at how much more comfortable it was for his long legs, and waited for the Saiyan to do something. To say something. Normally he would find this sort of situation painful, but he supposed the alcohol had numbed his cautious and uncomfortable self.

Vegeta bit his bottom lip slightly before speaking again.

“You’re not alone”

Piccolo couldn’t help but react, and all of a sudden his eyes had grown wet and he felt ridiculous. He was so lonely. He was in so much pain. It was becoming increasingly difficult to push it down. Vegeta felt bad immediately as he saw tumultuous emotion all over Piccolo’s still obnoxiously young face. Vegeta took the bottle from unsteady jade hands and put it on the coffee table. He was all confidence and stability, and Piccolo instinctively felt resentful. Resentful and comforted. He was so used to Gohan’s kind, overbearing care that he didn’t know how to deal with Vegeta’s calm countenance. 

He grimaced as his tone came out croaky.

“I know”

He wanted to say thank you but instead he mumbled something unintelligible. Vegeta’s dark eyes were intoxicating, and he wondered if the spirit had warped his mind. The Saiyan recognised the look in Piccolo’s eyes, so foreign on his usually passive face. For several seconds Vegeta schooled himself to do nothing, but lowered inhibitions won out and he leaned forward. Piccolo’s hand came to grip his shoulder, but with no intention of stopping him, and Vegeta’s lips met his own. Slowly, and carefully, like the act itself was a question. The Saiyan’s full lips moved, kissing gently, trying not to come on too strong. A siren in the back of his mind told him this was a bad idea, that Gohan deserved Piccolo, not him. But he ignored it. The Namek spread his fingers on Vegeta’s shoulder, finding the muscle moving underneath so pleasant under his finger tips. The older man made a quiet noise, but Piccolo heard it clearly and he surprised himself by pushing forward, deepening the kiss. Piccolo could feel his instincts stirring, and he repeatedly nipped Vegeta’s bottom lip with a canine but didn’t know why.

Vegeta smiled into the kiss, opening his mouth to meet Piccolo’s tongue with his own, giving the younger man what he clearly wanted. He wanted to kiss harder, wanted to dominate with a passion he had forgotten he possessed. Vegeta managed to reign it in, at least until he was sure the Namek was on the same page. He realised that Piccolo may just be seeking comfort, and although it might hurt later, he didn’t care. Green lips felt soft and firm, and he raised a hand to the back of Piccolo’s neck to plunge into his mouth. Piccolo’s movements became more desperate, growling and using his teeth and tongue. It was wet, messy and Vegeta couldn’t help but find it deeply erotic. Different to kissing a human, or a Saiyan for that matter. He pushed Piccolo back onto the sofa, strong hands holding him down as his mouth explored. 

A part of him wanted to know if Piccolo really wanted this, or just wanted to feel something. Maybe he was doing more damage than good. Maybe he’s in love with Gohan. What does that make me? He paused slightly, pulling back for air and peered into the Namekian’s wide pupils, searching for any answers that might be there. All he saw was lust. All flushed cheeks and gasping for air. With Eighteen there had been an agreement, an exchange. This had ambiguity, feelings involved and he suddenly felt unsure. Those thoughts fluttered into the wind as Piccolo’s talons dug into his backside, pressing Vegeta’s aching erection firmly against himself. The Namekian pulled Vegeta back down, gripping his hair tightly, for another plundering kiss. The older man couldn’t stop a long moan from leaving his lips and he ground himself between the Namek’s legs. Even through his jeans he could feel the other’s heat, heady and addictive. And hard and wet. 

He didn’t know much at all about Namekian anatomy, but he could guess. He also knew that if Piccolo hadn’t had much experience in this area, he’d have to slow things down for the younger, over excited creature. He softened his kisses, making them chaste, peppering the Namek’s flushed jaw and neck. The jumper felt soft under his fingers and he quickly made a decision to leave him clothed for now. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to control himself. 

Piccolo’s breath was hitching in his throat, and he swallowed dryly as Vegeta moved down his body. He felt hot and uncomfortable, but it felt extremely good. A burning attraction and need he didn’t know about had taken over. Vegeta’s strong arms and shoulders made him ache, and the other man’s dark, confident eyes made his heart flutter. Something inside his head told him that Gohan wouldn’t like this, and he tried to push the guilt away, along with any other thoughts of the younger man. He owed Vegeta this, if this was what he wanted, and he couldn’t deny that he wanted it as well. 

As if hearing the thought, the Saiyan stopped. He laid down on top of Piccolo, raising a hand to cup his flustered jade features to get his attention. Piccolo felt his body scream for more contact. Vegeta opened his mouth, as if to say something, but closed it. Piccolo could guess what he wanted to know. His own voice sounded hoarse. 

“I want this”

Vegeta’s eyes were so pitch black then that he couldn’t see anything in them. The older man didn’t really want to keep asking questions because he thought it might end this little encounter, but he had to know.

“Why?”

The Namek clearly didn’t expect this question. In fact, Piccolo was pretty sure humans had sex almost as fast as possible most of the time and he didn’t think that usually came with an interrogation. He licked his lips, pushing slightly against Vegeta’s firm hands. He actually growled now. He thought about throwing the Saiyan on the floor, his own thoughts scared him.

“Does it matter?”

Vegeta smiled at that, seeing the old Piccolo come to the surface was actually a pleasant surprise. It didn’t take long for him to sit up and pull his own sweater and shirt off, exposing his muscled chest to the Namekian’s hungry eyes. It did matter, but he wasn’t about to deny the younger man his pleasure.

Tanned fingers snaked up underneath Piccolo’s sweater, smooth fingertips tracing the heaving chest and firm abdomen beneath him. Vegeta tried not to notice the difference in the other man’s frame, still strong but a little thinner, lean and sinewy, unlike the hulking young Namek that had faced him all those years ago. He supposed his own wrinkles might betray the same changes in time. They weren’t what they once were. Piccolo whispered small noises as Vegeta’s hands snaked across his skin and pulled the sweater off. He leaned down, capturing his lips again, forcing his tongue inside that warm, foreign mouth. Piccolo writhed at it, so unused to the sensations but enjoying them all the same. His own despairing mind had been maneuvered out of the way, leaving nothing but spiralling lust and desire in its wake. It was addictive.

Vegeta’s hands were roaming everywhere, whilst he moved his mouth to trace his tongue along a long earlobe. Piccolo stiffened at the piercing feeling, accidentally clawing Vegeta’s back a little more than what was probably acceptable. His jade hands came away red and he felt his cheeks burn in shame, because it just turned him on more. The Saiyan didn’t seem to mind and smirked, before moving his right hand down between them, massaging Piccolo through his jeans. This earned him a gasp and an uncontrolled thrust, which only made him rub harder but slowly. He could feel the taller man’s erection clearly, but Vegeta could also feel a dampness beneath. Piccolo’s hands had moved up to grip Vegeta’s shoulders, biting his lip hard to save from crying out. 

The Saiyan had made short work of unbuttoning Piccolo’s jeans, and he slipped his hand underneath the rough material, into very human underwear, which for some reason Vegeta found amusing. His fingers smoothed down the Namekian’s hardness, noting the slight lines running transversely near the tip, the slippery shape. It had been a very long time since he had been intimate with a man, although he could feel Piccolo wasn’t male as he knew it, and Vegeta found it interesting that the idea of pumping him hard made his mouth water. Almost as much as...the sound drawn from Piccolo’s lips was long and deep, gasping, as Vegeta slid a finger along the slit just below. It was slight, and wet, and closed around his finger hungrily. He had to draw Piccolo into another kiss to keep the younger man from making too much noise as he added a second finger, plundering deeper into his warmth. The feeling of Vegeta’s fingers moving back and forth within him was almost too much to concentrate on, in fact, he couldn’t really focus at all. He was all tongue and teeth, meeting Vegeta ferociously. Wanting more but not knowing how to ask.

Vegeta’s own need was straining painfully against his jeans, his mind seemed to move back and forth between taking what he wanted and keeping Piccolo moaning and writing with his fingers. The sight of the Namek flushed and gasping his name did not help him whatsoever. 

Gohan watched with stony eyes as the situation unfolded before him. He had been woken up by Piccolo’s slightly fluctuating chi and ordinarily would have dismissed it, but the strange semi-pleasant sensations flowing over their bond had made him concerned. That same senseless worry that had become every day now. He needn’t have been. He had descended all of two steps before the sound of sex hit him like being smacked with an energy blast. At first he had assumed, hoped, it was Vegeta and Eighteen but the unmistakable deep tone of his former mentor left little to his stunned imagination. He knew he should turn around, return to bed, but he was transfixed as he watched Vegeta remove Piccolo’s jeans. Watched as Piccolo dragged his nails down the other man’s chest, and presumably fumbled with the Sayan’s own button, he couldn’t quite tell with the smaller man’s back to him. His stomach felt low and furious as he recognised Vegeta’s first thrust into Piccolo and the Namek’s nearly noiseless, high pitched breathy response at the intrusion.

His teeth were clenched so hard that a headache plumed into his mind. Anger made itself known with unwanted tears as he couldn’t help but watch Vegeta dig his horrid hands into Piccolo’s defined hips, his dear friend laid back on the sofa with his legs spread sluttishly for that obnoxious little bastard. His usual gentle demeanor had made way for a fury so pure he had to make a conscious effort to keep his presence undetected. Vegeta’s movements came faster, and he could just about hear the Saiyan whisper uncharacteristic, sweet things to Piccolo as he drove into him. He didn’t stay for the finale, turning on his heel to return to his room with rage in his blood.

Neither had noticed the accidental voyeur, and Piccolo didn’t know what to make of Vegeta’s odd ramblings. His response was to roll Vegeta over, landing on top of him on the floor. The Saiyan’s eyes went wide as he exhaled abruptly in surprise. The Namek sat up, stretching his back as he started to move. Lifting up slowly and crashing down on Vegeta’s length, moaning as it reached a point inside which felt intensely pleasurable and painful all at once. For years he had scoffed at the ridiculous human fascination with sex, and here he was, addicted and prostrate after only tasting it once. 

Vegeta’s dark eyes were half lidded, he was so close and seeing Piccolo ride him so passionately, his sharp features lit by the dying fire, gasping, it was all too much. He hadn’t considered the Namek to be beautiful before; attractive, intriguing, witty even, but from his vantage point on Gohan’s grey rug, he looked magnificent. He let Piccolo shove his body into the floor, his ass rubbing painfully with his thrusts, until he could feel the Namekian’s movements grow erratic. Piccolo gasped, stilled and everything tensed as the unfamiliar and fantastic sensation forced his body to spasm. Vegeta rolled them, wanting Piccolo to feel him even in the throes of his orgasm. He laid on top of the bewildered Piccolo, grabbing the Namek’s still shuddering hips and thrust hard, driving as deep as he could before his own climax hit him. 

-----

Gohan laid in bed like someone had driven a spike down his spine. He wasn’t sure if he could hear them or not, but his mind played out their moans and wouldn’t let the image of them leave even for a moment. Irritatingly, his own body had liked what it saw and he scowled at nature’s joke. He didn’t own Piccolo, intellectually he knew that, but his heart felt ripped through. He loved him, that he knew, but he hadn’t quite realised the depth of his attraction until he had seen that mouthy prick fucking Piccolo, his Piccolo. 

Sleep came eventually, but it was fitful and unpleasant. The morning came round all too quickly and the fact that it was Christmas day felt utterly horrid. He peered at the alarm clock on the nightstand, and it peered back reading ‘6:35’. It was still early, and he tried so hard not to care about the two people that were probably still downstairs. Hissing, he flung himself out of bed and went to the adjoining en suite. 

He carefully padded down the first couple of steps, and felt relieved to see Vegeta on the sofa alone, still apparently naked but covered with a blanket. He felt empty looking at him, like all his rage had vacated and left nothing but cold water in its place. He carefully reversed course and went to the room he had given Piccolo, thankful that the hall carpet softened his steps. The door was slightly ajar so he pushed it gently. The Namek was asleep, buried in the quilt that Vegeta had obviously bundled him in. At least he’s not a total asshole.

He risked a closer peek, coming to stand next to Piccolo’s sleeping form. His features were relaxed and unreadable. He could imagine that his own weren’t so serene.

-----

Presents were opened in a false cheer, or so Gohan presumed since Piccolo looked ashen and Vegeta looked concerned. Eighteen was the only one ripping wrapping paper with a genuine smile on her face. She had received a number of presents, most of them alcoholic but one of a framed photo of herself and Krillin that she had not seen before. It had been oddly thoughtful of the older Saiyan and it just made Gohan feel worse. Eighteen’s eyes had even watered, and it was so unusual that everyone in the room did forget their own problems for a moment.

“Well, if I knew you were going to cry!”

She laughed at Vegeta’s surliness and grinned her thank you. Gohan tried to focus on opening his own presents and looking forward to his daughter’s visit later in the day. Piccolo felt rather silly as he hadn’t really known what to get the others, having only been told recently that it was expected and not having any currency of his own. He had settled on creating woolly hats and scarves, with what Gohan used to call his ‘Namekian voodoo’, in different colours and had just asked them to pick their preference. All three of his friends laughed and thanked him, bringing a soft blush to his face. The demi-Saiyan remembered seeing a similar sight last night, in the throes of their love making, and swallowed dryly. He munched on the modest breakfast he had served, and gulped down some welcome coffee. Piccolo opened his presents, one from each of them, and disliked the unwelcome attention. 

Eighteen had given him his own set of winter wear, which she now felt foolish for, but it was a pleasant enough design, in maroon. More elaborate than he would have made himself. He thanked her, his hangover making everything seem slow and annoying. Vegeta’s gift had been a bottle of spirit, which actually made his stomach churn, but he nodded his thanks. Gohan’s gift had come in a large square gift box with Namekian characters etched on the lid. He raised a brow at Gohan and the demi-Saiyan, having forgotten his previous mood, eagerly motioned for Piccolo to open it. 

Inside were a set of three scrolls, each with beautiful gold script on thick parchment. Piccolo’s Namekian was rusty but he scanned the writing anyway, his black eyes wide. Gohan filled the silence with his excitement.

“These are a replica of Katas’ scrolls - Dende said their considered almost holy now, although they’re not actually religious, I don’t think, but something called - the spells of creativity”

Piccolo was taken aback, his fangs hanging in his open mouth. It was so thoughtful, and so entirely unexpected that he didn’t even know what to say. Eighteen’s curiosity spoke for him.

“Are they from Namek?”

Gohan shook his head. 

“No, unfortunately. I had them made based on Dende’s copies. They’re essential to have in the house apparently”

He laughed at Dende’s words as he repeated them and he watched Piccolo closely. The Namek stuttered over his words a little.

“Thank you...I’ve never had anything like this...before”

Gohan smiled so wide it made Piccolo feel sick. With guilt, his hangover or the attention he couldn’t be sure. He stood up then, mumbling something about taking a shower. Vegeta watched the Namek leave, wary of what happened between them. His sober mind had wasted no time in heaping a lifetime of guilt on him, as if he had done something treasonous. The affection he had normally kept at an arm’s length was starting to grow into a monster, and he wanted badly to follow Piccolo up the stairs. 

-----

Piccolo stood naked in the bathroom, looking in the mirror at various little bruises and marks that hadn’t healed yet. Probably because the alcohol had occupied his system thus far. In the bright morning winter light, he looked rough, pale and sickly. He felt it too. The burn of being entered still seared on between his legs, and this morning, Vegeta had barely acknowledged him. Ordinarily, that would have been welcome. 

Instead, it hurt. It hurt even more when Gohan gave him that wonderful present with love in his eyes. He knew Gohan’s feelings for him would not gel well with what he had done last night. He felt like he had betrayed everyone he cared about, again. Even Eighteen, what if she cared about Vegeta? Did he even stop to check? They should have let me freeze to death. 

His skin itched, and he stepped into the hot shower as if he were climbing the very top of a mountain. Everything ached, and he felt dirty. The water hit his skin, washing away the feeling of Vegeta’s hands, but it didn’t reach the shame building in his chest. The wallowing emptiness he had briefly climbed out of came back to swallow him up; he dropped to his knees in the shower, turning to sit against the marble wall. The stone was cold but it seemed appropriate, deserving. He trailed a clawed hand down to the soreness below, and roughly shoved a finger into himself. It hurt, a lot, the talon scraping where Vegeta’s fingers had glided. He felt himself respond anyway, and instantly felt disgusted, but continued. He moved his other hand down his chest, dragging his claws deep into the skin, up his throat, across his thighs. The wretchedness of it made his stomach whirl and he bit deeply into his own lip. How can it be so horrible but help at the same time?

His breath hitched and he stopped, reaching for the soap instead, delighting in the awful sting it left in its wake as he washed his abused body. Some time must have passed by, because the water had turned cold but he didn’t realise. He just sat there, knees drawn up, hands in his lap, clean but still bleeding. He was dimly aware that he was probably crying and he sneered at his own weakness. That deathly peace returned, and he wanted so desperately to have the happiness back. 

Gohan knelt down in the shower, leaning up to turn the water off. It had been an hour, and with no response to his calls through the door he had let himself in. Piccolo’s eyes were closed and he was shivering, covered in scratches that the demi-Saiyan could see were self-inflicted.

“Piccolo?”

The Namek’s eyes blinked and came into focus, once again seeing the warm mahogany orbs of a concerned Gohan. He looked confused for a moment. He had been in the blissful world of cold again, and here he now was, back in reality. Only this time he had come back more awful. A whore. To add to his sins. 

Through their mental bond, Gohan could feel a deep shame and self loathing and he grabbed Piccolo’s face in his hands, moving his own head forward to meet the Namek’s. Instantly, the peace returned but this time it was warm, full of love. Piccolo let himself fall into it, raising his own hands to cup Gohan’s. All the rage and jealousy the demi-Saiyan had felt slipped away, he couldn’t let the Namek feel guilty for having sex. It occurred to him that it was a natural reaction, based on the literature Dende had given him. Namekian relations were vague to be sure, but also complex and riddled with important things that he doubted Vegeta or even Piccolo knew about. Namekians didn’t appear to have casual sex or one night stands, and it had ramifications. He made a note to study it further, if only because he doubted Piccolo had a clue about the intricacies of his own species’ mating habits. He did his best to send feelings of acceptance and dignity through the bond.

Gohan slowly opened his eyes, seeing that the Namek still had his closed. He then looked down, and blushed at the taller man’s state of undress. He thought about his own, now wet, clothes but his sexual desire still fluttered in his mind and he pulled away from Piccolo, but a second too late. The recognition in the Namek’s dark eyes made him feel absolutely stupid, as if he had been keeping the secret so well up until that moment. He didn’t want to put his own feelings on his struggling friend, but he also didn’t expect Piccolo to grab him and kiss him. Hard.

Gohan squeaked, stunned and then moaned, he couldn’t help it. It felt so good. Sad, a little desperate but lovely. He couldn’t deny that he had wanted this, and he leaned into the kiss, opening his mouth to lick gently at the Namek’s lips. Piccolo spread his still damp, bare legs then, pulling Gohan’s narrow hips into him and the demi-Saiyan cursed. A warning feeling in the back of his mind made him pull back. He wasn’t feeling the right thing from their bond, far from it. It felt like a dark swell, a last effort, a final bullet. Aggression and submission. He didn’t understand any of it, and it looked alien and unhealthy on his friend's face. He grabbed Gohan then, too hard and the demi-Saiyan had to hold back his natural reaction to fight back. 

Piccolo growled at the younger man and bit him. Gohan held back a yelp, and tried to ignore the feel of the Namekian’s heat pressing against him. Piccolo huffed then, like he was losing his temper.

“Fuck me”

The words sounded so bizarre on Piccolo’s lips that he just stared, blinking. He snapped out of it, realising this for what it was. 

“No”

Piccolo’s response sounded strange and unkind.

“I know you want to”

“I said no”

“Why not?!”

Gohan flushed, but more with anger and surprise than embarrassment. This wasn’t normal, even given Piccolo’s erratic and dangerous behaviour of late. He panicked at the thought of Piccolo seeking this sort of treatment in the city, of what the humans might do to him. He was strong, but he was not himself. Gohan was resolved, they’d be visiting Dende by the end of the day, whether Piccolo wanted to or not.

“Because I love you far too much to hurt you” And that’s what you want, isn’t it?

Piccolo looked at Gohan, feeling empty and sick. His own words ricocheting in his head like a nightmare. What had he become?

Gohan saw the animosity dissolve into bitterness and confusion, he offered his friend a hand to stand up, which Piccolo took. Standing next to the younger man, Piccolo felt that earlier vulnerability start to fade away, his height giving him something to hold on to. Gohan put both hands on his mentor’s shoulders.

“Come on, it’s still Christmas, and I need help in the kitchen”

He grinned genuinely, squeezing the top of pink and green biceps. Gohan felt Piccolo relax a little, though he was still wary and likely humiliated, he almost felt bad about forcing him to the Lookout later. As if this situation needed to get any more complicated. I’m going to kill Vegeta.

W.

Chapter Text

Vegeta chopped parsnips so finely that Eighteen wondered if they would turn into some sort of inedible soup in the oven. Her mind wandered, imagining the carrots bobbing in the sickly yellow sludge, each little orange disc crying out to be saved and how her fork would scoop them up, only to deliver them to their acidic fate. Her strange thoughts were interrupted by Vegeta hissing as he accidentally sliced his thumb and she raised a brow, ignoring it.

“You’re cutting the parsnips too thin”

Her lack of empathy didn’t even register with the Saiyan, too used to her acerbic temperament; a coolness that rivaled his own. He didn’t respond, just stood there sucking his thumb to stem the bleed. Eighteen’s fingers returned to peeling potatoes.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened?”

Vegeta turned and leaned back on the counter, abandoning his shoddy vegetable work. His sigh was so uncharacteristic that Eighteen actually turned to look at him. Seconds of silence passed, slow and cold, lingering on between them before he spoke.

“I did something stupid”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and blinked a few times, gathering his thoughts. Eighteen couldn’t help but tease, it being so much in her nature.

“Like what?”

Vegeta tuned his head to address her directly, snarling yet whispering his answer.

“You fucking know what, but if I have to spell it out, I…slept with Piccolo”

The last potato was skinned, and she leaned over to retrieve a larger knife to chop them. Her disregard for what he considered to be such massive news irritated him, but it didn’t surprise him.

“And…what? You regret it?”

“No…I mean, it’s not the best timing is it?”

Eighteen didn’t even think to lie just to comfort him and he hadn’t expected her to.

“Well, it probably wasn’t smart to sleep with someone who’s mental health is as fucked as those parsnips, and who was probably a virgin to boot”

The Saiyan crossed his arms, biceps bulging even in his advancing age. She was right, of course, even if a part of her alcohol riddled mind had encouraged it. She offered a small smile as if it could anchor such a horribly accurate statement back in the realm of friendship.

“It’s not just that”

The android dropped the potato, sensing some interesting information was about to make itself known. She pulled her jeans up a little and went to stand next to him, leaning back on the counter so they both faced the doors leading onto the little patio. The sky was an ignorant, beautiful blue.

“You know, this would go quicker if you just spat it out”

Vegeta watched the wind pick up and blow crunchy dead things all around the garden. He contemplated backing out of the conversation, if only to save some of his rapidly diminishing dignity. As it always did, the thought of his precious Trunks fluttered in his mind, like some sort of ghostly admonishment.

“I think I love him”

Her blue eyes widened but Eighteen didn’t show any other response. She had known Vegeta had played with the idea of finding their Namekian companion attractive, had even accidentally mentioned it, but this was a curve ball. She immediately scowled.

“So, you both love Piccolo?”

Vegeta turned to give her a questioning glance, she frowned in mock offense.

“And no one loves me? Well, merry fucking Christmas”

He burst into a laugh at that, grateful that his on-off again lover had such an innate ability to make him at ease. He nudged her hard enough to make her properly stumble and she playfully slapped him in return. Piccolo reached the bottom of the stairs in time to see their little playfight and he immediately looked away, instead following Gohan to the living area, trying his best to push the thoughts of Vegeta out of his mind. At the demi-Saiyan’s insistence he had donned another Christmas jumped together with a pair of old worn jeans that can’t possibly have ever fitted Gohan. Piccolo palmed the thick material, wondering which one of their lost comrades this particular pair had belonged to. Eighteen’s sing song voice echoed through the open-plan space.

“Can someone please come and help Vegeta chop? He’s apparently incapable”

Piccolo, feeling suddenly compelled, volunteered and sauntered into the kitchen. The confidence Gohan had pumped into his mind earlier seemed to linger and he quietly took another knife from the block and began chopping with practiced ease. Eighteen eyed him and then smirked at Vegeta, who had started now fumbling with himself to find another task. She idly wondered when the smaller man had started down his road of infatuation and it inevitably brought up memories of another small man, who had followed her around with moon eyes all those years ago. Her delicate hands placed the potatoes in the pan for boiling before later roasting as she thought of Krillin in his police uniform, with her little Marron tying up his grown-out hair in pigtails. For some reason, this also led her to think of work and she grimaced.

Gohan poked the wood in the fire to get it started, noting that a gentle sort of shadow had started to descend the sky outside. As he pretended to be busy, he reached out to Dende with his brilliant new plan.

Dende?

Gohan! My dear friend, I would say it’s a pleasure, but I thought you’d be in touch.

The older man smiled, his gentle wrinkles wrinkling along with his mirth.

I can imagine. How would you like to join us for dinner?

There was a pause, and Gohan knew the Kami was weighing up his duties, so he added.

It’s for Piccolo.

Alright, what time?

Gohan smiled and advised that any time would be a good time, but that four o’clock would be perfect. He walked into his own kitchen gingerly, as if it didn’t belong to him, and announced the addition to the dinner table before opening the oven to check on the large bird that was baking away inside. Two hours passed as food was prepared and cooked to the gentle tunes of Christmas songs, ones that Gohan didn’t recognise, playing on his old radio. The quality of broadcast had dwindled since technology had sought to leave such vintage machines behind, but they reminded the Professor of his wonderful past. His mother had often played the radio, even with just the one frequency that could be caught flying through their little house in the forest. She had lulled Goten to sleep with it.

Piccolo wasn’t stupid and although openly he welcomed Dende’s presence, and did usually miss the younger Namek bitterly, his empty heart felt suspicious. He knew his earlier antics had spurred Gohan into some sort of concerned frenzy and he had even sought out Kami to resolve it. That little meddling God would have seen everything and had no doubt alerted Vegeta to save him that day, either knowingly or unknowingly sparking something between them. Still, even as he retrieved roasted vegetables from the oven, he can picture Vegeta’s piercing gaze through the water. See his shirt billowing across broad shoulders and his tie float upwards, desperately seeking the surface. A handsome hero sent to confuse him further. Worse, Dende would know Piccolo was still deep in the dark, fluttering out to make false appearances, before sinking again. He had felt something last night, as he indulged in Vegeta and a part of him wanted it again. His guilt and affection for Gohan reared itself like an unruly horse and he pushed it down, furrowing his brows. The parsnips had indeed, become mulch.

The table was being filled with an assortment of hot and cold dishes as Dende arrived. He still adorned his traditional robes but had chosen a beautiful deep red cloak to signify the occasion. Dark eyes were still forever young, and Piccolo had forgotten how tall he had become, just surpassing Gohan. Greetings were exchanged cordially but hugs were given to both Gohan and Piccolo, whom he gripped tightly as if to confirm that he did indeed know what was in his dried-out heart. The larger Namek rolled his eyes and exhaled as his ribs were squeezed. He pushed the Kami away and ushered him to sit down, if only not to confront a kind face that knew too much.

Dinner was a merry event and Gohan was happy enough that Piccolo voluntarily partook in a few vegetables but could not resist heaping some additional treats to his plate. The older Namek found it highly irritating, patronising even, but since Christmas was a big deal to his earthling friends, and even himself, nowadays, he let it pass. The radio chimed happily in the background as Dende conversed with Eighteen as she happily told stories of her big family, occasionally nudging Vegeta to join in. Overall, Gohan was thrilled, even despite recent events. This was his family, as flawed and colourful as they all are, although his last thought was a bittersweet one. The last of us.

Piccolo helped clear away whilst Vegeta put the coffee on, desperate for a cigarette even though he had promised Bulma decades ago that he would stop. Dende caught the thought as he passed through the patio door with Gohan, intent on getting out of earshot of his taller kin. The air was almost unpleasantly crisp and with a hint of spice on it, like the night itself was also celebrating.

“How are you doing old friend?”

Gohan smiled genuinely and grasped the Namekian by his cloaked shoulders.

“I am just fine, it’s Piccolo I’m worried about”

“Of course, but you needn’t forget to care about yourself in the meantime”

The Professor sighed and nodded, not wanting to directly contradict Kami, but also wanting to get to the point.

“I know but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much he means to me”

Dark eyes regarded him, noting the ever-increasing grey inching down the demi-Saiyan’s temple.

“To us both, which is why…and I must stress that it is not within my remit to interfere quite this much, but I have sent for a Kazin. A counselor, of sorts, from one of the closer Namekian settlements. He’ll be here in just over two weeks”

Gohan’s heart lifted in his chest at the prospect before plummeting at the thought of telling his surly friend that he’d shortly be having therapy. Dende watched as these thoughts tittered across Gohan’s face.

“He won’t like it, but from the conversation I’ve had, the Kazin felt it imperative to come immediately”

The demi-Saiyan understood exactly what Dende was trying not to say. It was urgent. This was an emergency. He hugged the tall Kami tightly, too tightly, perhaps.

Piccolo settled himself on the sofa and for the first time in a long while, realised that he had become accustomed to it. He then realised that he had sex on the very same sofa the previous night, and a bloom of violet lit up his cheeks even as he tried to eavesdrop on Dende and Gohan. He had been right to be curious because as they entered back through the patio doors, the sudden rush of cold air wasn’t the only thing making his skin crawl. His former student motioned for Piccolo to come outside and he sneered, baring his fangs. You couple of conniving…

He stepped onto the flagstones, irritated that instead of appreciating the clear sky they’d likely be having one of their ‘conversations’. Gohan turned to address him, eyeing Piccolo’s untouched cup of steaming coffee and standing a little bit closer than was necessary. He licked his lips, deciding to just be as quick and as firm as possible.

“I’ll cut straight to the point, um…there’s a Kazin coming to see you in two weeks, so I’d like you to stay with me or, uh, Eighteen and Vegeta until then”

Piccolo didn’t respond but his jaw clenched upon hearing the familiar Namekian word. It was a surprise although he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t expected it, of course Dende would stick his pretty little nose in it. His eyes searched the floor frantically and he could feel his breath quicken. Gohan reached a hand out, his usual concern clear on his features.

“Piccolo…I, we’re just…we’re worried about you. Look, I can be there-”

“What? Be there when what? We talk about what a monster I am? Have been? You cannot possibly comprehend me or the things I’ve done. How dare you presume that someone else, a fucking farmer, can”

Gohan swallowed at the animosity, at the amount of words, at the sheer venom. His natural inclination was to back down, to be in deference to his mentor, but he bit his lip to ensure his bravery. Months of fury and pain and concern took over, unintentionally raising his voice.

“I wouldn’t dare suggest anything, if I didn’t think it was a matter of life and death. I-“ His eyes were filling up and despite his humiliation, he continued, “I don’t want to lose you, I can’t. I love you so much and I can’t lose anyone else!”

Piccolo gritted his teeth as Gohan’s voice rose a pitch and tears made their silent path down his cheeks. The rotten feeling of being selfish, of self-indulgence, only added to his never-ending pain. He knew he had been hurting his best friend but had not thought it would be said so plainly, and with such emotion. Now he would have to face it, everything he had avoided thus far. All the cloying things he had buried and buried until he had almost buried himself. He felt the Earth stop its natural flutter as he stood there watching Gohan cry silently, as his own heart clenched and failed to beat. He felt his own eyes swell and his temperature rise dramatically. It was horrid, the whole thing was horrid. He was a monster. A memory of being chased as a boy, as a furious father pelted him with rocks and loaded his gun.

‘Run you disgusting little beast, I’m still going to fucking kill you’

The sound of the bullet being loaded, of the breath taken in and the metal ripping through the air, then his flesh and bone. And how he deserved it, and how he wished it had been fatal then. That was the last thought that his rapidly declining mind chose to dwell on, as he hit the patio floor.

“-tacted Goten, he’s going to co-ordinate with King Kai and use instant transmission. He should be here in an hour”

Piccolo heard it and hated that he had. That psychologist bastard was going to be here imminently, and he hadn’t had time to get all his barricades up. In another room, he could hear Vegeta arguing with Gohan, blaming him for putting pressure on. Piccolo felt a sort of sympathy for the smaller man, who was now valiantly trying to take Gohan down a peg or two. From what he could hear, the demi-Saiyan was having none of it and a part of him was proud of how strong willed his prodigy still was. He opened his eyes to see Eighteen peer at him from her periphery. Dende placed a hand on his wrist.

“How are you feeling?”

He said nothing, simply staring up at the ceiling. He marveled at how many different ceilings he had to look at these days. Dende continued, albeit delicately.

“You collapsed. I think you were overwhelmed and, um, had a panic attack”

Piccolo closed his eyes, his cheeks heating in shame and horror. His eyes yet again filled, and he realised that although he didn’t cry often, he apparently cried like a baby when humiliated. As if bent on making matters worse, he climbed out of the bed and calmly walked out of the room. Dende stared after him with his mouth agape as Piccolo stepped quietly down the stairs and into the porch to put his boots on. He stopped for a moment to find his coat, realising that although he felt it was unnecessary, he was thinner now. He did feel the cold more. Gohan had followed him down the stairs, followed by Vegeta, and they both looked at him in puzzlement. He slipped his coat on, fastening the buttons awkwardly, before turning to address his former student.

“I appreciate everything, so…thank you, but I’m going home”

His words were so firm, and so cold that Gohan didn’t know what to say. His chest flooded with dread at how the tone landed, like a final goodbye. Not because Piccolo was going to kill himself, but because he was done. Done with him.  

“Piccolo”

The Namek simply closed the door behind him softly, so devoid of emotion that even Eighteen felt it.

W.

Chapter Text

Piccolo ambled through the forest slowly, relishing the time that having supressed his energy had given him. Frozen trees sat still in the dry air, apparently also taking a rest from any of their languid, slow earthly duties. Whatever they were. His mind didn’t seem as peaceful, and instead kept pivoting with vibrant memories and thoughts of a dull but hopeful future, all full of Saiyans and the excitement they all seemed to bring forth with genetic delight. The trail descended slowly and for a moment he fancied he was taking the gentle route to hell; it would get darker, the canopy would fill and eventually he’d look back and there’d be nothing there. He hadn’t bought a return ticket when he started down this path.

Tiny animals made tiny noises, but his ears were as keen as ever as he listened to them burying, probably looking for the hordes the others had stored for winter. Bizarrely, the others hadn’t taken after him as he’d expected and he wasn’t sure how glad he was, really. Maybe a part of him did want to be saved.

“And which part is that?”

The voice was so startling that Piccolo stopped, but he was well trained enough that he didn’t falter for long. He glanced to his right and then behind him, back into the sprawling wood, as if trying to judge how long he had been followed. There was no way to tell.

“You’re wasting your time”

Even in his disgruntled state his mind he still catalogued the other person walking parallel. Dark eyes that were distinctly Namekian peered back kindly but evenly, looking stark against their white jacket. It had a luminescent quality to it that actively irritated Piccolo, but then everything did these days. He started walking again, ignoring the temptation to despatch what could only be the so-called counsellor to another part of the forest entirely.

“Well, luckily for you, I’ve just gained two…weeks of it”

They spoke in a blend of Namekian and Galactic Standard, as if waiting to lean one way or another on Piccolo’s cue. Already he felt analysed and violated, like there was implied co-operation that didn’t exist. He glanced once more to his right as he marched, swiping dead bark away with his hands, noting that the psychologist was not the lithe, healing sort he’d expected. He was unused to seeing people his own height and unfortunately for him, they were easily able to keep up. If he flew, he’d be found quickly by concerned Saiyans or a nonchalant android. No discernible chi fluttered across his senses and he stopped again, abruptly. He had successfully supressed his chi and masked it, even Dende could not have pinpointed his exact location.

“They didn’t”

“You’d do best to stay out of my head”

There was a pause.

“Boshka”

At Piccolo’s blank expression, they explained.

“My name”

The Earth born Namek almost huffed, feeling a glimmer of emotion trying to reach back into his chest to remind him what it felt like. A faint sickness filled him. As sick as the curiosity, which had started to cause a kind of friction that made him blurt out his question.

“How did you find me?”

The Kazin smiled, looking like they were quite used to the question. They continued walking, carefully keeping what looked like a prescribed distance between them.

“I’m an empath”

Piccolo rolled his eyes. All Nameks were empaths but for them to state it like that, and without metaphor, meant it was their sole purpose. And the unspoken fact was that, right now, said sole purpose was Piccolo. He continued walking, eventually coming to a broad opening in the trail. It took a minute to break through the cluttered wood, and out towards his favourite lake. It was the one Gohan loved to fish in when he was a boy. The memory made him feel a little uncomfortable, given the demi-Saiyan’s infatuation now. He felt so human suddenly.

They both stopped at the frozen edge and the setting sun had cast its great, reaching, orange fingers all over it. Boshka came closer then, so that they could comfortably stand shoulder to shoulder. Piccolo ignored him. He came here so often he had started to feel possessive over the place and he was intent on keeping it his. The interfering creature would soon depart, if he remained ignorant enough; experience had taught him such. Sounds changed slowly as the winter put the birds to bed and insects were able to start their own day, Piccolo closed his eyes to hear them more clearly. He envied their simple life, the gentle patter of living and then dying. No reason, no regrets, just pure, unadulterated purpose. Probably as naïve and innocent as the Kazin beside him.

“I should think my years haven’t been so kind, actually”

The other Namek had remained so quiet, for so long, that Piccolo opened his eyes at the words. The sun had set, leaving only that sweet, red rage in its wake. Stars were now setting up their stalls in the sky. He turned and from given proximity, he could see wrinkles and a couple of dark green spots on their brow. Considering their life span, Boshka could easily be a few hundred years old. He was envious, in a way, because although he was bordering on a century himself, he felt simultaneously ancient and like an infant.

Such are the consequences of fusing, the Kazin thought silently, and a soul lost somewhere in the well of it all.

Despite the young man’s mental defences, and what mighty structures they were, Boshka easily meandered through the abandoned walls. Had felt them crumbling even as he arrived on this very watery planet. When he neared the broken creature, the pain became quieter, muted, until finally, it became completely silent. Piccolo, to them, was a painting that told a heart-breaking story with each of its careful brushstrokes, but the picture itself was of nothing at all. The young Kami had warned him of the challenge that lay ahead, but the counsellor was not one to pick their patients based on preference. Their patients had a way of calling across whatever distance lay between them. A mystical perk, that probably lay in a strand of their genetic makeup, that tied them altogether with string. In Piccolo’s mind, lay a map of people, a lot of whom had boyish, black eyes and wild hair. The colour of blood, human in its deep red, lay all over the roads of it. Boshka turned back to regard the lake, to push back the mental onslaught a little. Their unfettered access would only enrage the younger man, if he were able to feel that depth of emotion anymore.

Piccolo remained standing with closed eyes until the stars had taken over the landscape, hours had passed probably, but the counsellor remained. He started walking, this time without the Kazin following him like an unwanted house cat. Boshka could hear the cracking and crunching of the ice as Piccolo’s large frame ground into it, slowly making his way across the huge expanse. Their eyes took in the sheer beauty of Earth whilst he watched Piccolo disappear into it. Time, in that personal, warped way, went by slowly but eventually, the ice gave way. And just like that, Piccolo dropped into the frozen water. His unpleasant laugh couldn’t be heard under the icy cap by anyone, except Boshka, who simply stood there. Like they were watching nothing more than an average actor acting out a bittersweet scene in the saddest of plays.

And it was a play, of sorts. Piccolo felt himself drift in the startling cold, his favourite kind of torment. Given the choice, he’d rather just numb it away; he often felt the distant pull of cowardice when he thought that. A life he’d been given over and over, and here he was, trying desperately to throw it away. The frozen surface looked odd as he fell away from it, like a glittery subdued blue, filtering most of the light out with its thick hide. The darkness swelled as he drifted further and he thought he could see Vegeta, his piercing eyes as sharp as ever, disapproving and loving, his white shirt billowing. Beautiful Pan smiling. Goku, long dead but laughing, kindly, unknowing. And Gohan, sweet, lovely Gohan, crying. Guilt burned in his hitching chest, desperate for breath. He closed his eyes.

Boshka looked at the frosted ground as he saw them, felt the whirl of the nightmare play out in Piccolo’s darkening mind, as it tried so hard to let go. The distant past of a Demon King just dancing on the periphery, soaking itself in evil, delighting in the pain and a dead Kami silently watching. A young warrior lost too soon looking away, trying not to say anything. The counsellor felt himself unsteady at it, as the fused mind twisted and each personality tried to keep its stolen place. If asked, he’d compare it to a disease, to a fairy-tale monster; a taboo for good reason.

When Piccolo abruptly opened his eyes, he was staring out onto the still lake. His eyes searched frantically for the cracks in it, for the hole that gobbled him but the surface stretched on smoothly, mockingly. His blood surged and his eyes burned, but not because he was humiliated, not even because of rage. The sound of his jaw clicked, as he clenched his teeth, and seemed to echo as he breathed unsteady, and he cried silently. Boshka placed a strong hand on his shoulder, claws digging gently into the black wool.

Piccolo hadn’t felt anything, really, in so long, that it felt like everything all at once.

Vegeta sat with his legs and arms crossed on the sofa, cradling a sinfully large single malt in one hand. Gohan and Eighteen had gone to bed, probably not to sleep, but at least they had tried to pretend to. Gohan would be awake all night, he’d bet, searching with his mind continually for Piccolo. Ever the faithful student. The Saiyan looked at the charred wood as it fell forward from the fire, cooling on the edge, they looked useless now. Slowly, he tipped his head back, wild hair resisting and catching on the fabric as he placed the glass against his overheated forehead, hoping it might lend an alcoholic hand to his burgeoning headache, but Bulma’s sassy face bobbed away behind the closed lids. He wondered what she might think of him now. It seemed strange to him how the Namek had now become the centre of his world.

Standing next to Goku, facing Beerus, he had felt so damn sure of himself. He had even developed a soft spot for the guileless warrior, more Saiyan than he ever openly admitted. A part of him regretted never giving the man his due, that small praise that would have meant so much and instead Vegeta would mutter it to his grave and hope the bastard could hear it. He whipped his head forward. They had become unwitting allies, but still, there had been that companionable adversary. Like Piccolo, he supposed, and then an odd thought of falling for Kakarot and not Piccolo entered his intoxicated mind. Now he’d have to fight the man’s son, for the affection of an alien who was also the reincarnation of a Demon, who had even less understanding of himself than Vegeta did. But didn’t he like that? That vein of evil that lay somewhere inside, masquerading as scar tissue?

Bulma’s laugh echoed in his mind and he laughed as well. What would you think, love?

Eighteen could hear Vegeta’s mad laughing at himself and she rolled her blue eyes, that final whiskey had been a mistake. She hadn’t gone to bed after all, instead she was stood outside in the garden, appreciating the cool night. It was an old habit, one she had developed when she shirked the shadow of Gero, to stare up and wonder what might have been. Not that she had any regrets, but simply a curiosity, of the parents that might have been like her. Her brother would smirk at it, in fact, if her memory served, he had done. None of them would rest tonight and she had watched Gohan leave the little house a while ago, probably to distance himself from Vegeta. It was a very Gohan thing to do, to leave his own house instead of asking them to fuck off.

She marveled at how they all cared so much and here they all were, waiting with bated breath, each so involved with one another now. She hoped that they wouldn’t drift after this, especially if Piccolo joined the long list of gone but not forgotten. What if he couldn’t be fixed? And which one of them would be next? Her fondness for the three boys had sort of merged into something that couldn’t be undone.

Gohan had clocked Eighteen but ignored her. He didn’t dislike her, exactly, he was just really fucking mad. They were all sulking somewhere and he was mad at that, at himself, at Piccolo. His twilight years had been bittersweet but until this there had been hope, a carefully crafted attention to detail that would carry him through to his inevitable death. Piccolo would outlive him and however selfish it was, that’s how he wanted it. Just as he’d made his peace that the stubborn Namek might never return his feelings, he goes flying past that and straight to the deepest fear. Piccolo was, is, his constant. The rock that shattered but always got back up. He shoved hands into his pockets against the chill in the air and growled, loudly. Dende had left with a sad smile but a strong message to relax and wait, with a firm reminder that they didn’t need a domino effect. His own mental health; how laughable. Then the Kazin had arrived and Gohan had been left to sit back and hope this stranger could do what he could not. Ironic, really, since they had been the ones to save the world once. This seemed so small, so easy.

Who do you send to save a superhero?

W.

Chapter Text

The nights turned into days with little effort, the dark bending beautifully into a soft, pale blue. Each one colder but clearer than the previous, probably a cold season, or so the Kazin thought; they had little knowledge of the Earth’s temper. Piccolo had remained by the lake, just sitting, in a soft quiet way, aching, without drama or sobs. He had cried just the one time and had returned to the stoicism that Boshka assumed to be his natural state. Such an angry, pained young man. It surprised them, even despite their empathic abilities, when he spoke.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

It was such a direct, unpleasant question, not that the Kazin was unused to such things exactly. Namekians were rarely violent, but some had pondered the concept to their own detriment.

“No”

They waited for Piccolo to respond and when no words came forth, they continued. It was a good sign that he was talking of his own volition and although this was not the best road to be taking, he probed anyway.

“What does it feel like?”

Piccolo turned to regard Boshka, for the first time in hours, apparently surprised by the question. The other Namek seemed so serene, measured, like the planet he came from. He idly wondered why such a thing existed in a race where everyone was relentlessly peaceful, and given his own experience, they simply ejected any deviation to that into outer space. He opened his mouth to answer but paused, not really knowing what to say. The truth, he supposed, would have to do. It mattered little now.

“Like taking a breath after holding it for too long”

Piccolo didn’t observe any perceptible reaction on the counselor's face and turned away, wishing that he hadn’t been quite that honest. It sounded simultaneously callus and pathetic. The answer to that question should be intensely dramatic or nothing at all. Most importantly, Gohan would be ever so disappointed in him.

“You care what Gohan thinks of you”

It was a statement rather than a question, but Piccolo felt like he should defend it. The reason why escaped him.

“I owe everything I am to him”

Boshka felt something screw into place in Piccolo’s mind, some very deep guilt and a world of expectation, an eagerness to please that was reserved only for Gohan. Guilt for not being able to reciprocate quite the way the Saiyan so desperately wanted. The empath could feel the troubling emotion from the halfling even across the forest, but it wasn’t pure, as such. It wasn’t a selfless love on either part, it was co-dependent and unyielding, likely due to a badly developed bond. Amongst their travels, it seemed an unhealthy risk of living apart from other Nameks, or other psychics in general. They aimed to clarify exactly what Piccolo needed to hear, and luckily it was also the truth.

“Not everything”

Piccolo felt the air chill further as the sun started, once again, to set. He was starting to get sick of the scenery, but kind of liked feeling that way. Kami knew he deserved it. The unending circle of his dim emotions, dark thoughts and self-punishment was also starting to irk. That, and the unwanted images of Vegeta, writhing beneath him and his selfish obsession with the older man.

Boshka spared Piccolo a neutral glance and abruptly stood, said nothing, and walked back into the woods. Piccolo listened to the footfalls of the other Namek until they faded into the ether. The victory at having won didn’t really push past any of the numb, but he smirked anyway. Even Nameks get bored.

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift into a kind of sleep for the first time in days. He was so very tired, but not for one moment would he allow himself to let his guard down around that interfering psychologist. They’d probably have a treatment plan, medication, and a room in an institute booked after just one hour’s kip. He frowned at that, and the unfamiliar language, and he realised he must be sleeping already. Maybe Boshka had never left.

When he awoke, it was to the twittering insects of the night all around him, but he was now half laid down. A gentle thumb stroked his cheek absently and he felt drowsy, confused. It occurred to him that the Kazin might have cast some spell on him, or perhaps he was just exhausted, finally done. He blinked, heard himself groan with an almighty headache, and then faltered, his hand instinctively coming to rest on the one cupping his face. The silhouette of the man sat above him was unmistakable, but he wondered if it was a leftover image of his dreams. Calloused fingers interlocked with his own gently, and the piercing black eyes of the Saiyan glanced down, face unreadable. Piccolo turned so that he lay on his back, staring up, in the man’s lap, utterly beguiled and bothered, the feelings unusually sharp in his foggy, uninterested mind. Vegeta’s gruff voice was soft but loud in the quiet night.

“You were talking in your sleep”

Piccolo burned to get up and confront the belligerent Saiyan but his body felt so relaxed, it felt warm for the first time since he had arrived by the frozen lake. His mind tried to bury the final thought, the disgusting realisation that for the first time in a long time, he felt safe.

“What?”

Vegeta apparently didn’t mind having the Namek half in his lap and simply continued to stroke angled cheekbones, drifting up every now and then to trace the edge of his long, elfin ears.

“I don’t know what, it was in Namekian”

Piccolo’s wide dark eyes blinked blearily and then he started laughing, it was a low, breathy chuckle but Vegeta paused in his ministrations to watch him curiously. Perhaps he had gone mad, after all.

“I didn’t mean what did I say, I meant what – why are you here?”

He felt deeply suspicious, and rightly so, he thought, since the Saiyan was being unusually kind. It was out of character, further leading him to believe that he was still waist deep in delirium. Vegeta felt Piccolo try to sit up but he resisted the motion easily, given how little Piccolo had trained recently, or looked after himself. After a moment, Vegeta relented and the Namek shifted to sit beside him. He regarded the smaller man, in his fur cuffs, with that same garish red jumper underneath the coat.

“I’ve been here for a while”

Piccolo clicked his tongue in irritation and Vegeta laughed, a deep vibrating chuckle that made the Namek feel colder suddenly.

“I mean why-“

“I know what you mean”

Vegeta turned to Piccolo, looking up into his mildly irritated gaze. He had passed the Kazin in the forest, the Namek apparently well aware of his intent to see Piccolo, and the counselor had said nothing, just spared him an unreadable glance. It had confused him a little but he didn’t give a fuck about it, until now, as he looked up into Piccolo’s blank but emotional face. The same face, really, like it spoke volumes but what volumes? Which books? The alien-ness of him seemed apparent then, as if he himself was not also an alien to this planet, he had felt human for so long.

“I came to talk to you”

Piccolo grunted and stared out towards the towering conifers on the other side of the lake, where they stood guarding the rest of the woods, from whatever monster might emerge from the lake when it eventually thawed. He, himself, was waiting for the wordy onslaught of questions that he had no idea how to answer. It was all getting just a little repetitive.

“I love you”

The Namek blinked owlishly at the reflected moon on the icy water. Of all the things he had expected to be said, of all the accusations or confessions, of all the things he deserved. He didn’t expect that. A burning bubble tried to build in his chest, and he stood up, feeling hot suddenly. Vegeta regarded him quietly, feeling a little foolish, and then he knew, of course, that Piccolo was in love with Gohan. It made sense but it made him sour.

“Are you doing this to punish me?”

Piccolo had walked a few steps away and turned, as if the distance would make up for their increasingly disparate strength. As if it would serve as an invisible shield, perhaps. Vegeta frowned with well-worn lines, his salty widow’s peak looking all the more pointed because of it.

“No”

“A trick then?”

The Saiyan sighed and stood, making Piccolo itch to take a fighting stance.

“No, you stupid Namek”

Piccolo sneered at the insult and stepped forward, looking every bit the Demon King he was born to be, courtesy of the large black coat to shroud him. He knew having sex with the Saiyan would come back to haunt him, but not quite like this. Vegeta put his hands in his pockets, as if to appear less the behemoth of power he was.

“I meant what I said”

“The fuck you do”

Vegeta’s nostrils flared, and it occurred to him that he wasn’t the most reasonable person, he generally handled emotions about as well as Piccolo did, and he was about to say something stupid. It didn’t stop him, though.

“I’ve just about had enough of this fucking charade Piccolo”

“Then leave”

“Why? So we’ll let you die? Even Kararot’s brat is going to give up eventually,” he paused, gaze turning bitter, “isn’t what you want?”

“I never asked for you, or anyone else, to care”

“That’s the point in kindness, Piccolo, you don’t have to ask. You think I ever deserved it? Or have you forgotten how many Nameks I’ve killed”

Piccolo’s breath was coming short with his building temper, and that comment threw him into a rage. The feeling felt so vibrant, so hot, it was exhilarating to feel, even if it was horrid.

“I have never forgotten”

Vegeta scoffed then, smirking, unable to stop toeing the edge of violence.

“Didn’t stop you fucking me, did it?”

Piccolo hit him so quickly that it almost caught the Saiyan off guard, and he reared his head back to miss the fist, only to trip over Piccolo’s calf. He lunged his hand out to drag the Namek with him onto the hardened soil, rolling them. Piccolo spat in his face and Vegeta’s cheeks reddened with fury, but he reigned it in, instead pinning the Namek’s wrists by his head and straddling his stomach. In any other circumstances, he might have found it erotic. Vegeta’s words came out through clenched teeth.

“Stop it”

Piccolo was raging, his cheeks violet and eyes blazing, and he screamed in unadulterated anger; it was a sight Vegeta hadn’t seen in years. The warrior in him wanted to react to it, but his heart won out. He knocked his forehead against Piccolo’s frenzied antennae, in an effort to calm him. This was going a little badly, and he wished desperately for Bulma’s wise words, however odd the situation might seem to her ghostly countenance now. He said the only thing he could think of, because it was true.

“I do love you”

Piccolo thrashed in his grip and his fangs gleamed in the moonlight.

“No”

Vegeta kept their heads pressed together but registered the odd response. Was he just denying it? Was he saying no thanks?

“I’m not asking you to return it”

This made Piccolo falter for a moment in his rabidness, his brows drawing together in unhappiness. This was such a ridiculous conversation, and he felt his emotions revolting with disuse.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Vegeta leaned back to regard him, and Piccolo felt assaulted by the memory of Vegeta being this close not so long ago, kissing him. How good it had been.

“Because – because I don’t want to lose you”

He flinched, Gohan had said that, more or less, but with teary eyes. Vegeta’s were burning with determination and pride. Piccolo smacked his head back into the frozen ground, clenching his eyes shut. Vegeta looked down and watched tears start to build between hairless, closed lids before they were shaken away hurriedly. The Namek was rapidly losing his defenses, his precious walls, that kept the sadness in and the world out. He cried silently, like he had the first time, his chest heaving in an effort to breathe it away, desperate not to look so weak in front of the one person he still wanted to impress. Vegeta watched, his own eyes burning just a little at the pain he was causing. He leaned down and pressed his chapped lips against Piccolo’s cold ones, kissing him dryly, moving his hands to cup either side of his now mostly violet face. The Namek kissed him back needily, his tongue seeking solace in Vegeta’s warm mouth as his antennae fumbled in the man’s wild hair. When the Saiyan pulled back to breathe, Piccolo spoke, his voice a little rough from the long kiss.

“you really do?”

“Yes”

“Why?”

Vegeta smiled and nuzzled the man beneath him with his nose, as if mocking him for the foolish question.

“Beats me”

“How long?”

Vegeta glanced to the side, recalling the drowning Namek looking so peaceful in the deep sea, then grasping onto him for air, clawing him.

“Too long”

“I didn’t think…”

Piccolo didn’t know how to finish the thought, but he imagined that Vegeta probably knew, somehow, that he didn’t feel like he should. A prince shouldn’t have to love a thing like him. Gohan was already cursed with the affliction, it didn’t seem fair. Vegeta kissed him again, softer this time, his tongue trailing sharp teeth and twining with Piccolo’s own. He made a concerted effort to not get too worked up, since this was likely going to be a long road for both of them. He may have even complicated things, not made them better. None of these thoughts did anything to stop him kissing Piccolo again and again, however, deeper each time. Piccolo’s hands had circled his back and waist, holding him there for as long as he’d stay.

Vegeta visited Piccolo in the wood every day that he remained with the Kazin, although they simply sat in each other’s quiet company for most of it. Gohan would be spitting mad, but he didn’t give a fuck, really, he even blamed the younger man, however unfounded that might be. Dende had been by to speak with the counselor, and it had been decided, that long term therapy, or the Namekian version of it, was required. Piccolo had taken to solitude to mull it over. It sounded too much like a mind fuck to him, something about separating personalities and creating boundaries and he only started listening when they mentioned isolating the bond. His ears perked up as he stood, with his arms crossed, listening to them babble on.

“It’s obviously been rejected, it can’t exist simultaneously but it can’t be undone”

He cut in; his voice far more aggressive than he had intended.

“What are you talking about?”

The Kazin spared him a disparaging glance, and it was so out of character that the Saiyan felt affronted.

“When you mated with Piccolo, it created a lingering connection, but he’s already got one, not that it’s any better. Both of which are being rejected by the fusion anyway”

Vegeta frowned at the flowery explanation, what a complicated way to say that he shouldn’t have had sex with Piccolo. They weren’t wrong, he supposed, but it annoyed him. Maybe because it was true, and he did feel guilty about it.

“What can I do to help?”

Dende smiled, tickled by the look the counselor was giving Vegeta, who he probably didn’t understand whatsoever.

“Help?”

“Yes, idiot, as in help Piccolo get better”

The Kazin ignored the insult and thought for a moment, as if they were preparing to say something against their own better judgment.

“Keep spending time with him, like you are doing”

Vegeta nodded and took off into the air, rashly doing exactly as he’d been told, leaving a chuckling Dende behind him. He found Piccolo bathing in a spring, a couple of miles West, and immediately cursed himself for his impatience. It was too late, however, and he was already descending to stand by the steaming pool, his loins already thrumming. Piccolo ignored Vegeta initially, continuing to run what he presumed was soap up and down his arms.

“It’s about time you took a bath”

Piccolo chuckled, and Vegeta loved the sound of it, rare as it was. He sat down, removing his boots and rolling up his jeans to dangle his legs in the warm water. Piccolo watched him curiously, reminded of a young Trunks. The Saiyan tried to focus on the sensation, rather than the image of Piccolo looking impossibly tall and silken, wet, and naked. He rolled his eyes at himself.

“How are you feeling?”

Piccolo moved to come closer and Vegeta both wanted him to but wished he wouldn’t.

“Strange, honestly. I’m going to go ahead with the…plan”

The last word was drawn out so sarcastically, it reminded Vegeta of the old Piccolo, the delightfully droll giant who had silently become so important to him. He smiled and inhaled the scent of sap and heat, wallowing in the secrecy of the damp, green canopy above.

“I expected you to resist”

Piccolo smirked and heaved himself onto the bank, to sit next to Vegeta. The Saiyan closed his eyes, smiling at being teased. He knew not to get too excited; it was not as if the Namek was suddenly better and back to his old self, but it was a pretty good imitation of it. He was almost convinced.

“So did I”

Long legs swung to straddle Vegeta, shoving him down onto the muddy bank roughly. The Saiyan couldn’t help but start to really enjoy the attention of the still warm thighs gripping his own. He looked up at the strapping younger man, his broad shoulders still contrasting a little too much with his narrow waist, but still strong. Vegeta’s hands went to the grooves of his pelvis, unable to resist as he was quickly divulged of his jumper, shirt, and his pants were undone and shoved down to sit unceremoniously at his knees. Piccolo’s hands splayed on the Saiyan’s stomach, fingering the muscles and raking his chest, still intrigued by the nipples and curly hair surrounding them. He followed it down with a finger, all through the dips of his sternum, and down to where it darkened. Vegeta was growing hard too quickly and a part of his mind that he usually ignored, kept bleating.

“Your therapist is not going to like this”

Piccolo smirked liked a predator. Vegeta hadn’t been this wary of the Demon since they were young.

“Yeah, well, I think I’ve conceded enough”

He could feel Vegeta start to grow hard underneath him and he wriggled a little, pressing down. The Saiyan grunted, obviously trying to contain his arousal and the urge to throw Piccolo into the water and drive into him. As soon as the thought occurred, it gained purchase. The Namek leaned down to capture Vegeta’s lips, he had taken to kissing more than the Saiyan had expected, insisting on it at every encounter. He had a thought of Nameks and mouths and eggs and wondered, but his mind went deliciously blank until-

“Did they send you here”

Vegeta opened his eyes, a little annoyed. Piccolo was so sneaky, he had forgotten. In defiance, he swiftly grabbed the other man’s hips, lifted them and plunged the Namek down on his erection. Piccolo had been wet enough to welcome it but still roared in pain and surprise at the intrusion, before moaning as he adjusted himself.

“They suggested I spend time with you,” Vegeta answered unfazed.

Piccolo felt his body start to rock, relishing the sensation of Vegeta’s length filling hi even though he wanted to needle the man for information. His own cock had started to throb, and he ached to do something with it.

“Why?”

The Saiyan exhaled in a temper, of all the times the usually silent warrior wanted to talk. Then he chastised himself for the thought, because at least he was talking. Sometimes the tall warrior was so like his late wife, using sex like a credit card to get what she wanted.

“We have developed a bond apparently, and…maybe they want it to override the other one”

Vegeta’s words were strained as he bucked up into the lithe creature, delighting in his slick heat, and watching as his cheeks flushed. The need to dominate him, hurt him, made him dig his paws into the Namek’s hips harder and Piccolo leaned down, to nibble his neck, but Vegeta heard his own words in over and over retrospect, and furrowed his dark brows. He moved a hand to the back of the emerald skull and for some reason, Piccolo felt it wasn’t friendly. He froze in place, although if he were being honest, he kind of liked it.

“Piccolo, tell me that other bond isn’t the one you have with Kakarot’s spawn”

The old, venomous term made Piccolo wince. Not the direction he wanted; he didn’t answer and it was clear he didn’t need to.

“Is it sexual?”

The Namek sat up, ignoring Vegeta’s attempt to intimidate him.

“Of course not”

Vegeta’s erection started to wilt and he felt even more angry with Gohan, as if it were possible. He wondered if the younger Saiyan might be equally furious with him. There might even be a decent fight in it.

“Are you sure?”

Piccolo frowned; he was growing tired of this conversation. His playfulness had eroded and now he just wished he had drowned in the Kami forsaken lake.

“It’s platonic”

Vegeta was talking then, logically pulling things together like Bulma had tried so hard to teach him to do. His wrinkles were working overtime.

“Maybe it changed? Or it’s not supposed to be”

Piccolo was snarling now, although inside he was cooling down, going back inside that protective sheet of disinterest.

“It’s not supposed to be what?”

“Platonic”

Piccolo shoved himself backwards back into the water, tired and irritated. He didn’t really care whatever it was that Vegeta thought he had worked out. Who the fuck cared anyway? I’ll be dead soon.

The thought must have been loud, filtering across their newly formed connection, because Vegeta flew to sit up and stare at the now checked out Namek who had submerged himself in the pool. He had heard it, and it had hurt. He looked down at his ridiculous state of dress and kicked his jeans off, and they sank undramatically into the water. Slowly, he dipped himself in and made his way towards his lover, if he was his lover. It seemed in question now. Truthfully, he was a little tired of this. Selfishly, he wanted Piccolo to love him and to be loved and to stop this. To get better now, not later. He pushed it aside, hearing Bulma’s ever present, ever derisive voice. It’s not about you, Vegeta.

His burly arms circled the other man, trying hard to be a comforting presence and not a jealous, pissed off mess. An urge to let the conversation die and move on kept bobbing there, just ahead, but the destructive pull of needing to know dragged him back. It always did, he always had to fucking know.

“You still want to die”

It wasn’t a question, but he felt Piccolo swallow and pull back from the embrace. His eyes were big and dark and already dead. Vegeta felt an unreasonable anger, like he wasn’t enough for him, might never be. His massive ego was being chipped at and he hated it; Piccolo must have seen it because he did answer, and to the Namek’s own surprise, he was telling the truth.

“But I want to want to live”

Piccolo’s words cracked a little, in that low, almost imperceptible way. His voice was so gravelly, even more than his own.

“That’s the best thing I’ve heard you say in a long time”

W.

Chapter Text

Gohan struggled over the coming months as his bond with Piccolo slowly diminished. Every day it felt a little bit more distant, like a dream he couldn’t quite grasp, but certain things would make the feeling of it crash into his consciousness. Then a moment later he couldn’t remember the tangible cushion of it, once so comforting and constant. Like pouring tea, the herbal infusion snaked up and around him, just like Piccolo’s presence had. The Kazin had visited a lot, guiding him through the detachment, then the isolation. He hadn’t known that he’d been so alone, not really, and he absently tapped the wedding ring hanging from its chain around his neck. As selfish as it was, he wished Videl was around to help him through it. She understood his relationship with Piccolo more than anyone else, had lived with it gracefully enough. Her warm arms would circle him from behind and she’d whisper in his ear, tell him he wasn’t alone. He could almost feel the heat of her ghostly limbs and he closed his eyes.

Piccolo landing outside for their spar came as a surprise, not because he wasn’t expected, but because he’d forgotten that he’d have to actively sense him now. He said a childish goodbye to his brewing tea and made his way outside. The Namek was dressed in his cape and turban, having put on enough to be almost back to his fighting weight. That solemn shroud was still there, looping around him and unwilling to let go, but he looked better. Gohan smiled sweetly, still as happy to see him as he’d ever been. The scent of Vegeta burned in his nostrils, turning his stomach, even as he opened his arms to embrace the taller man. Piccolo returned the gesture awkwardly, somehow still unable to comfortably manage that simple action. He felt strong and warm, just like always.

“You ready kid?”

Gohan laughed at the word, he wondered how boyish he looked these days with his greying hair and wrinkling eyes. With his grief following him around, clouding his natural charisma, replacing it with single malt. His students thought he had a drinking problem; he wasn’t entirely sure they were wrong.  

“As ready as I’ll ever be, you know I haven’t been training”

“Yes, I am constantly aware of that fact”

Piccolo’s predictable comment made Gohan laugh all over again and he quickly divulged himself of his jumper. It was warm out anyway, and they flew for a few minutes to a clearing on the forest’s East side. The clear day was making way for a darker evening, and this deep in the forest, the bright sun cast long shadows. It reminded Gohan of the movies Pan used to sneak downstairs to watch when she was a teenager, convinced her father had no idea. Piccolo wasted no time removing his cape and turban, begrudgingly aware that whilst he was physically improved, his movements hadn’t been fine-tuned in a while. Meditating had been a ball ache, or what he imagined a ball ache to be like. He’d kicked enough of them in his life.

Gohan barely had time to raise his arms before the Namek surged towards him, and he was rewarded for his poor guard with a solid smack to the chin. As he spat and turned, Piccolo moved back, just enough that his legs could reach Gohan but the Saiyan’s fists couldn’t reach him. It consistently drove Vegeta mad and typically enough, it made Gohan irritated too. He kept defending kicks and falling short of a hit, Piccolo snarled in delight, perversely enjoying putting the younger man on the back foot. It was odd to Gohan, to have Piccolo so close yet hardly feel him, and he channelled his unwanted grief into a headbut. It did the trick, sending Piccolo crashing through one of the tall Redwoods. He immediately felt bad about damaging the ancient tree but couldn’t help but smirk when Piccolo flew angrily towards him. He jumped back at the last minute, forcing the Namek to commit to his attack too soon, and rammed his knee up into Piccolo’s stomach. There was a sharp sound and Gohan winced in sympathy, now realising that he might have come on a little strong. Piccolo coughed up blood and it looked gnarly against the still pristine white of his fangs.

Gohan smiled darkly, his eyes already looking black in the low light of the summer’s evening. It reminded Piccolo of Goku, all those years ago, when they’d fought at the tournament. That same lust for the fight did sit somewhere inside Gohan’s bones, after all. The demi-Saiyan felt a quiet rage at the scent still filling the air and the unspoken but well-known fact that Piccolo had chosen Vegeta. Had shacked up with the bastard. His heart yearned for it to be different, for Piccolo to want him more. Even as he drove his fists into the other man’s chest, into his face, bruising that jade skin violet. Even as he used too much force and sent Piccolo flying into the dirt. The Namek lay there for a moment, spitting crumbs of dry soil from his lips before standing slowly, obviously injured. He didn’t look mad so much as impressed and Gohan felt an unpleasant sort of hope at it. His boyish heart pointlessly waiting for something more. They exchanged more hard blows, each one more unnecessarily violent than the last. The sun had disappeared from the sky now, but it still cast its orange soul all over the forest. Gohan looked at Piccolo in sepia, lost in his ageless face.

Piccolo took advantage of Gohan’s wandering attention and kicked his legs from under him. He landed in the dirt ungracefully, but his conflicted face didn’t give him much hope of an easy win. The demi-Saiyan vanished and re-appeared behind him, Piccolo couldn’t see but he could imagine it when the feeling of Gohan’s boot drove into his spine. Excruciating pain lit up his senses before he spiralled headfirst into another tree, this one stout enough to withstand him. He slid down to its base, his knees bleeding where his gi had given up. Gohan was upon him again, without kindness, laying one fist down after another. It occurred to Piccolo that he was being beaten up, more than sparred with, but underneath the pain he understood. He caught one of Gohan’s fists in his hand, making the demi-Saiyan pause, and fired an energy blast from his mouth at close range. It was sort of a dick move, but he didn’t mind when Gohan was ripped from his position and ended up somewhere in the forest beyond the meadow.

Training with Vegeta recently had paid off, although it had resulted in some heated arguments. However underhanded the smaller Saiyan could be in battle, he more than made up for it with his gentle conversation and fondness for cooking. He was surprisingly domestic in his old age, speaking constantly of family and how he’d regretted not pursuing him sooner. Piccolo agreed, although he never voiced it. He’d held a fondness for Vegeta close to his heart from long before Bulma had died, and although it was useless to ponder on it now, he often wondered. About the lost years of sitting by the fire, Vegeta reading the trashy novels he’d developed a taste for, Piccolo sketching beautiful wildflowers. The children they could have had. It was simultaneously bitter and lovely, because for all they missed out on, they could have so easily had nothing at all. If Vegeta hadn’t dove into the ocean, if Gohan hadn’t dug him out of the snow, he’d be fantasising about those things from his throne in hell, if he was lucky.

The forest sputtered quietly, and Piccolo could hear Gohan seething somewhere in the distance, probably judging him for his use of chi when they’d agreed not to. He smirked, feeling a lot like Eighteen. She’d be laughing her little mechanical heart out. She’d gone back to Kame House and back to her life, he’d heard Vegeta on the phone to her discussing the minutia enough times. Piccolo struggled when he heard the familiar lift of the Saiyan’s voice, laughing because he cared about her. How much? He dare not ask. There was a fragility to their relationship that he didn’t understand, its complexity lay somewhere beyond his simple comprehension. Piccolo felt bared and obvious, whereas Vegeta was all stretching greys.

The sky had started to reveal a few stars in the beautiful teal above, and he found himself looking up at it whilst he rested for a moment. The eerie silence didn’t last long, and Gohan came flying back with unadulterated fury; Piccolo caught himself wondering if the Saiyan might accidentally kill him this time. It didn’t worry him, or frighten him, but it didn’t fill him with glee either. Vegeta would be quietly saddened, turning those stern dark eyes away from him in despair. Piccolo wondered if he was destined to fill the hearts of Saiyans with disappointment, he’d been doing a pretty good job of it his whole life. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t made properly, he’d been born of rage, raised by wolves and died more times than he’d ever been in love. A part of him still wanted to check out of this fight, out of this life, out of all the sour memories and all the inevitable deaths coming his way. He didn’t want to find that Gohan’s heart had finally given up, after it had been denied this one last opportunity for love, silently decaying in that tiny house surrounded by unmarked papers. Vegeta might last a little longer, but not long enough.

He felt so ungrateful because he’d had nothing but help and kindness, so much so that he had felt better. To the untrained eye, he might even be fixed. The Kazin might know otherwise, but even the galaxy’s counsellor had limits to their unique ability. Gohan returned with a fist of might and lead weight bones, and Piccolo took it. Every punch and kick was rewarded, in kind, with blood; the purple liquid coated the other man’s hands and Piccolo laughed at the visceral quality of it. Not because he liked to be beaten, but because he could feel it. The humiliation did the trick and he powered up, making Gohan take several stumbling steps back. The dry earth started to lift with its dried leaves and stones, and he was soon met with the aqua eyes of a seriously pissed off Super Saiyan. The swirling air made the little ring Gohan wore glint as it fluttered around his neck, as if Videl was right there with him. He fancied he could see her, with her short dark hair and fists raised, standing next to the man who deserved so much more. Maybe she did hate him from her vantage point in the afterlife, tripping him up with her silent spirit. Maybe she was giving him the finger.

Piccolo hoped she was.

W.