Note: Read the warning carefully. They exist to forewarn you to stay out of material you can't handle. If you have a problem with any of the themes addressed and still proceed to read only to bitch about it later, then thank you, I will be greatly flattered by your attention. This is somewhat raw, and will be beta read again later.

Warnings: Ideologically sensitive themes. Switching POVs. Hints of Being Under the Influence. Canon Overhaul. Everything post canonverse Cell Saga does not exist! Bestiality (sorta, but not quite, since both participants aren't human to begin with). Gothic Erotic. R*pe/Non-con/Dub-con. Piccolo-uke. NSFW!

Disclaimer: Dragon Ball/Z/GT/Super belong to their respective owners. Dragon Ball Retro however is my derivative brainchild, created for my personal pleasure & sublimation. I own nothing except this derivative fanwork which I do not profit from.

Story #40:

"Don't Smell The Rozealeas"
(A prelude to "The Mirare Obscura")

Slowly he got to his knees and cautiously began to swipe at the overhanging vines, and protruding branches and obstructing leaves, to reveal what appeared to be… a life-size antiquated mirror. The constant rain and brackish water that occasionally flooded the ditch had mucked up its surface, so he rubbed at a section, revealing deep-brown eyes peering back at him with otherworldly clarity...

And for some inexplicable reason, he could not tear himself from its stare.

My mother once told me a curious story that originated from some forgotten civilization. It was about a man and a woman that were born into a paradise filled with everything they ever needed. They were allowed to partake of anything the said paradise had to offer- all except one: an apple tree. And of all the things that were theirs to enjoy, they were still tempted by those shiny red apples that were forbidden to them. When they took a bite of the fruit from it, they lost everything and were banished from that paradise forever.

The moral lesson, according to her, was that one should never be greedy and want more than what one already has. That there was a reason she forbade me to do certain things, and it was always for my own good; because she didn't want me to be "banished from paradise" so to speak.

I know the parable was meant to scare me into obedience then, but what she didn't know was that it left many unanswered questions in my head, that had quite the opposite of the effect she had intended. Why pointlessly tempt the man and woman by putting a forbidden tree right smack in the middle of everything that was all theirs to begin with? What was so bad about eating an apple that one has to be banished from a place they never asked to be born in? What if they didn't want all of those things in the first place? Just that one apple?

They were all just meaningless wonderings of a child back then, floating in the back of my mind and eventually buried underneath all the algebra, physics, and geography; and other scholarly things Mother considered more important that she always reminded me to worry about. And until recently, they had stayed fairly innocuous dregs of thought that only occasionally resurfaced when I let my mind be free if even for a little bit, to roam where it wanted to.

Not oddly, those aimless thoughts would often constantly gravitate towards Piccolo-san. He was the only one being on the planet right now who has never made me feel like I was trapped in a space I didn't fit into, and didn't want to be. In so many ways he was stricter and more intense than my mother; but interestingly, he was also so much gentler and indulgent with me in everything else that didn't involve the fate of the Earth in peril.

It wasn't exactly rocket science for me to figure out that the "forbidden apple tree" my mother so circuitously alluded to, was him. The one thing I shouldn't want in the midst of everything that she had so generously provided. That to want to be with him, and even love him the way I did –which often overshadowed my love for everyone else, including her and my father- was a mortal sin. Though she never phrased it like that, I knew that was pretty much what she was trying to get across, in a nutshell. She never really warned me against anything else. Only, at that time, I never really understood why she perceived Piccolo-san as such a significant threat; what was it she feared that he would do, when in fact no one else looked after my welfare best and made me feel safer. A few months away from turning twelve, I discovered what that apple tree truly represented in the original story. Then I began to realize what she was truly afraid of:

That I would become aware of what paradise truly was.

My mother always referred to Piccolo-san as a "monster" and "kidnapper", and a few other choice words too complex for a five year old, even if I was exceptionally smart. I did my best to try and understand the rationale behind her words. Still, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't find any- except irrational fear. One day, I finally snapped and explained that Piccolo-san never coerced me into anything, and that he only did what he had to do to save the planet. Whatever I went through thereafter was something I happened to choose out of my own free will, because he graciously allowed me to. This would incense her further, until I mildly reminded her that name-calling, regardless of reason, was a rude, ignorant, and uncivilized habit; and that usually put an end to her tirade. Usually.

It was wrong to discriminate; Father never did it (well, not intentionally, at least; and certainly never maliciously). All her intended implications of the word "monster" -which in this case meant 'someone cruel, wicked and inhuman'- by no means did my best friend justice. Of course, her objections to my using the word 'friend' on him were never-ending as well. To call him my 'mentor' or 'guardian' was atrociously unheard of enough, much more to refer to him as a 'best friend'.

"Little human boys should be friends with little human children who are like them. Not fearsome looking aliens who killed their father and abducted them! That just isn't normal, Gohan-chan! Surely someone of your intelligence understands that!"

It was usually at that point that I could no longer stand my mother's shallow-minded bigotry and prejudice; not to mention her deliberate misconstruing of the word "intelligence" in her favour. I've done my part in explaining the circumstances that revolved around us then (why Piccolo-san did what he did, and how so much more can be said about his integrity then, than what my own father did when he didn't give me a choice in fighting Cell). But if practical reasoning does not rid a person of their biases, then it is not worth time and effort because it is a lost cause.

So I politely excuse myself from the table, saying I had much studying to do in my room. She would be indignant at my obvious escape, but the fact that it was her who had provided me the perfect excuse to be spared from those exhausting arguments was something she couldn't counter; knowing it would only backfire on her. She would let me leave without a word, but I knew (and felt) that she was seething on the inside.

My mother always wanted me to be special; a cut above the rest. The best of the best. Yet she failed to take into consideration that being special came with many complications. Special or exceptional individuals throughout history never fit in or settled for normalcy. They never lived "normal" lives. But it was hardly ever their choice to make. Wanting someone to be 'special' and 'to fit in' at the same time is the worst misnomer for a goal. Those two things just contradict each other in every possible way. One is either normal, or isn't. If she wanted a child who excelled at being normal however, choosing to marry someone like my father sort of killed that dream more than twice over. Somehow, my mother was like the creator in that story, who wanted others to have her idea of paradise. when actually paradise is different for everyone. And despite not knowing any better then, I have always known that I didn't want anything else.

I just wanted apples, from that one tree.

People usually aren't aware of it, but they like to play god; always wanting the world to conform to their preferences. My mother always wanted to feed others her idea of perfection. She did it to my father and me. Of course, it only got worse for me when my father decided that he didn't want to come back to the land of the living (I honestly couldn't blame him). My mother never made any effort to hide her bitterness concerning the matter in the weeks that followed. Her argumentative moods occurred more frequently and grew even more irrational. I was convinced that she was taking it out on me and Piccolo-san that my father left us, for lack of other outlets to bounce her stress off of. That's how I ended up in the woods most times. I convinced myself that I was doing her a favour, because without anyone to yell at or bicker with, she simply wouldn't.

-x-

"GOHAN-CHA!"

It was two days ago… I was studying in my room, quietly becoming drawn into a solution forming on the lines and planes of a geometry problem when her voice tore the peaceful afternoon's silence. Several birds that had been basking in the sunbeams by my windowsill were startled into flight. I both felt for and envied them. My mother's jarring bellows often made my soul want to break out of my skin and fly away too -if only it were possible. Trying my best not to feel loathe for my mother as much as I did for her voice, I calmly and audibly acknowledged her, pushing myself off my chair, and proceeding to where she was standing in the kitchen, an arm akimbo and a glower already in place.

As the frequency and intensity of her tempestuous fits increased day by day, so did my dread of her. I knew she already had a habit of nagging me endlessly about my studies; but since my father died, she seemed to have made it her personal goal in life to always find something to shout at me about. That day, she looked exceptionally livid. I had no idea what I had done, and I did my best to stop my lips from quivering in imaginary guilt.

"Yes, Mother?"

Though she uttered not a single word, her actions deafened me. She testily straightened a crumpled piece of paper that was badly burnt at the edges, and slammed it down upon the table with an unnerving bang. I cautiously leaned forward to peer at it, trying to comprehend…

"That is a page from your sketchpad, I'm sure you recognize it." Though she wasn't shouting, every word was dripping with acid. "I managed to procure that as evidence, before I threw the whole wretched thing into the fire." And right on cue I became aware of a blaze in the hearth, licking away at what indeed resembled something that used to be my sketchbook. I froze as my mind finally took in the sketch on the badly rumpled page.

Piccolo-san.

And a strangled cry escaped my throat before I could stop it…

A normal child's reaction would have most probably been to cower in guilt and apologize for sketching his best friend who happened to have the appearance of what many considered a fearsome demon. Especially incriminating because this particular 'fearsome demon' had once killed my father, kidnapped me, and kept me in isolation for almost a year. But then, I suppose those were one of the times it became painfully apparent to my mother and myself (in hindsight), how I was anything but normal. Because instead of apologizing or even attempting to deny it altogether, I scoop up the sketch and hold it protectively to my chest. Not even caring of the consequences I was incurring, I dived for what remained of my unfortunate sketchbook, all the while tears had sprung to my eyes and unbidden words of accusation, anger, and despair were pouring from my lips. I was aggrieved, as I tried to save my precious sketches- the only piece I had left of my dear friend whom I had not seen for almost a year and missed terribly; even more so in times like this when my father was absent and my mother was acting in her worst impression of a mother any child could care to do without.

Back when I made those sketches, I had considered Piccolo-san my best friend and dearest master. I could not and never did see him as a father, and was a great deal too relieved to know of his true age which was only a few years ahead of mine. I guiltily rejoiced in the fact that my intuitions had served me right when I saw him as a friend more than a father figure. Even if he was constantly protecting me and guiding me as any real father should where my own father always came up short, he always also played out the part of that perfect friend and most comforting companion in my mind. He was wise beyond his time, but also naïve and so unbelievably innocent, that it wasn't always me who was the student as many probably think. He made me feel and experience things that I did not with my own father, or with any other person for that matter.

I feel a powerful yank at the object I had salvaged from the fire and a shove that sent me sprawling backward and away from it again. My mother had not screamed nor yelled, or said a word, but this did not make me feel less terror. Quite the opposite in fact. My mother's silence and refusal to release her rage verbally was never a good sign. This only meant she was beyond angry. Her actions were proving as much, as she tossed the object back into the flames and turned on my snivelling form, and glared at me with venomous eyes.

For an eleven year old, I was considerably tall, filled with muscle and far stronger than any adult could ever be, but the fact that my mother was able to shove me into the far wall with one hand was not boding well. Her former martial arts disciplined body –though no longer in practice- was now thrumming with adrenaline and poised to attack.

"You…"

I can't say I blame her for reacting this way. The drawings I had made on that sketchbook were the kind that were meant for my eyes and pleasure alone. I realized that I must have left it in the woods during one of my wanderings when I dozed off, and I cursed my carelessness. But I was not feeling very alert and at my best the past weeks after Cell. Truth be told, I was even mildly suicidal. And it was all because of feelings that had begun to grow in me since then. I have tried to define these "feelings" as accurately and precisely as possible but without progress. However, I can describe it in an abstract manner: It feels as though there is another person growing inside me, a person who seems to know me better and is tired of being pushed down.

"You-!" my mother seethed again, spittle flying and teeth gnashing. She looked like a deranged wild animal. (In all honesty, she looked far more horrific, or maybe it was the fear.)

Grabbing me by the collar, she slammed me into the wall and shrieked several times before I managed to gather enough sense to realize they weren't just mindless noises but words. Mostly insults aimed at Piccolo-san. Insults that he didn't deserve. I wanted to defend him but knew by now that it would be a waste of effort on both our parts. My father's death made my mother deaf to anyone else's voice, and certainly anything to do with green men who she had made up her mind a long time ago were nothing but evil demons who corrupted children's minds, and her opinion on the matter was not going to be swayed. And thanks to my stupid slip-up, it wasn't looking like it was going to get any better. Ever.

I no longer cared if she was still screaming at my face. I let her. Instead, I had been focusing my Ki on snuffing out the flames that were eating away at my sketches. I knew it was impertinent of me to persist on disobeying her that way. But I was stubborn too when I wanted to be. My mother had no right to destroy my property just because she didn't like it. Those sketches were the only selfish thing I allowed myself to have. Piccolo-san was the only person I was left with who didn't treat me like I needed to be or do something else other than what I was, just to be loved and accepted. And I had always known this, which is perhaps why I loved him most of all. Because he was really the one who truly loved me first. Not for being a fighter, or a scholar, but for simply being me.

At this point my mother had noticed my lack of reaction, and realized one of two things I hoped she wouldn't. In this case, it was my tightly fisted hand struggling to remain behind my back as she held me up against the wall by my neck. She wasted no time in wrenching my arm forward and trying to pry the crumpled page from my hand. I cried out when her nails dug into my fingers, but still I didn't relent. I pulled my wrist from her grasp and brought both hands to my chest, curling into myself and shielding the balled up page from her. She released me and stepped back; her face pale and shocked.

"What did you say?"

I coughed and heaved breathless for some moments; my cheeks were soaked and my throat painfully dry. I had been shouting, but only vaguely aware that I had let some words slip out with it.

"What. Did. You. Say." she repeated, hand rising up and poised to slap.

"I…" I panted, without loosening my hands against my chest, struggling hard to remember what I had said. "I… I'm sorry, Mother…"

-x-

I love Piccolo-san.

I said it to him all the time. And he would always simply grunt or say nothing. But in his face, even though it remained passive in meditation, I would always find a hint of that shy, secret smile; and somehow I knew that meant he loved me too. I was never ashamed of it. Every time my father heard me saying it, he would only laugh and ruffle my hair; while patting a grumbling, blushing Piccolo-san in the back afterwards. Then he would lean in and whisper to me reassuringly that he was sure Piccolo-san loved me back too and was just too shy to say it out loud. Father always believed in Piccolo-san the way I did, and never doubted once that he was good.

The first time I told my mother that I loved Piccolo-san, she acted like she didn't hear it. Back then I guess she thought that I didn't know what I was saying. That's what she usually did when she thought that; she pretended not to hear. It was those times that I really missed Father. He was the only one who trusted me as much as Piccolo-san did. They would argue about it often, though they tried very hard to hide it from me. Mother, furious as always, demanding that Father curb my impulses to do with Piccolo-san. That it was bad enough when he tolerated my "kidnapping", and now he even encouraged my saying such shameful, indecent things. I truly didn't understand her anger. Since when was it shameful and indecent to love someone with all your heart?

I guess that was the first real sign that I wasn't normal.

Piccolo-san was my first and only real friend. What was so wrong about loving him? I liked everything about him from the start. His voice; the most soothing sound I've ever heard, even when he was yelling at me. His eyes; they're always sharp and yet innocent. Other people's eyes were always wary, and held a certain amount of suspicion. Piccolo-san's eyes are always open and honest, even when he is guarded. They say the eyes are the window to one's soul, and it's true. If one simply looked, one could read him like a book from his eyes. It's all there. And his smell, it was always sweet and comforting, like the air in a forest after a purging rain. It was the first thing that drew me to him; told me that he was someone I could trust despite our early circumstances. And I wasn't proven wrong. Every little nuance of his thrilled me: The way his pointy ears or quaint little nose would twitch when he felt mildly irked or piqued; How soft and shy he really was when he wasn't battling; How attentive he is to me and my needs, even if he tries his utmost not to show it. Piccolo-san always made me feel safe and loved, without a single word escaping his lips. Even without doing a single thing; just by existing. So why…?

Why was it so wrong to love him?

But… it really wasn't, wasn't it?

Jealousy is a concept I did not understand at first, but one that Mother unintentionally introduced to me herself. She was jealous of Piccolo-san, and couldn't accept the fact that I loved someone more than her. And just when she thought that it was nothing but a harmless little fondness that couldn't get any worse; it did. And I welcomed it; allowed it to consume me.

The apple that was forbidden to me tasted the sweetest of all.

-x-

I'm sorry, Mother.

"...F-for not being the perfect… normal son that you wanted."

She stood there, looking half crazed and half stricken; I couldn't tell if the tears on her face were from hurt or from anger, but I really didn't care anymore. I ran past her, grabbing what was left of my sketchbook, and I fled out the door, into the woods- my sanctuary for the past horrendous weeks. A place where I could be free.

If my mother had any doubts before about the unusual workings of my mind, then it had all been laid to rest by the "evidence" she had found. Evidence that I refused to let her burn at the expense of our rocky relationship. Perfectly clear expressions of what kind of love I meant when I said I loved him. A kind of love that she considered wrong and shameful.

I hugged my burnt sketches to my chest as I ran as fast and as far away from her as I could; not even once stopping to look back.

-x-

Gohan.

My eyes snapped open, and a smeared canvas of colour and shape slowly come into focus. Dipping tree canopies, overgrown roots and protruding underbrush; causing warm light to filter and scintillate through its ever-shifting patterns from my somewhat sunken, decumbent position. So, I was still in the forest then…? Had I been knocked out?

I made it a point to always stay in different spots in the woods whenever I wanted to get away. My mother never quite learned to sense Ki well enough to track down a person, but she always had a way of knowing things –a scary kind of power that mothers possessed, so I played it safe and kept one step ahead. It got to a point where I had roamed every inch of land, and had incidentally familiarized myself with the entirety of Mount Paozu's forests…

So as I found myself in a patch of woodland that I was sure I had never seen or set foot in before even after months of repeated explorations, I was thrilled despite the painful way upon which I had literally stumbled into it. I shakily sat up, dusting myself of dried leaves and dirt. Still quite dazed by the fall, I assess my surroundings and realize that I had fallen into a ditch, or a shallow pit of some sort- lined with thick layers of moss, moist soil, and monstrously huge wildflowers swaying fervently courtesy of a strong updraft of undetectable origin.

I tried to get up and winced when I realized that I had twisted my ankle. Pain shot through me –so intense- that I didn't even feel it when I crashed back down against the ground; my limbs paralyzed instantly from the jolts of pain still coursing through me. I took deep, slow breaths to calm my nerves; forced myself to look up at the clear sky through the untamed leaves and branches. It worked somehow, the pain was finally ebbing away into a dull throbbing in my foot. It wasn't a mortal injury; nothing a little rest couldn't fix. It must have got caught in one of the protruding vines at the edge of the embankment as I fell down and pitched forward.

After some more steady breaths, I allowed my head to loll to one side. I saw my drawings of Piccolo-san strewn all over and being nudged teasingly by the wind. I reached for the nearest one, wanting to grab the scattering pages, afraid of losing them again, but my body wouldn't obey my will.

I think I must have hit my head pretty bad too by how woozy I felt, but it was hard to tell because a pleasant numbness was washing over me, accompanied by a strange shortness of breath. The edges of my vision began to darken and burn, like the scorched edges of my sketchbook. And once again, my mind raced in panic. Which quickly turned into fear; pure, instinctual fear. I hated it. I hated feeling so helpless. But I knew it was foolish to think I wasn't predisposed to it. Everyone was bound to experience it at numerous points in their life- in varying intensities. And anyone who has, would know how exasperating and vexing it could be.

All the times I've ever felt helpless and desperate, someone always came to rescue me. Always. And most times, it was him. The only time he didn't save me was when he was dead. I closed my eyes realizing that the thought of him not coming now was what really scared me the most. Even more than all the possible imminent dangers.

I could have chosen to run to him instead of wandering aimlessly in the woods. I knew he would be waiting. And yet, I did not… Why is that? I knew I had a very good reason… Or at least, it seemed good enough a moment ago when I knew what it was…

Why was it suddenly so hard to remember?

-x-

Piccolo-san, can I still come by to see you after this?

Of course.

-x-

Piccolo-san…

Will you, will you promise me…

That you won't choose to leave me too?

Like Father did…

Gohan.

I hugged him fiercely. Everyone else wasn't listening; wasn't looking. I allowed one or two tears to break free as I smothered my face firmly into his obi. No one saw how my fingers clawed and clamped tightly around him; or how fiercely I held on. His heavy cape had lifted with a sudden forceful breeze, enveloping us; and I was grateful for the camouflage that allowed me to indulge in my small selfishness, even if just for a precious few moments more. I was so afraid that I would lose Piccolo-san too. And somehow, the idea of losing him forever was the most terrifying thing I had ever been made to imagine.

I love you, Piccolo-san. Please… promise me!

I promise, Gohan.

Only when one is made to imagine a world without something, will one discover just how much one needs it. When one tries to picture how it would feel like to smile, laugh, and cry without it, but suddenly finds oneself lost as to what it feels like and why those things were so important… Because without that one thing in the equation, nothing makes sense anymore.

And that is how I realized then, during those priceless few moments… that he was that one thing that gave my existence meaning and colour… I won't lie. It scared, shocked, and overwhelmed the hell out of me all at the same time. So much so, that I needed to put space between us, and much time, for my entirety to process the new information, and attempt to instil coherence in the midst of the emotional chaos. But the need to be far away from him served only to solidify the knowledge all the more…

Because every time I so much as try to imagine a life without Piccolo-san,

I die a little.

End of the first half.
Continued in the second half...

Note:

Sorry lovelies, the explicit non-con scene (yes, it is only a small scene, but a quite juicy one if I say so myself) is in the 2nd part. Expect the update either Friday night or Saturday morning Japan Time. (^ ^)v For now, schoolwork beckons... As always, thanks for reading & leaving some love (or hate? Haha)!

But if this isn't received well here, I won't post the continuation on FFnet. Cheers, lovelies!