Chapter 1

Only More Memories

AN: This is one of my old stories but I have been surging with inspiration and want to finish it. Hope you enjoy.

Piccolo could remember the first time—how it all happened. It started behind a curtain of flowing water. He'd been deep in the moment, unable to subdue the desire pulsing through him. It wasn't supposed to happen that way. He'd only wanted to talk but an unspeakable impulse prompt something else. Before he could destroy the strange feeling, it was already too late. His mouth devoured the lips of his mutual ally. Then, suddenly, a hand was pressed against his shoulder. The slight gesture implied to him a mixture of shock and confusion—but there was not enough of both to insist he back away.

So, he continued to kiss. In went his tongue into the sensual, warm mouth. The hand on his shoulder crept to the back of his neck. Fingers gripped the thick muscle and just as his mouth opened wider, the trembling hand forced him forward. It was an invitation in which he quickly accepted. Not long after, an echo of moans rebounded through the watery oasis—this being an even greater indication there was no need to stop.

Soon, the kissing provoked a tussle of turns and shoves that would properly decide who'd be the one to lead. He remembered twisting his ally backwards towards the slab of rock surrounding them. And in seconds, bare skin and wet stone collided—signaling a leader had finally emerged. The reward for winning—of course, was a pair of strong eyes staring up at his features, exploring—in a sense, the structure of his face. The startled but fascinated stare from his ally caused him to slow his kiss to soft, drawn-out pecks.

"Piccolo, are you okay?"

The memory looping in his mind dissolved quickly. A flood of sunlight drowned his eyes causing him to blink. For added measure, birds chirping in the distance further alerted him to the reality of the moment. He'd been daydreaming again. At least three times a day, his mind would wander off to some situation in the past. Previously, there'd always been a sense of alertness. A serious calm described his personality very well. He'd given himself the title anyway, knowing straightly there was rarely a time he would portray an overzealous nature—especially not in the form of joy or laughter. It seemed fighting was the only thing to surface his emotions—well, maybe not anymore.

There was now something else that appeared capable of causing uproar inside of him.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Gohan," this reply, however, didn't deter his companion's concern.

"You seem out of it. Are you sure? I mean, if something is wrong—"

"Nothing is wrong," he insisted with a grumble, "I should ask you the same question. What has gotten into you that you feel the need to ask me things like this?"

Gohan looked off into the distance. A pink hue decorated his cheeks. "You know, I care about you, Piccolo. You're my mentor and…"

"I haven't been your mentor in years," the remark was stern, "Besides, you have your father now. Goku isn't going anywhere, anytime soon."

"I know but my dad likes fighting with Vegeta. Not so much me, anymore."

Piccolo shifted on his feet. The young man's statement concluded what he'd always known: Gohan's presence in his life was profound. The saiyan needed him—had always needed him. Maturity had strengthened Gohan, it had even enlightened the half-breed, but Piccolo could still sense the little Gohan buried deep inside the man standing an arm's length away. Another conclusion dawned on him: the young man wasn't afraid to express his feelings. The distinctive trait seemed inherent. Goku, in particular, managed to constantly say exactly what he felt without much regard for immediate consequences and in turn, Gohan had easily picked up this habit from his father. Say whatever comes to mind—that was the motto.

Strangely, after so many years of knowing the Son family, Piccolo never caught on to the trend. Picking words carefully was his strong point. With much consideration, he'd frequently articulated what he wanted to say, which often times ensured a favorable outcome—not always but at least sometimes. And just like any other time in his life, Piccolo would think before saying another word.

"It doesn't matter who he likes fighting with. You're his son. You will always matter."

A nervous hand slid through black locks. For a second, Gohan paused, keeping his palm stuck between the strains. Something dawned on him. Suddenly, he resumed the full stroke and eventually rested his hand at his side.

"Maybe you're right," his voice seemed confident again.

"I am right," Piccolo corrected with a sly smirk.

Gohan peered over to stare at his friend. He smiled slightly. It was a weak, half smile—nothing like the normal Son smile Piccolo was used to.

"But Vegeta…I just—I can't compete. He's way stronger than me and I know it. I think dad knows it, too. I just feel like my dad doesn't need me anymore. But like you said, I'm his son. He'll always need me, right?"

It was his turn to look away. Piccolo stared off in the distant. The rhythmic sound of the leaves rustling in the wind provided a momentary distraction. His gaze fell to an area bathed in sunlight. A large oak tree, with what seemed like a thousand branches, caught all of his attention. The sight of it reminded him of someone. The might of the oak symbolized its greatness. All the other trees appeared to dwindle under the oak's magnificent girth and strength.

"Gohan," he suddenly directed his gaze to the sky, "go home."

"Come on," shrieked the stunned saiyan, "really, Piccolo?"

"Yes, really," his voice boomed, "I told you already that everything will be fine. What more can I say?"

The saiyan half-breed shrugged his shoulders, "I was hoping you'd keep talking to me. I mean, it's been awhile. It really has. I feel like I'm losing my dad and now—"

"Just go home," he repeated with an even sterner voice, "I'll try seeing you later."

Gohan hesitated. Their history together suggested Piccolo wasn't the type to pressure. Most of the time—if not all the time, when the Namkien said anything, he normally meant it. Throughout his childhood, he remembered the meticulous nature of his mentor. Things were his way or there was hell to pay. Everything about the Namkien's personality seemed completely opposite of his father. With his mentor, life and training felt more structured. Rules were accompanied with consequences and in some ways, Gohan decided Piccolo was indeed a male version of his mother. And truthfully, he loved his mother. Although her control over his life was overbearing, Gohan believed Chi-Chi's controlling personality was her way of expressing unyielding love to him. Therefore, in his mind, Piccolo was no different and for certain, his uncompromising tongue was a form of affection.

"Alright, I'll come by another time. Thanks for the chat, Piccolo."

Normally, he knew he would have tolerated him longer. Today, however, the will wasn't there. After a spar, it was natural for them to discuss things. Gohan lived in the city by himself and life was different than at Mount Paozu with Goku. The life of living out in the wilderness was certainly unusual for the Earth breed saiyan,too. Being out here, among the trees and wildlife, limited their time together. Gohan was used to a couch, four walls, and indoor plumbing. Piccolo, on the other hand, could manage to live without these things—thus the conflict. On one hand, Gohan was willing to accept his Namkien ways but on the other, the saiyan never failed to suggest the option of moving to the city. Piccolo dismissed the idea. The city wasn't what he ever wanted—he could do without the noise, the people, and the pressure to conform. Besides, Earth was not his home. He lived on this planet but, inwardly, he never considered it home.

Home was Namek—it was where he knew he should be. Years ago, he'd thought of returning but forgot about the idea entirely. Something had happened which made him reconsider. It was something that should have meant nothing but gradually became more meaningful to him than his own life. That something was a kiss. It shattered his perfect world in an instant. Every thought he'd ever had concerning himself was distorted. Confusion and passion twisted and melded together; creating in his heart a deep longing he could never understand. These feelings, these strange feelings, kept him stationed on Earth. On Namek, the unusual emotions would have merely haunted him but at least on this planet, answers could be discovered somehow.

Very quietly, Piccolo settled to the ground. Legs were meticulously crossed. Then, in seconds, he drifted a few feet from the grassy field. Calmly, dark eyes closed and a shallow breath was exhaled through the nostrils. A sudden peace consumed his body. With peace, Piccolo noticed his mind often drifted off to the past. Meditation, for now, wouldn't be the right choice. So, quickly his orbs opened.

A shadow emerged in his sight. He could see the outline of dark spiked hair. Suddenly, a chill seized him. This was the person willfully disturbing his thoughts. This was the man who awakened a desire inside he'd never known.

"

What do you want," he inquired with a husky voice.

The shadow was silent. Its hands were held at the edge of a blue shirt. Gently, the fingers tugged the garment upwards, deliberately going nice and slow. Piccolo swallowed hard. His blood warmed upon seeing tight flesh stretched over a canvas of taut abs. To his frustration, the movement of the shirt stopped just before revealing two distinctive buds. He knew one glance at their bareness would spark all his limitless passion.

"Not here," his voice commanded.

To the contrary of his speech, Piccolo wanted it to happen here. In this place, out in the middle of nowhere, he craved another opportunity to indulge himself. However, the deceitfulness of his tongue begged a differ—and for good reasons. For one, he'd created the illusion of honoring their secrecy. Not here insisted an acknowledgement toward the seriousness of their meetings. Piccolo was sure, however, not a soul had ever made an indication of being aware. The Z group laughed and joked as usual. He kept distant and they accepted his reserved ways. In fact, there were never any whispers or gossip and for the most part, no one perceived an understanding, so he believed strongly everything between them would remain hidden.

Still, Piccolo wanted to portray a concern and caution with the hope his ally would continue their private meetings. And most importantly but more simply, his verbal command had wisely revealed an unrushed heart. A needy heart signaled weakness and the man standing before him detested such things.

"Where then," the question was asked with a gruff tone, "In my bed? On my couch?" the tone deepened to a soft, throaty purr, "You'll go up my ass again, won't you?"

The shirt dissolved into grass. It melted into the ground as if it had never existed. The sun-kissed skin, gleaming in front of him, burst into tiny, beige pearls and each round sphere skid away across the grassy field. Piccolo tumbled to the ground. The deep meditation created a dream within a dream. He'd been trapped within his mind the whole time. It frightened him—the depth of the dream. Unlike any other fantasy, this one involved a discussion. The shadow spoke to him but in reality, they hadn't spoken in months.

As he lifted, Piccolo wondered if soon they'd finally speak. Would things become clear or further distorted? Slowly, weak feet walked along the grass. In the distance, he witnessed the sight of water and stone colliding—truly a dark harbor of memories. Piccolo looked away, not feeling ready to revisit the secluded area. Instead, he journeyed south toward a barren field. At least in this place nothing could remind him of his ally.

TBC..