Chapter 2

How annoying.

This was his house. His home. His safe zone.

Sanctuary.

So why the hell couldn't he take one fuckin' step now without seeing Yamcha's mug?

An indescribably disconcerting sensation, to walk by furniture that he had silently claimed as his own only to get a whiff of too much cologne and soap that was badly scented.

Not his.

Who in god's name would ever use such an unattractive soap? Yamcha, that was fuckin' who. And he was everywhere. Vejita could hardly poke his head around a corner without seeing Yamcha sauntering by, hands tucked in his pockets like he owned the damn world, wearing shoes that he would have never been able to afford if he weren't friends with Bulma, hair messy with the confidence of a handsome womanizer.

His cologne was always too strong.

The scent of it was like someone had set fire to his nostrils.

The first week had been uncomfortable, but not unbearably so; Yamcha had respected Vejita's boundaries (mostly), and had been polite and distant.

Not so much anymore.

It was getting to the point where it had become an actual annoyance.

Yamcha waved to him in passing, and it might have just been him goin' crazy, but it seemed like they were passing all the goddamn time now, and every time Yamcha sent him one of those odd smirks, Vejita just wanted to grab the nearest animate object and shake it until it became very inanimate.

Yamcha was everything he hated in a person. Over-confident without reason, handsome and aware of it, entitled without having earned it, loud and obnoxious, outspoken and always thinking he was right, egotistical despite having done nothing worthwhile, having no problem sucking his sustenance from the hard work of others, and always, always, still being so brazen as to stick out his hand and try to be 'friendly' when he really didn't give a fuck about anyone but himself.

It pissed Vejita off.

Okay—maybe some of those traits could be found within himself, but seeing them in someone else rubbed him the wrong way.

So much so, in fact, that he finally had to put aside his pride a little and go bitching to Bulma about it. And that was only the second week the lazy moocher had been there.

"How long is he staying again?" Vejita grumbled to her one morning, as she yawned and zombie-walked over to the table, spilling most of her coffee along the way, and she barely heard him.

"Who?"

She held out a hand to him as she sat, beckoning him over so that she could try to lay on a little morning-breath kiss upon his cheek as she so often did, but he had little interest in her ventures now.

"Who! Who! Who do ya think? Who the hell is here now that wasn't here before?"

It took her sleep-shocked brain a moment to comprehend, heavy eyelids threatening to block her vision entirely, but then she lifted her chin a little and rasped, "Oh, yeah. ...I dunno."

And she left it there, sucking on her coffee slowly and noisily.

Furrowing his brow a little, he shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest.

Pain in the ass.

"Who told you it was alright to let him stay here anyway?"

She barely crinkled her nose at him, her hair as messy as his was, and muttered something incomprehensible.

"Tell him to leave. Find him some swanky little apartment in a city on the other side of the world."

"That's not very nice," she drawled.

"This isn't a charity, you know. You can't take in every stray mutt that shows up."

"Took you, didn't I? Oughta be grateful and spread the generosity a little."

He shifted his weight, knowing his cheeks had mottled a bit, and tried to send her a glare.

Didn't seem to bother her. Never did, come to think.

"Anyway," she carried on, "It's not like he's bothering you."

"But he is!" was Vejita's immediate retort, and maybe it was a little whiny, but it was true. "He is bothering me. The very sight of him bothers me. Smelling him bothers me. Knowing that he's alive bothers me. Get rid of him."

A short silent, as she slurped more on her coffee, and then she sniffed.

"...no."

"Goddamn you, that wasn't a request. I want him gone. Now."

She was the one who glared now, and turned a stern eye to him.

"You're a little bossier than usual this morning, and that's sayin' a lot. This is my house, and I decide who stays here, not you."

'Actually, it's your father's house,' is what he would have said if he had been in a better mood to play-fight with her, but this time he just scoffed and rested his back into the corner.

He could already feel the stress pummeling his veins. He wanted to throw a fit, and bitch and moan until she caved in, but such behavior was undignified. Instead, he glowered at the floor, knowing that (as much as he denied it) she was the one who 'wore the pants' around here, as the Earthlings said.

His head hurt.

"Wish you'd ask me what I thought every once in a while," he grumbled, as he scuffed the floor with a testy foot, and she twisted in her seat to look at him.

"What's the big deal?" she asked. "It's just Yamcha."

He pursed his lips, tersely.

Her eyes narrowed then, and her sloppy smile turned sly. "You're not jealous, are you?"

He bristled, despite his efforts not to, and lifted his shoulders defensively.

"No!"

She broke into a wider smile and laughed to herself, but she was smart about it and kept her mouth shut, sparing him further teasing.

He was glad, because he was a little jealous.

Not because he feared Bulma would return her affections to Yamcha, of course not, but because he called this place home and didn't want anyone else to. Simple selfishness. Hardly different from the way Trunks pouted when someone paid attention to anyone other than him.

...when he said like that to himself, it did seem a little silly.

A petty thing for him to worry about, especially in such a big place.

"Look," Bulma finally said, as she suppressed her smile, "Just ignore him. He's one of us, I can't just put him out like that."

Vejita opened his mouth, but she cut him short quite quickly.

"And don't even think about getting into a fight."

She was using that tone, the one she used when she knew she could make his life a living hell and would very much intend to do so if her law was broken.

He rolled his eyes at her, but the words agitated him.

Get into a fight—ha, sure. A fight with Yamcha would be over before it even began, and if for some reason he did want to fight, what would the point have been? He had always fought to assert his dominance to others. That served no purpose here; Gohan was stronger than he was, a fuckin' half-breed kid, and Kakarotto had bested him even in death.

Even Bulma had him under her thumb now.

What would fighting have proven to anyone? That he still knew a few moves? That he could still kick an Earthling's ass?

Pitiful.

He didn't fight anymore; Kakarotto was dead.

This place was turning into his grave.

The prick of homesickness and loneliness in his chest was unpleasant, so he snipped at Bulma to take his mind off of it.

"If you won't make him leave, I can't be held responsible for my actions."

She scoffed, and his chest ached a little.

She didn't even see a threat in him anymore. A Saiyan who had sworn off fighting—who would ever have taken him seriously? His threats had become empty. No wonder Yamcha walked around like he owned the place; Vejita had been domesticated.

No longer a danger.

Useless.

No one would ever come running to him if there was danger. They'd all go to Gohan.

Not him.

Bulma's next statement was swift, and final.

"He's staying. Be nice, you hear? Leave him alone."

His shoulders tensed up as his temper threatened to flare, but he eventually folded under her eyes and remembered the promise he had made to himself upon Kakarotto's death to be gentler, not only to her but to others as well.

Gentle.

Even the word left a bitter taste in his mouth.

His shoulders and head dropped in weariness.

Kakarotto was dead—what was even the point of being anything but gentle? No one left to fight with. No one to talk to. He was the last Saiyan left alive in the universe.

Alone.

Yamcha wandering around the house seemed frivolous in comparison.

She saw his defeat, perhaps, and put her hands on her hips as she did when she was feeling bossy.

Riling him up would take his mind off of more dismal thoughts.

Her usual method, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't grateful for it.

"You know what?" she began, coyly. "I think this will be good for you. With another man in the house, you can learn how to socialize with other human beings and maybe try to make a friend. Yamcha's a good guy. He can keep you occupied and get you out of my hair for a while. Go hang out with him and do...well, whatever men do. Go be normal for once. I'm sure he'd love to hang out with you. You're not as scary as you used to be."

The glare he sent her then could have burnt the Earth to dust, yet she was somehow as unfazed as always.

Goddammit.

Ineffective at murdering her with his eyes, he grunted instead, "I don't need friends."

"Bullshit."

Before he could retort, she was overriding him, as usual.

"Anyway, that wasn't a request. You will make friends with Yamcha, because his living here is not going to cause anyone problems, got that, mister? The last thing I need is for you two to be goin' at it every day. You're going to be best buds by the time I'm done with you."

"Bullshit."

She smiled at his irritation, and, well...

He felt a little better.

A little.

Better to argue with her than mope over Kakarotto.

She stood up then, considering the conversation over, and as she passed him she reached out to brush his side with her fingers. They bitched at each other all the time, but she always seemed to know what he needed.

As she left, he called after her, "If you wanted me to move out, all you had to do was say so and spare me the trouble!"

She waved him off.

And he was alone.

Not for long. He had barely managed to pour his own coffee before a familiar aroma wafted over.

He narrowed his eyes and looked over his shoulder, and, sure enough, Yamcha came waltzing into the kitchen, clearly having just rolled out of bed not long before, and sent him one of those waves as he yawned.

Vejita turned away, and glowered down at his mug.

The smell grew stronger as Yamcha moved in beside of him to grapple for the remnants of liquid in the coffee pot.

By all that was holy, did he just douse his bed in cologne?

Vejita moved quickly away, and could feel Yamcha's eyes upon his back as he did so.

Finally, Yamcha uttered, "Morning."

He didn't offer a response, and sat down, fully expecting Yamcha to leave once he had his fill of caffeine, but instead Yamcha sat down, too, and sent him a sleepy look.

"Heard what you guys were sayin'."

...oh. Well.

"That's great," Vejita replied, mechanically, and kept his gaze firmly away from this unwelcome guest.

"Sorry I kinda came crashing in. I didn't think you'd really mind so much."

"Hm."

"Anyway, just wanted to say I was sorry and all. I'll try not to bother ya too much, but you know, I wouldn't mind going out and doin' stuff, like Bulma said."

He couldn't help but look back over, letting the grimace of disgust spread across his face as it would, and Yamcha was holding his chin in his hand, staring at him rather intently.

That surprised him a little.

Yamcha hadn't really been able to stare him down like this before. He had always cracked. Now, their eyes just locked, and Yamcha seemed able to hold his own. For a while. Eventually, though, he flinched under Vejita's gaze and looked away with a short laugh.

Still, that brief interaction was something different.

Odd.

"Well," Yamcha finally said, after an uncomfortable silence, "Even you have to get bored, right? Why don't we go out drinkin' sometime? We never really got to know each other."

Vejita could feel his eyes narrowing and brow furrowing before he had even formed a response, irritation crept up like a wave, and it was only Bulma's shrill voice in his mind that kept him silent.

'Be nice!'

Damn.

The statement seemed so stupid. Go out drinking.

Like they were friends.

Leaning forward, painfully aware of how much he disliked this man, Vejita made sure his words were slow and stern and leaving no room for misunderstanding.

"I will never 'go out drinking' with you. Ever. I would rather spend the rest of eternity in the foulest pits of hell than 'go out' with you even once."

Yamcha's face twitched for a second, and Vejita was very nearly certain that he saw hatred there, but it passed so quickly that his certainty faded into confusion.

Seeing things, maybe.

Yamcha leaned back in his chair, blew air through his teeth, and then gave a strained smile. "Well," he said, turning on that air of annoying confidence, "I've got plenty of time now to change your mind, don't I? I might be here for a while."

"We'll see."

Yamcha's tense stance loosened a little, and Vejita could feel the annoyance pounding in his ears.

He didn't even scare Yamcha anymore.

God, what had happened to him?

"We will, indeed," Yamcha said, a smile spreading across his face, and it was so pleasant and so friendly that Vejita had to restrain himself from punching the punk's teeth in.

'Be nice.'

Sure.

He pushed his chair out from the table, wood scraping the tile, and stalked to the door. As he went, Yamcha's voice followed him.

"You really need a friend, man."

"Fuck you."

Yamcha laughed, and Vejita clenched his teeth.

Even his comebacks were getting lame.

He hardly recognized himself anymore, and maybe Yamcha didn't either, and that was why he had felt so comfortable moving back in.

He hated that man.

Something was off about this whole thing. Maybe Yamcha was plotting something. He hadn't ever been nice to Vejita before. Hadn't even sent him a look that wasn't contemptuous.

Why start now?

Something was off here, alright.

He didn't trust anyone, and least of all Yamcha.

Griping to himself in his mind, he stalked around outside, tossing himself into the gravity room and locking out the rest of the world.

This tiny little chamber was really the only place he could feel completely safe. At home. The only room he truly belonged in on this miserable little planet.

He spent the hours hurting himself so that he wouldn't hurt too much in his mind.

In here, the thought of Kakarotto and his home disappeared for a while. In here, it was easy to lose track of reality.

Distraction.

As the day wore on, and pounding aggression dulled down into a throb, his earlier mistrust seemed to be a bit paranoid.

Yamcha, a master of trickery? Since when? Yamcha's brain was hardly capable of masterful plots. Yamcha's brain was hardly capable of figuring out his daily functions, let alone map out some heinous roadway of deceit. Nobody relied on Yamcha for anything anymore, because he had become little more than a novelty amongst them.

Ah, hell.

In the end, his wariness seemed a little excessive, and he tried not to concern himself with it too much.

After all, like Bulma said, it was only Yamcha. Ha. What could he do? Just Yamcha.

Vejita had always had a bad habit of letting his guard down a little too easily in the face of his own confidence, one of his greatest flaws, but his arrogance was too strong.

Yamcha was harmless.

Beyond that, maybe, just a little, the attention was kind of nice. The statement had been stupid, yeah, but still, no one had ever thought to even say it before. No one had ever truly thought of him outside of battle.

No harm here.

After a life of misery, Yamcha would not be the one who got the best of him.

Weeks turned into months.

Trunks was getting bigger. Adept at walking now without losing balance.

Vejita found it slightly alarming, how much Trunks looked like him.

Unpleasant, even.

He hadn't ever really been cut out for kids. Something about them was distasteful, a little frightening. He didn't like the way they smelled, the way they felt. He didn't like the way their grubby fingers clenched and gripped. He didn't like the way they looked. Their voices and made-up words.

Only the fact that he had known Trunks as an adult kept him calm in those moments when he absolutely had to engage with the child, and it wasn't easy even then to really look at the toddler and see a human.

Trunks was more like a pet than a son.

Being around him at this point was little more than a chore.

Still, it was for some reason an annoyance to see Yamcha interacting much more gainfully with the little brat, having no fear of touching him and even picking him up and letting him take handfuls of hair.

Didn't those sticky fingers bother him?

Vejita didn't want Trunks, but that didn't mean he wanted Yamcha touching him. Yamcha playing with Trunks was somehow an invasion of Vejita's space. Trunks was half of him, after all, and the other half was Bulma. He didn't really like the thought of Yamcha interacting with her, either. He was turning into a spoiled brat, perhaps, but they'd always called him that anyway, so he may as well act the part.

Yamcha, touching his things.

They were possessions as much as persons, Trunks and Bulma, and Yamcha had no claim to them.

It bothered him, the first few weeks.

After that, though...

Trunks didn't really seem to care too much for Yamcha, and outside of polite pleasantries Bulma didn't seem to, either. They didn't take him to heart, and Trunks was as keen to squirm out of his arms and run away from him as Bulma was to avoid an active conversation with him.

All was well.

Yamcha really only seemed to be interested in Vejita anyway, which was odd to say the least, but Vejita couldn't really complain since his other cares were not in danger.

Let Yamcha focus on him, if he wanted.

As long as he wasn't trying to steal anything that belonged to him. The house and his place here included.

Seeing Yamcha passing in the halls became a begrudging normality.

It was becoming cold out and the leaves were browning when finally they spoke again, and weeks of Bulma's coaxing and his own weariness had finally mellowed him down a little.

Vejita had avoided it as long as possible, but the conversation needed to happen eventually. This may have been Bulma's house, but he lived here, too, and that made his opinion relevant, whether Bulma said it was or not.

He found Yamcha peering around the corner into the kitchen, after Trunks and Bulma had vanished to leave Vejita with full access to food, and it had taken a moment before Yamcha gathered himself and came in.

Yamcha grunted a half-assed, "Mornin'."

They had become adept at staring at each other now without actually making eye contact.

Yamcha stared more than he did.

A long, awkward silence, and then Vejita spoke.

Yamcha jumped when his gruff morning-voice broke the stillness.

"If you're going to stay here, fine," he grumbled, carefully avoiding Yamcha's eyes, "but you only stay as long as I say you can stay. And stop usin' that damn cologne while you are here; if you could smell that shit the way I can you'd be vomiting in the hallway."

He expected Yamcha to bristle and go on the defensive as he always had before. Hadn't he always lashed out? Maybe—but not now. Instead, Yamcha shrugged a shoulder in casual comfort, and gave a bright, if not false, smile.

"Sure thing. I never cared much for it anyway. Bulma used to like it, so I just kept using it."

Ugh. She had the worst taste.

Throwing Bulma in there made Vejita focus less on things he probably should have; something in the back of his mind was telling him to watch Yamcha then, because he was missing something that he should have seen, but instead he wrinkled his nose and kept his eyes averted.

Why would he keep using a cologne just because a woman that no longer loved him had liked it?

"Fine, then. So stay. Just don't get in my way. Don't let me see you every damn minute. I get tired of looking at you."

Yamcha's smile turned a little strange, nothing Vejita could pinpoint exactly, as he responded, calmly, "For you, sure."

So cooperative.

Vejita cast him a final look of distaste, and Yamcha walked away without even eating or darting for coffee.

And Vejita didn't know why his pulse had started racing at something as simple as a conversation.

Yamcha had never smiled at him before. Strange on its own, but when paired with this sudden complacency it was downright eerie.

Eerie, yeah, but not quite unpleasant.

Not the worst feeling in the world, that was for sure, to be talked to by someone that wasn't Bulma, to be spoken to without being berated.

It was only Yamcha.

No harm.

'Don't let me see you'.

It hadn't ever really occurred to him that just because he couldn't see Yamcha didn't necessarily mean that Yamcha couldn't see him.

He had lost his senses a little.

He didn't feel like doing anything anymore, least of all being on guard.

Kakarotto was dead.