The Birds Flew Backwards
By Little Suzi
I loved you when our love was blessed,
And I love you now there's nothing left
- Leonard Cohen
And then another month passed by, after which I would see Piccolo and we would have coffee, then part. A month later this would be repeated. I never took him up on his offer to visit, but, all the same, I would look forward to our little meetings. It felt odd, because, although I was visiting my dead family, it didn't seem to hurt as much anymore. I even started to look forward to the day. Was I turning him into a replica? (Given that he looked nothing like any member of my family, it would make me a very poor artisan). Still, every time I saw him was like spinning a little, silver cobweb over the faces of my beloved. I should've felt a little guilty, I suppose.
This month, winter was setting in. I had felt the chill in the air become more intense, but I didn't really give it much thought. However, one afternoon whilst I was engrossed in a book, I chanced to glance out of the window. Snow was tumbling silently from the sky, like confetti at a wedding. I watched it for a little while, before I went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and light a cigarette. I smoked it while I waited for the kettle to boil, grinding it out in the ashtray. I returned to the sitting room with my coffee and looked out the window again. I jumped with surprise – how quickly the snow had settled! It covered the ground and the trees and everything in sight, bringing down a gentle hush, muffling everything. I gazed out of my window at the noiseless landscape, thinking of the Namek. Oh hell, I'll admit it, worrying about the Namek. The snow had covered everything and I didn't know how he would cope with it.
Still, it was our day to meet up tomorrow, so, I decided, I would see how he was then. I returned to my book.
That was a mistake.
The next day, after wrapping up warm in a black scarf and black earmuffs (I've never been able to find a hat to go over my hair), and using all my strength to force open the door, as there was a foot of snow barricading it, I set off to the city.
When I arrived at the graveyard everything was silent. There were no tracks in the clean, white snow that glittered under the winter sun. It made the graveyard seem incredibly eerie. I forced the gate open, corrupting the snow's purity, and deliberately trudged through it, dragging my feet to reveal the dark gravel beneath. For some reason this snow, this gentle white fluff, inspired such hatred in me. I cleaned it all off my wife and children's headstones, and then off the headstones of my rival's family and off those of our friends. It seemed important. Then I sat down on the bench and I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
Piccolo still had not arrived. When I could almost feel my lips turning blue, I began to worry. No, that's understating it. I began to panic. I got up and went over the road to check he wasn't in the coffee shop. But there was only that young mother and a man with a newspaper. I swung around and began to think. I was too flustered to gather my thoughts together properly.
I tried to remember where Piccolo's valley was in relation to Satan City. My mind kept coming up blank. I turned the way Piccolo flew home and just flew until I saw something that looked familiar, all the time my mind spinning, a merry-go-round of pain and worry. I was feeling very sick. I saw it all go by in slow motion.
Then I saw it. Just as Piccolo had described - a little town, surrounded by farmland, nestled comfortably in the base of the once lush and blossoming valley. It was covered in a thick layer of the glistening snow, but I could still make out the tilled and ploughed farmland, and the park beside the waterfall, which was still flowing, the weather not quite being cold enough to freeze it.
I landed on the roof of a house in the centre of the village, slipping a little on the snow-covered roof, but maintaining my balance. I cast my gaze about, trying to concentrate. The snow made it almost impossible to identify a cultivated and well-loved garden, but I had to try. Yet, no matter where I looked, none of the houses seemed quite right. I could feel the worry rising up and up, clambering frantically at my throat again.
Then I spotted it!
Up a short trail, out of the base of the valley and the centre of the village, perched, almost precariously, on the hillside, was a little stone cottage. I flew up towards it to get a better look. It was a single-floor building with a thatched roof. There was a low stone wall surrounding it, and a black-painted iron gate with a bolt. And there was a garden beneath the snow! Ornamental trees embraced the snow, holding it up like delicate and deadly white blossoms. There were empty flower pots littered around and trellises against the walls. I could imagine the garden being quite beautiful in the spring time. Yes, this looked like the place.
I reached round the gate, unlocked it and pushed it open. I trudged up the garden path, taking care not to slip. The door was painted black, with a brass handle. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. I rang again. Nothing. Then I began to pound on the door.
"Namek?" I called, "Piccolo? Are you in there?"
I listened carefully, but I still could hear nothing. I decided I would have to get inside. I took a step back and formed a small ball of white energy and threw it at the door. The lock flew off easily. The door swung open.
I stepped into an poorly-lit sitting room. It looked a little grubby, but that may have just been the light. The walls were the same unpainted stone as the exterior of the cottage and the wood of the floor was unpolished. I was amused to see items such as watering cans, trowels and packets of seeds covering every surface. I noticed a photo frame on the mantelpiece above the stone fireplace. I picked it up and smiled sadly at the image in it. I remembered that photograph being taken. Years ago, on one of those too-few gatherings, my wife had whipped out a camera and pushed us all into forced poses with forced smiles. I remember the sun being too hot and the picture took too long to take. I'd got irritated and annoyed and threatened to blast everyone. But now, looking at the picture, I was so very glad it was taken. I sighed and put the frame back down.
There were two doors on the other side of the sitting room. I pushed open the nearest, which led into a small kitchen. It looked dusty and disused, apart from the muddy Wellingtons that were sat on a piece of newspaper by the backdoor. I tried the other door.
This one led to the bedroom. The air that immediately met me was hot and thick and smelt foul, of sickness and rot. I could almost taste acid in it. The room was darkened by heavy drapes, but I could make out a slight figure huddled beneath the blankets on the bed. I threw open the curtains, which were made of a red velvet and smelt of dust and skin, and the light streamed into the small room. The figure beneath the covers didn't even flinch, so I assumed that he must be unconscious. Or…
But I didn't want to think about the or.
I strode over to the bed and pulled the sheets from him, flinging them on to the floor. Piccolo, clad only in a flimsy white shirt, was curled up in the foetal position in the centre of the bed. His eyes were closed. I felt for a pulse, but where the hell do you search for a pulse on a Namekian? I found one in his jugular, and let out a breath that I didn't even realise I was holding.
He didn't look well though. He seemed even thinner than before, if possible. I tried to wake him, but he wouldn't come to. I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water, then returned to the bedroom and emptied it over his face. Nothing. He didn't so much as splutter. Was he even breathing? I couldn't hear anything. Worriedly, I pulled a thread from one of the blankets and held it in front of his nose. It only wavered slightly with his breath. This was bad.
There was nothing for it. I'd have to take him with me. There was no way I'd just leave him here, in this dark little house, where he'd eventually expire. No, no. I'd have to take him home with me. I found Piccolo's wardrobe and pulled out two shirts and two pairs of trousers, his heavy coat and a pair of boots. I glanced in at the back and spotted his old purple gi. I snatched that off the hanger too. Just in case. I eased Piccolo out of his hunched over position and, embarrassedly averting my eyes from his bare nether regions, helped him into a pair of trousers. A crimson blush had spread across my face and I was feeling curiously warm. I ignored it and helped the unconscious Namek into his boots and wrapped him up in his coat. I threw the other items into a rucksack and slung it over my back.
Then I picked him up. I had been prepared for some weight, given his extreme height, but he was lighter than air. I felt the worry settle deep in my gut.
I flew as quickly as I could and arrived home barely two hours later. I had made excellent time. Piccolo hadn't even stirred during the flight. I kicked my door open, my hands being full with holding the unconscious Namek. I then took him to my room and lay him on my bed. I felt better now he was somewhere where I could keep an eye on him.
I went into the kitchen and lit a cigarette. I needed something to calm my nerves. I then rummaged through the cupboards until I found a tin of soup. I emptied the tin into a pan and heated it up on the stove, gradually adding water to it, to make it more fluid so Piccolo could drink it.
I put it in a little bowl and took a spoon from the draw. Piccolo was just where I had left him; he hadn't moved an inch. I sat on the edge of the bed and propped his head up with a pillow, tilted his head back and gently opened his jaws. His teeth were as sharp and pointed as ever. When the runny soup was cool enough I carefully spooned it down his throat and massaged it, forcing him to swallow. I had to get some nourishment into him somehow. I was worried that he would never wake up again, that he had fallen into an irreversible coma. That he, like my wife, would just die in his sleep. The soup dribbled round his mouth. I wiped it away with the pad of my thumb, stuck by how strangely delicate his lips were. I traced them round with my index finger. Once the bowl was empty I moved to a little rickety chair by the bedside and opened a book. The only one I had left was about the cancer patient and the gardener, as I hadn't been shopping today. I sighed and began to read.
An hour or so later, Piccolo began to whimper and shiver. I put a hand on his forehead; it was too warm. He was burning up. I wrenched his coat off him and unbuttoned his shirt. The sight of his chest shocked me. What was once so broad and taught with muscle seemed to have collapsed in on itself. His ribcage protruded distinctly. I wanted to touch it, but he just looked too fragile. Tentatively, I placed my hand on his chest. It was slick with sweat. I ran my hands over it, feeling the bones. He felt like a baby bird. He really was so very weak. Piccolo let out a quiet wail then fell silent again. I sat back on my chair and kept vigil until morning.
I must've fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was being woken as Piccolo spluttered into consciousness. I jumped up, open book falling from my lap, and sat on the edge of the bed. Piccolo's eyes flickered open, unfocused and shot with blood. He blinked a few times then looked at me. He didn't seem to register who I was immediately. (Oh, Piccolo, what is that nothingness like?) A few seconds passed until I saw the light of recognition flicker into his eyes. (Did you feel free?)
"V-Vegeta? Where am I?" his voice was very faint.
"You're at my house." I said, wondering at how odd that sounded. I was relieved when he didn't ask me any questions; I wasn't sure if I could really answer them. But I tried to explain myself anyway. "I wanted to keep an eye on you."
"Why? What day is it?" his voice was so breathless.
"Thursday. When you didn't turn up at the graveyard I got worried…wait, how long have you been asleep?" Piccolo didn't reply, merely shifting his weight to get a better look around my room. "Piccolo!" I was snarling like an animal. I never have been able to curb my violent temperament.
"Since Monday evening." He said, not looking at me, "I was in the garden when I felt dizzy, so I went to bed. I couldn't get up the next morning." He hauled himself up into a sitting position, clearly uncomfortable at lying prone before me, and got a glimpse out of the window, "When did it snow?"
"Tuesday afternoon. It's pretty thick over at your house as well." I folded my arms, crossly, "And don't try to change the subjects, Namek."
"Why do you even care, Vegeta?" he snapped, "I am NOT Bulma!"
Everything fell deathly silent for a moment. Piccolo must've seen some hurt look on my face, because he instantly look horrified and turned his gaze out the window, staring at the snow. I rearranged my expression before speaking.
"I know you're not." It came out sounding very small, "And I know you're thinking I'm projecting emotion on to you, because you're that last connection I have to them, but I'm not. I'm not." I became less sure of myself the more I denied it. Piccolo turned to look at me again. His face was as expressionless as ever. "Look at you, Piccolo, just look at you." I grabbed his open shirt and pulled it right off his back. His bones poked through his green skin more horrifically when you saw it all at once. I winced. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"
"Why does it matter?" he retorted. There was a bite in his tone; a venom I remembered from all those years ago. He snatched his shirt back.
"Because it's not right!" his petulant attitude was getting frustrating and I was getting angry, "You're a warrior. You were born a warrior! Listen, I know about grief. I know how destructive it is. But you have to move on."
"Like you moved on?" Piccolo raised his eyebrow. "You sit around here, waiting for death. Why is your life so different from mine?"
I was struck by that. It hurt. Back in the day the only things Piccolo ever said to me were uncomfortable home truths. But I could never quite remember them being as cruel as that. Even when he told me that I couldn't go to heaven, he had never once tried to hurt me. That, however, was said with malice. I could taste the poison. The many joys of our verbal violence. I decided to ignore it. I got to my feet to give myself some rare height over the sitting Namek.
"You're staying here." I informed him in my no-nonsense tone folding my arms over my chest.
"Don't be ridiculous." Piccolo hissed, "I've just woken up and already we're arguing. Besides, you told me this place was small, and judging by this room you weren't lying. Where would I sleep?"
"The couch pulls out. Now –"
"Marvellous, Vegeta." He laughed bitterly, "In case you hadn't noticed I had a bed of my own at home."
"Which you were unable to get out of! Face it, Namek, you need looking after!"
"I most certainly do not!"
"Oh yes you do."
"And you're volunteering? Out of the goodness of your heart?"
"Yes!"
"Why?"
"Because I care about you!"
We both fell silent for a moment. He was seething and I could feel my blood boil, but we both took a few breaths, though his were laboured, and calmed down. I sat down on the end of the bed.
"You're the only one left, Piccolo. I can't lose you." I said quietly, staring intently at the floor.
"I know. I'm sorry." He said just as quietly, his voice a croaky whisper, rough as sand.
Then we reverted to normal volume.
"I can't leave my garden." He sniffed. I rolled my eyes.
"I'm going to go make you a drink."
"But I don't want one."
"Tough."
I departed for the kitchen and made coffee, spooning generous portions of sugar into the Namek's cup. I was going to make it my personal duty to get some weight on him. I felt strangely obligated. I went to get a cigarette, but the packet was empty. Damn, I needed to get some shopping in.
I took the cup back into my bedroom. Piccolo had put his shirt back on and was attempting to get to his feet. I put the coffee cups down on the dressing table and lightly pushed Piccolo back on to the bed with one hand. It disturbed me how easily he was felled. I couldn't help but comment on it.
"When we were younger, you'd have to have a broken neck or a hole through the chest to fall like that. Now, the slightest tap and you collapse in a heap." I handed Piccolo a coffee cup, "I think my point has been proven. Drink it. All of it."
Piccolo didn't say a word as he took the cup and raised it to his mouth, sipping at it daintily. I sat down and took a deliberately large gulp that almost made me choke. The Namek smirked cruelly at me, but, nevertheless, took another sip.
"Did you never think of following Dende to Namek?" I said, "I mean, you wouldn't be quite so lonely there, because you'd have him."
"What makes you think I'm lonely?" he scoffed, then paused. We both seemed to realise at that point that maybe, just maybe, we were past these games. "Dende would be altogether too busy for me. And I'm the only fighter-class Namek left; I'd be just as alone. Besides, Earth is my home. It's where I was born and it's where I shall die. I was offered a place on New Namek, remember? I turned it down because a life of simple farming just wasn't for me."
"And what's so different about the lifestyle you're leading now?"
"At least I'm on Earth." Piccolo scowled darkly at me. "In any case, why haven't you taken off into the vacuum of space? I thought you hated this planet. I recall you threatening to destroy it on more than one occasion."
"More than once? Never!" I scoffed, but my memory wasn't what it used to be; maybe he was right. "And I don't hate it. It took me a while, but I've grown accustomed to it. And it's, you know, their planet."
"I understand." Piccolo's hand found my own. I stared at the elongated, green fingers clasped in my own. I would've squeezed it, but for fear of breaking it. I had to mention it.
"Kami, I feel like I could crumple your bones if I only squeezed them." I shook my head.
"You probably could. You're still as strong as ever."
"You know what I mean."
"Mmm." Piccolo drained his coffee cup, pulling his hand away, and tried to stand up again. This time, I let him. "Look, Vegeta, thank you for caring, but I just can't stay with you. It's not practical."
"Sit down and shut up, Namek." I barked, finishing off my coffee and bringing the cup down on the dressing table with a thump.
I was fully prepared for Piccolo to do neither and start arguing with me again but, strangely, he obeyed, slumping down on the bed.
"Just until I get better?" he said after a moment, lifting his eyes to meet mine.
"Of course." I said warmly, before catching myself, and affecting a measure of spite, "You think I'd let you stay here longer than that?"
"Alright." Piccolo nodded, "But can I at least go home and get some things?"
"No. I don't want you going back there. I'll go back and get whatever you need for you." The thought of Piccolo in that little dingy place made me feel ill.
"Alright." He paused and thought for a second, "I assume you broke the lock whilst abducting me?"
"Abduct is such an ugly word. And yes. Clean off. "
"Would you board up the door or something? I don't want the neighbour kids getting in."
"What're they going to steal? Your Wellingtons or your packets of seeds?" I smirked. Piccolo looked irritated, so I added, "Of course, I will. Don't worry about it."
Appeased, Piccolo lay back down on my bed, clearly exhausted. He tried to hide it by folding his arms behind is head and adopting a jovial tone.
"So, what do you do for fun around here?"
I just looked at him like he had gone mad. He sighed and tried to pull himself back up into the sitting position. After watching him struggle for a few seconds I reached out and helped him.
"What do you do around here?" Piccolo repeated, breathless, when he was upright again.
"Me? I read. You, however, are going to sleep and get your energy up. When you're strong enough, I'm going to have you weight train." I told him, matter-of-factly. There would be no arguments over this, I'd decided.
"Weight train?" Piccolo seemed horrified at the thought.
"Yes." I hissed, "You need to rebuild your muscle. You've got none left. You used to have a power-level in the millions, now you're as weak as a kitten. Can you even power-up anymore?"
"I…I don't know." Piccolo looked meek. He wasn't even fighting back anymore. Maybe I was being too harsh with him.
"Well, don't try. You'll probably faint." I muttered brusquely as I picked up my book and the empty cups and headed towards the door, "Get some sleep, gather your strength. I need to go to the village tomorrow and get some supplies. You should come. We can get the local doctor to take a look at you."
"What would a human doctor know about my physiology?" he said, still irritable. There was a dark cloud over Piccolo's head.
"Couldn't hurt." I simply shrugged. "You sleep here until you're a bit stronger. If I recall, the sofa bed is rather lumpy. It'll probably shatter your bones."
"I'm not made of glass, Vegeta." Piccolo mumbled bitterly.
"You could've fooled me." I replied, my voice growing soft as my throat closed up.
It was the dead of night, and I was dreaming that dream again. Something was suffocating me, and thin strips of white light were dancing through the darkness that surrounded me like drunken ballerinas. Then I could see my wife and children; they wouldn't look at me and the colour was draining from their faces rapidly, pooling, like paint, messily at their feet.
I awoke with a start.
I could hear muffled sobs coming from the next room. I got out of bed, barefoot, walking across the floor, my motions cautious. I didn't tiptoe – I liked the sound of the way my feet stuck to, and then peeled off from, the lacquered woodwork. I peered round the doorframe and could just about make out Piccolo's features in the pale grey light. He saw me, but looked blank.
Wordlessly, I walked into the room and sat down next to him on the bed. He, all limbs and eyes, tucked his knees under his chin. I, stronger and broader, took him into my arms and held him as firmly as I dared. I felt every bone biting at my flesh, as it jutted from beneath the fabric of his skin.
"I'm scared." He whispered into my chest. I felt my heart break.
Close-mouthed, he pressed his lips to my collarbone. I grasped him tighter, nuzzling the top of his head. He tilted his head back to look at me. His eyes were so black in the dark, so intense. They bore right into me. He was in so much pain. His lip quivered. I leaned in a pushed my mouth against his. We kissed dryly, though tenderly. Piccolo broke away and buried his head back into my chest.
I held him until he was asleep again.
These treacherous hours that lie after midnight are the ones to fear. These are the ones when we are not ourselves. Reality has abandoned us and our dreams play tricks on us. Am I even really awake now?
I fell into bed, praying for morning.
It soon arrived.
Notes: Thank you for some lovely reviews, (especially to Rogue, thank you). I suppose it's hard to know where I'm going with this…I haven't been reading fanfiction like I used to, so I don't know if stories like this are still oddities within the fandom. That not withstanding, I like writing like this, though I sometimes quietly wish I could write something happier. Something less bleak. Something less desperate. Maybe next time. Thefinal part shall follow soon, I'm just doing another grammer sweep. Things always slip under the net, and it does irk me somewhat. I'm also working on an update for Beyond Wonderland, my Vegeta/Piccolo site(see my homepage link).Hopefully by the end of the week, if not sooner.