The Birds Flew Backwards

By Little Suzi

I do not love you except because I love you – Pablo Neruda

Part Three

We flew down to the village, not mentioning last night. People stared when we got there. Of course, it was unprecedented to see me with any company, and when the company took shape in the form of a six-foot tall vivid green skeleton, I could understand their stares. But Piccolo was clearly feeling uneasy. Shivering underneath his thick coat and my scarf, wrapped up to his ears, I could tell he was only fractionally there. The rest of him was somewhere calm and serene and entirely devoid of life. Probably warm. I could see the desert in his eyes. I took his arm and dragged him towards the doctor's surgery.

The waiting room was beige, unremarkable, and smelt, like any place remotely medical does, of anti-septic. We didn't have to wait long before being shown into the doctor's room. He was a short, fat, round man, with a red face and a greying moustache. He looked first surprised to see me, then surprised to see the Namek, then surprised at his extreme thinness. This succession of surprise was wryly amusing, but I don't think Piccolo had even noticed. The doctor immediately demanded Piccolo strip to the waist and step on the scale. I moved to the other side of the room and turned the radiator up. Piccolo hadn't moved a muscle. Worriedly, I moved back over to him and touched his arm. He flinched away, and then suddenly seemed to register what had been said and silently began to remove his garments and stepped on to the scale. The doctor's eyes widened worriedly. I tried to lean over to see the number, but I couldn't make it out. Then the doctor measured him. I caught that number – 6'6". (Sheesh!) The doctor looked anxious, and asked me to leave the room. I thought to question him, to demand to stay, but he just looked so anxious. I left without a word, even though I felt put out.

A short while later, during which time I had found myself reading a women's magazine, I was called back in and the doctor asked Piccolo to leave the room to fill in some forms. He complied without a word.

"Vegeta, will you sit down please?" he said once Piccolo had gone.

"He's too thin. I know he's too thin." I said, impatiently, crossing every limb.

"Yes." The doctor nodded, biting his lip, "Yes. The important question is; why is he not eating?"

"Drinking."

"What?"

"His species doesn't eat. And are you implying that he's doing this on purpose?" I could feel myself getting angry. I tried to control myself.

"Well, yes. He's clearly grieving. But I can't figure out why this alone would make him want to die. Is there something else that - "

"Want to die? Are you mad? There's nothing wrong with his mind!" I was standing now, ki rising.

"Please sit down, Mr. Vegeta." The doctor was entirely unruffled by my little outburst. It was probably because of this that I sat back down without a fuss. "Your friend appears to me to be very withdrawn and emotionally disturbed. I'm no expert but –"

"Damn right, you're not. He's always been withdrawn –"

"But it's clear even to me that he is an extremely troubled individual." The doctor was speaking loudly now. I shook my head, my ears buzzing.

"He's not trying to kill himself. He's just sad. Lonely. He wouldn't ever try to –"

Something clicked together in my mind. How long was the Namek lifespan? How much younger was he than me? And how alone did we, both of us, feel right now? Was it entirely out of the realms of possibility that maybe he was intentionally wasting away, reducing himself to skin and bone, in a frantic bid to escape this world?

"I think it might be more a subconscious action than a conscious one." The doctor said.

"Yes. I think I understand." I stood up, "How much weight does he need to gain before he's healthy again?"

"At least one hundred pounds. He weighs only 98 pounds at the moment; someone of his height should weigh about 200."

I nodded silently and left the room.

I was so angry. It felt like my head was overheating. I kept thinking, 'how dare that Namek do this to himself?' But why was I suddenly so irate? I took a few deep breaths, realised I was being irrational and let my anger ebb.

Piccolo was waiting for me, arms folded, leaning against one beige wall. A very old posture that I was so familiar with. But he just looked like a perversion of his former self. Stick-figured and artificial.

"What did he say to you?" He grunted without looking at me.

"Nothing that I didn't already know, really." I replied, taking his arm and leading him outside. "What were the forms for?"

"Hmm. Prescription. For my dizziness and headaches." He sounded distant.

"Headaches? You never mentioned…"

"Well." He shrugged, "Where's the chemist?"

"Next to the bookshop. I'll take you."

I left him in the chemist while I went to get my monthly food. The horrible lady there grinned at me and said something chirpy, but I ignored her, stalking among the shelves for extra tea, coffee, soup, milk and juice. Anything I could pour down that Namek's throat. I ignored every word that the woman said, gathered up the bags and left. She looked affronted, but I didn't care. I ducked my head into the bookshop and collected some new reading material, then returned to the chemist. Piccolo was waiting for me outside. We flew back home.

Tired from the excursion, Piccolo went to bed. I cracked open a new book, but I couldn't focus on it. I kept thinking about the Namek, sleeping in the next room. And about myself. How we'd both reacted to the same measure of grief and loneliness so differently. And how, now I was taking care of him, I hadn't felt at all lonely. Having someone to argue with, someone from the old days that reminded me of happier times, was remarkably fulfilling. Yet there was something to just having Piccolo with me…not as an old comrade in arms, but as a person…as an odd, flawed, slightly crazy old friend I'd become very fond of.

But, considering what he'd become, he seemed like a horrible metaphor for my very existence. All that I had once known and loved had changed, withered away. Maybe I was trying to find something in Piccolo that had died long ago. It seemed wrong to do that, as it currently seemed as if his sanity and madness traversed one another. I sighed and put the book down.

I got up and poked my head round the doorframe. Piccolo, eyes half-closed, was all bundled up in the sheets, clutching them around him as if they were his chrysalis. He looked like he was just emerging from a fitful sleep, bewildered by some chaotic dream. His eyes, heavy with sleep, didn't even meet mine.

"Hey." I said softly, remembering how sensitive his hearing was. (Why hadn't I thought of that before now?) "I'm going to go to your house now and collect your things. I'll be about four hours. Will you be alright on your own?"

He nodded, eyes sliding back closed. I went into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, then left it on the dressing table in case he wanted it while I was gone.

I tried to fly quickly. It's at times like this I wish I'd bugged my rival into teaching me his translocation technique. It would've cut my travelling time phenomenally. Apart from when I was visiting the dead, I realised, I couldn't use the technique for that. And that was the core reason for my usual trip out.

I spotted the town that Piccolo called home. The snow had melted now, and I could clearly see the brown, tilled, fertile earth, the sheep and the children playing in the schoolyard, pouring like milk out of the gates on their way home, in brightly coloured coats. A lot of the houses were cottages like Piccolo's, made of dark grey stone with thatched roofs. I swooped low to get a better look before flying upward again towards Piccolo's house. As I landed I noticed a couple of children sitting on his wall, both young boys of about eight or nine.

"Wow! You can fly!" said the taller, jumping up with excitement.

"Do you know where Mr. Daimao is?" said the smaller, more reserved than his companion.

"Mr. Daimao?" there was a spasm in a muscle in my mouth as I fought the urge to smile.

"Yeah. That's what our parents said to call him." The taller boy said, looking at his feet. His shoes were scuffed at the toes. "They say we bug him too much. But sometimes he'll tell us stories about battles for the planet."

"Oh, does he now?" I smiled, despite myself. Then I thought how desperately lonely Piccolo must've been to resort to telling these kids tales of his glory days. The smile melted from my face.

"Did he really do all those things?" The smaller child asked, "Did he really fight alongside Son Goku?"

"Yes he did." I sighed regretfully.

"Where is he? The people in town were worried. They thought his house had been broken into." The tall one said.

"They were talking about a Neighbourhood Watch." The smaller one added. I rolled my eyes; of all the mundane concerns…

"He's just fine. He's staying with me for a while."

"Who are you? Are you a fighter to? Were you in the Earth's Special Forces too?" The tall boy was rather overeager. My lip curled.

"Yes. Yes, I was." I began walking up the path, to signal the conversation was at an end. They didn't try to follow me.

I pushed the door open and walked inside. The house was beginning to smell musty. I opened a window as I walked through to the bedroom, heading straight for the wardrobe. I was mystified as to why Piccolo had switched to civilian clothes. I mean, I knew he was living in a town with people now, but that never stopped him before. Maybe it was an attempt to hide his diminishing figure. Or maybe it was another symptom of age. I emptied the wardrobe into a suitcase I'd found under the bed, not bothering to fold anything properly. The Namek would probably shout at me later – what was it that just made me want to provoke him?

At the bottom of the wardrobe, folded up into a tight bundle and covered with a woollen scarf, as if trying to cover its very existence, I found Piccolo's weighted cape and turban. He clearly hadn't worn either in quite some time. I packed them, deciding that, somehow, I would get him back into at least one of these garments. I spotted a pair of reading glasses on the nightstand. Smirking, I picked them up and slid them into my pocket.

I went into the little bathroom that was adjoined to the bedroom and gathered up what I saw; toothbrush, toothpaste, soap. The sink basin and the floor of the bathroom had faint streaks of mud covering them. Piccolo must clean the garden from himself in here. Which reminded me – I went into the kitchen and collected Piccolo's Wellington boots, putting them in a plastic bag so mud wouldn't flake everywhere. Then, on my way out, I snatched up that frame with the photograph of all of us, shut the window and boarded up the door.

The kids were still outside.

"I know who you are." The small one said, "You're Vegeta. You're a hero."

I didn't respond.

"When is Mr. Daimao coming back?" the tall one demanded.

"When he feels better." I growled, "He's getting some mountain air."

"Why? What's wrong with him?" the smaller one looked like he didn't believe that Piccolo could possibly be ill in the slightest.

"He's old now, and needs the company of other old people who remember him when he was young." I lied fluidly. Though, who knows? Maybe Piccolo was feeling that way. And maybe I felt that way too.

I took flight immediately, earning cries of awe from the two boys, and flew through the clouds as fast as I could. That little town sickened me slightly, and I hoped I would never have to go back there. Strangely, I also hoped Piccolo wouldn't have to go back either.

I arrived home and immediately checked on Piccolo. He was fast asleep in bed. The glass of water I'd left him had been drained; I smiled. I left the suitcase filled with his personal belongings at the foot of the bed and the glasses on the dressing table. As I collected the glass I found myself stroking the Namek's cheek absently with the back of my hand. I withdrew it sharply and stomped out of the room.

A little while later, whilst I was sitting in the kitchen, after I'd finally managed to become absorbed in a book, Piccolo appeared in the doorway. He looked a little better. He came in to the room steadily and sat down opposite me. I found the bottle of pills the doctor had given him in the half-emptied grocery bag and pushed them towards him, along with another glass of water. He wordlessly took a pill and washed it down with a sip of water, pushing the rest of the glass away. I pursed my lips and raised an eyebrow.

"No, Vegeta." Piccolo said stubbornly in response, "No more. I'll be sick. I need to start slow."

"I've been meaning to talk to you about something." I said, putting the book face down on the table.

"Oh yes?" He seemed nervous. An image of a black night and black, intense eyes flashed through my mind.

"About what the doctor said to me."

"Ah…I see…I thought as much." Piccolo paused, "Did he think I was losing my mind?" He seemed to shrink into himself as he said that, as if he feared that more than anything. Maybe his mind was to him as my pride was to me; all that we had now. All that remained. Apart from each other.

"Not especially. He thought you were disturbed…" I took a breath. There were eels squirming in my chest. "And he said he thought that maybe you were trying to die."

"…Oh." It came out a whisper. Piccolo's sonorous voice temporarily abandoned him. He looked at his hands.

"Were you trying to die?" Now I was terribly worried. I hadn't thought that Piccolo consciously wanted to take his own life. Starving himself seemed a rather roundabout way of doing it.

"I…No…I just…" Piccolo was still looking at his hands. I stared at them too, all bony and frail. They looked like a pair of wings. Broken bird wings. I reached over and encased them with my own.

"You what?" Inside, I was aching. I didn't want to hear this, I decided. I may have started it, but I didn't want to hear it. I was angry again, "What the hell were you trying to do?"

"I wanted to escape." Piccolo raised his eyes to my face, hurt expressed plainly in his dulcet tones, "I didn't think I could take living another hundred years so alone. I wanted to empty myself out…Not self-destruct, per se…not really. I needed to go quietly, while there was still some meaning left. While there was something of myself to salvage. My intention was to self-immolate, without fire."

"Piccolo, this has to stop." I folded my arms.

"I…" he sighed, "I know." His voice was low and breathy.

"I'll help you."

"Thank you."

After that, things got easier.

The days began to while away in the usual manner. I read, cooked meals and stared out the window as the winter began to melt away, warmed by the pale pink spring. Nothing had changed, apart from that Piccolo slept in the next room. He still needed a lot of sleep, but as the trees began to bloom and the sky seemed to glow, he spent more and more time awake. He was putting on some weight, stopped seeming so brittle and breakable, beginning to glow like the spring. I started to train him, to build some muscle through physical exercise. I didn't dare push him too hard. He tired easily.

He began to brighten up with the spring as well. He spoke about flowers the colour of the sky and long grasses, moving like an ocean in the northern winds and blossoms with heads like butterflies. I could see an ornate garden in his words.

One day I just couldn't find him anywhere. Then I looked out of the window. On his hands and knees, in his Wellington boots and up to his elbows in earth, Piccolo was turning the patch of wild grass and weeds outside my home into a garden of our own. He must've gone back to his horrid little house to pick up his gardening supplies. I could see his trowel and a spade and seeds and bulbs and even a small, unearthed tree. He looked so content outside, streaked with the brown earth. I smiled fondly at the sight before throwing myself down into a chair to read my book. I smiled at him when he returned inside, kicking off his muddy boots.

"You look ridiculous." I informed him, taking in the sight of the Namek covered in soil, half-drowned in it.

"It's not easy you know." He sniffed, affronted, "Turning that wasteland out there into something that will grow."

"I'm sure it'll be a paradise when you're done." I smirked, turning my attention back to my book.

He moved towards me and wiped a long hand across my face, spreading muck across my forehead, my nose, my mouth. I sprang up and grabbed hold of his hand, of the soft, earthen flesh. He used his other hand so spread more filth, laughing richly. And, as disgruntled as I was, I couldn't help but laugh too. I remembered this feeling from a long time ago. Contentment? Probably.

I kept having those nightmares, though.

The thin light was growing brighter, flashing across my face quickly, blindingly white. But, just as quickly as it came, it would pass, and I would be plunged into the darkness again. Each time it happened felt like losing someone I loved, and my stomach fell a thousand feet. I felt like I was lost by the sea at night time; I could hear the ocean, could hear the wet, but I could not see it. Then I stopped being able to breathe, the light flashing before my face.

I'd wake up, panting. I'd see Piccolo looking at me worriedly, perched at my bedside, his hands clasped around my shoulders, as if he'd just shaken me awake. Breathlessly, I threw myself into his arms, burying my face in his chest, trying to breathe again, trying to remember where I was and who I am. Piccolo would wrap his long arms around me, tucking my head under his. Sometimes he would kiss the top of my head and rock me like a child. Sometimes I would find his mouth with my own, though we never spoke of it when the daylight came. Maybe I had cried, I can't recall. His pointed chin would dig into my scalp, and the bones in his arms would hurt my back. The pain brought back some semblance of myself and I would push Piccolo away. He wouldn't leave, though. He would stay by my bedside until I was asleep again, running long fingers through my hair. Occasionally the scenario would be repeated twice, sometimes thrice, a night.

I began have panic attacks during the day, certain I was being asphyxiated by some invisible foe. Once or twice I fainted. The Namek found my unconscious form on the floor; he still didn't have the strength to move me, so had to try to rouse me quickly. Piccolo grew sick with worry. It was odd; he'd stopped drinking again because he was so concerned about me. He lost some of what little weight he had gained. I knew something had to be done about this. I went to see the fat, red doctor, who gave me sleeping pills. They began to work, for a time.

Then the nightmares began to get worse. Piccolo would rush in to help me, but I didn't see him; I saw the thinness. I saw him as flashes of white light. I began to fear sleep. Insomnia claimed me. I would watch the day turn to night and then pale back into day again. I started to think I was getting too old for this.

Piccolo banned me from drinking coffee. I got better.

I think it was simply that I grew used to having him there that I grew to be dependant on him. I stopped being quite so manic, now my nightmares were subsiding. And I was no longer lonely.

It was odd training him, though. It wasn't like training my children, because he already knew how to fight. And how to fight well. He just had no strength. I eventually coaxed him back into his weighted clothes, then into the gravity chamber. Something was missing though. Something seemed to have vanished from his technique, and I had no idea what it was.

That is, until I stopped by his room one day and found him meditating. Floating a good foot off the bed, wavering unsteadily at times, but nevertheless, meditating. He looked so tranquil, yet so focused. I could feel his power level rising back towards where it belonged. When he trained after that he seemed far more honed; his mind was sharper, his reflexes were better.

It felt as if things were all out in the open now, although, in reality, we knew perfectly well that they weren't. I was clearly still projecting something on to him, he was still weak and sad and unsure. And there was something else there. A need, perhaps. I needed to keep him, not just alive, but with me. Even though the months passed and, as the spring transmuted into just another memory, Piccolo got stronger, gained some weight, gained some muscle, I still didn't stop worrying about him.

Not a word was mentioned about his leaving. I think now that we both secretly realised that we wanted to just stay together. If I had asked Piccolo to leave, he would've packed and left immediately. But I didn't want him to leave.

The summer arrived in a haze and the garden began to bloom. Purple lilac blossoms wound their way around the front of the house, and wild heather in a deeper purple grew in a thick thatch around the front. Marigolds, as glorious as a sunset, and scented blue hyacinths sprang up, lush and fragrant. There were tough little wildflowers too; the cornflowers were the same colour of the sky. The trees grew heavy with fleshy pink flowers. As he had promised, he's made the sky grow from the ground. Piccolo had made my grey little mountain explode with colour.

I stopped wanting to wear black and I ate sweet peaches and runny honey with everything. I made lavender jam and grilled meat with the sour cherries that the young trees bore. Piccolo drank fragrant teas made from rose petals and crushed violets.

I fixed the old chair on the porch, and sat out in the garden, ablaze with blossoms, reading, as Piccolo sowed poppy seeds. I could smell the perfume from the luminous jewel-like flowers. It was delicate and subtle, not at all like the lilies from the florist, nor like my soap. It was new, yet somehow familiar. I would take deep breaths and let my lungs fill with clouds of this perfume. I could almost taste the bliss on the air.

One evening, just before twilight, I was sat outside, open book in my lap, watching lazy butterflies dance through the pollen-filled sky. Piccolo was buried in the fat, wild flowers somewhere. I sighed contentedly, thinking about Piccolo, thinking about life.

I stood up, gazing across the garden of shimmering petals to where Piccolo was buried in blue grasses and daisies and baby pear trees. Smiling I walked down the porch steps and through the waxy blossoms to where he was. I sat down next to him, and he pulled back from where he was patting down the earth around the young tree, leaning back to put us at about the same height. He was conspicuously filthy with soil and mud.

"It's so…" I was lost for words. I didn't know why I had spoken. Only one word came to mind, "Beautiful." I said softly.

"I'm glad you like it." Piccolo replied, wiping the dirt from his face.

"I've never seen anything quite like it…of all the planets I've been to, some overgrown with the most unbelievable jungles…this is the most amazing…it's like an oasis in a desert." I shook my head with silent wonder.

"It sort of is. Our escape. From the outside world, a desert that cruel. And an escape from time."

He smiled at me, warmly. As warm as the golden evening sun that poured down on us, lighting up our features, almost making us young again, and the tall flowers that hid us from the world around. I returned the smile, reaching a hand out and grasping his neck. He leaned to the side and I pulled him towards me, falling back into the flowerbeds.

We kissed deeply as we lay amongst the flowers. Piccolo, holding me tightly, crouched over me. He was still thin, and I was still sad. But here, in this golden garden, nothing seemed to matter anymore. We kissed tenderly and brutally again and again until the light finally gave way and the darkness of night claimed us. The sky was black, lit up with fireflies. We, with bee-stung lips, returned indoors.

I slipped out of the bed just before dawn. I pulled the fine gauze curtains apart and stared up into the clear, grey sky. It was full of the black shapes of descending birds. I fancied that they were flying backwards. The sun was beginning to appear, a filtered pale gold just beyond the horizon. I lit a cigarette and smoked it, watching the sky full of birds, and the light. I could sense Piccolo stirring behind me. I did not turn around. The light grew stronger. I blew silver smoke from my nose.

"Do you love me?" I said without turning from the window.

"I've died before." He replied, thoughtfully, "This feels a lot like that."

Dawn painted the sky with pinks and blues. The sun was thick and heavy, like honey. The black shapes of the birds dispersed. I ground my cigarette out on the windowsill, leaving a black burn on the white varnish.

"You know," I said, "One day you just won't be able to wake me up."

"I know."

"And you still love me?"

"I do."

I smiled faintly and turned from the window, returning to my lover's arms.

Fin.

Notes: Well, that's it. I hope I achieved what I set out today, and I hope you enjoyed this tale of love, life, time, longing, age, lonliness and desperation. I'm not good at happy endings, but this one is a postive one, and I'm glad I thought of the scene (I actually wrote the last scene when I was about half way through writing the second 'part') as it just seems to work so well in my head. I hope you think it works on paper too. As usual, reviews are greatly appreciated, even adored. Big thank you to new reviwers, and big hugs to old friends; Volcanic, for your sweet review & always frequenting my site, and Trunksblue, who has reviewed since round about my very first work on these fair shores of all those years ago.

And, speaking of the site...guess what I did? It's been updated! There are a few new things, and this story has been archived there. It may not look it, but it was a huge update, because now all the fanfiction there is up to code. Hooray. I deserve a glass of wine after all that! The site can be found through my profile page, and is located at (beyondwonderland dot atspace dot com) and is probably the first & largest V/P shrine on the web. Go take a look. It would make me happy.