Young Hearts and Old Bones

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z or any of its characters

Chapter Four

The way we hide

The fallout from that particular incident had been significantly more dramatic than Piccolo had anticipated. Not that he had imagined any actual consequences, hadn't considered anything beyond how far he could sink and for how long he could stay there. Would he be able to swim back up to the surface in time or would the universe decide that his time had finally arrived? It was just a theory, a question that went unanswered, and it wasn't the first time he had ventured out into the dark, the cold, or the deep looking for that conclusion. To say that Gohan was obsessively furious would have been an understatement. Vegeta had clearly told the half Saiyan exactly what he wanted to know and even though he probably had no right, Piccolo felt betrayed and resentful.

The younger man had wasted no time at all attempting to imprison him in his beige home, smothering him in all its blandness, herbal tea and human niceties. Twenty four hours ago he had been sinking, drifting away into an abyss so blissful and empty he could have stayed there forever. And now, here he was sitting at a wooden table in a neutral, square room with slowly knitting bones and a sore throat, listening to Gohan's angry breathing. Guilt. That would be the primary reason why he was sitting here allowing this to continue. The secondary reason would be that he felt weak and tired, and third? He wasn't sure if he cared enough to leave, or stay, or even form a coherent response.

Gohan poured chopped potatoes into a pan and set it to simmer, thinking and staring angrily into the white kitchen tiles lining the wall as he did. He could feel Piccolo sitting awkwardly behind him, elbows tucked in and back too straight, looking bitterly at the back of his head. The terror had given way to relief, which had made way for confusion and had finally settled uncomfortably in a chasm of unadulterated fury. How dare he? How could he? He had asked himself, and Piccolo, over and over. No one seemed to have an answer. Videl had once, when he had told her impatiently that Piccolo was avoiding him and he didn't know why, years ago. She had whirled round at him, dark brunette hair flying everywhere and blue eyes flashing with frustration, he had seen and chosen not to deal with the jealousy there. 'I don't know Gohan. I haven't done a degree in Namekian psychology. Do you?!"

It was a comment that cropped up in his ramblings from time to time, more often than it should really. What did he know about Namekian psychology? He had spent a lifetime applying human systems to Piccolo and coming up blank. He sighed, stirring the white fish and vegetables in a garlic and white wine sauce. Videl had taught him many things, cooking being one of them. Absently, he thought of the strong scent of the food and he knew for a fact that Piccolo would be finding it abhorrent. He felt bad, but not bad enough to openly acknowledge it. He heard the Namek stand, heard an involuntary cough, and light footsteps travelling up the stairs.

Piccolo had seriously contemplated leaving but he had promised Gohan that he would stay for two days. Over some invented concern about drowning and liquid in his lungs. Apart from a wounded ego and some crushed ribs, courtesy of two Saiyans hammering into it, he physically felt fine. It would heal, almost flawlessly no doubt. The door to the bedroom Gohan had unofficially given him creaked as it opened, and he was grateful for the cool pleasant air passing through the window that he always kept open just in case. The breeze touched his skin and he shivered, touched by the memory of Vegeta's face, stern and concerned ahead of him in the dim light of the ocean's deep. He blinked it away, suddenly and uncharacteristically, closing the window loudly. With eyes closed, he leaned against the window's frame and fought back the nausea stirring in his stomach; the taste of sea salt on his tongue.

A part of him missed the rush, the adrenaline had been so intoxicating, and then the floating, fading into nothing. Like battle, but so much more involved and private. One day it would be too much, he might go too far and there would be no rescue, but he didn't mind. How Vegeta had sensed him, found him, and almost pulled him out had been so unlikely as to be suspicious. Or had he been so careful to fall from Gohan's vision that he had forgotten about the Saiyan Prince's keen perception? He made a note, morbidly, not to make the same mistake next time.

Unbeknownst to him, Vegeta had already considered that the Namek would make alterations to his movements to avoid detection next time. He was older, wiser and had far more life experience than the Earth borne Namek, Kami's memories or not, and already knew well the rabbit hole Piccolo was busy burying into. How deep it goes. He kicked the gravity chamber up a notch and tried to focus, the humiliation of being caught unawares by a frantic Namek, in water not deep enough to drown a Saiyan child, weighed heavily on his pride.

Piccolo sat on the floor and crossed his legs and although meditating without his turban and cape wasn't ideal, he persevered. If he left the little house Gohan would likely give himself an aneurysm and he was already losing patience for the other man's bothersome worrying. The carpet felt soft, and he closed his mind, levitating above it, pouring all of his remaining energy into creating peace. The image of Vegeta's face again, distorted in a deep blue hue, crawled its way into his vision and he pushed it away. Then Gohan, grabbing Piccolo in strong, sure hands, vivid green eyes narrowed in concern, and all that irrational fear falling away. He dropped to the floor ungracefully. He hadn't been able to meditate well, save the odd occasion, for months and he guessed he could add this to the long list of reasons why not. It might even be a year now. And certainly years since he did it every day. He leaned back against the wall miserably, the plaster unforgiving and hard against his skull. Jade eyes closed, reveling in self pity and hating it, but doing it anyway.

Gohan sat down with his dinner, almost throwing it on the table. His reliable appetite was a little lackluster but he shovelled in a few mouthfuls for his sanity's sake whilst he thought. He heard Piccolo close the window, heard another bang, maybe him jumping? He fought the urge to go up and check, knowing it would not be well received. It was only a matter of time before his guest left of his own accord anyway, Gohan was aware that he had almost no influence over the surly Namekian at the best of times. The fact he was using emotional blackmail to keep him here for a day or two was not lost on either of them, and he ran a guilty hand through a greying temple; the control gave him a shiver of pleasure that he felt ashamed of. Standing abruptly, he poured boiled kettle water into a mug, adding a tea bag and a spoon of sugar, and headed upstairs.

A knock on the door woke Piccolo, who hadn't even been aware that he'd fallen asleep, and he coughed but didn't respond.

Gohan pushed the door open, not waiting for a proper response. All that anger he'd been nursing so fervently dissipated quickly, falling to the pit of his stomach as he looked at his former mentor. Piccolo was seated with his back propped against the wall, long legs stretched out so far the man's bare ankles lay below the bed frame. His hands hung loosely in his lap and he avoided looking at Gohan, no real acknowledgment, just staring ahead definitely. The half Saiyan moved towards his friend, choosing to sit on the bed facing him, sock covered feet planted firmly on the outside of each of Piccolo's calves. The cup was presented with a soft smile, and Gohan tried not to convey his intense concern through chai scented steam.

The sun was setting now, casting a low, warm glow in through the window, and birds were fluttering home. In this light the half Saiyan thought Piccolo's skin lit up beautifully, his perfect complexion soaking up the rays, looking no older than maybe thirty years old. The Namek didn't take the cup, instead just looking at his old student, gaze filled with annoyance. But Gohan was patient, decades of teaching mixing with his affection, he would win this battle. And Piccolo knew it. What he didn't know, but suspected, was that Gohan had no intention of letting him leave. Not this time.

He placed the warmed cup on the bedside table and stood, placing tired hands on his hips and sighing. As he left, trying not to storm out, he told Piccolo that he would run a bath. He spoke so gently that it irritated the Namek, he didn't deserve Gohan's kindness and even though it was well meant, he'd prefer something more raw. Anger, fighting, anything. The sound of running water rushed along his long ears and slowly, petulantly even, he pushed himself up the wall. The strong scent of salt, seaweed and blood was still heavy on his skin, and even though he much preferred the waterfall's soothing caress, the bath would do.

Steam filled the room nicely, clearing sinuses he hadn't even realised were congested. The bath did not look quite big enough, ordinarily he'd complain but Gohan was in a peculiar mood and he didn't want to provoke an argument, which in itself made him laugh. Didn't he want a fight? The purple gi fell to the floor gracefully and he turned the tap, water tapering off into the tub. Lifting a delicate foot, he dipped his claws in and then plunged to the bottom. It was incredibly hot. He hissed without realising, and almost withdrew it. It wasn't the same as falling in the ocean but it fed the habit, a little. Emerald skin was turning violet quickly.

Gohan wouldn't like this. He sighed, irritated that the thought had even entered his mind. His claws struggled with turning the cold tap on and off, but it gave way without him causing too much damage, eventually. He stepped in, it was still hot enough to sting but nothing too dramatic. Water climbed up his chest to just about cover his upper arms, knees remained bent but it wasn't totally unpleasant, snug maybe. Aching skin soothed under the water, and he felt the gentle tingle of something, a salt or something that Gohan had added. Colourful bottles were dotted around the tub and he picked one up, looking closely at the thick amber liquid inside, slowing viscously as he tipped it. Unscrewing the cap was awkward, but worth it. The scent was soft, oaky even. Another container was opened, this time revealing a dark brown goo. It smelled chocolatey and he fondly remembered Pan's single minded obsession with the substance as a toddler. He hadn't even thought of that, for decades, and how quickly the memory was here to stay. Distracted, the open bottle brushed his upturned nose and he reared his head back, the liquid having gotten on his face and up one nostril. He must have made a surprised sound because Gohan knocked on the door, making him drop the bottle into the water.

No answer came, and so Gohan pushed the door open and bit his lip at the sight before him. All the scrambling to find the tiny bottle had created bubbles in the water and a sweet, chocolate aroma filled the bathroom. The half Saiyan knew immediately what had occurred and he laughed, heartily, for the first time in days. Piccolo was horrified, but the sound was so welcome he couldn't help but chuckle faintly under his breath. Violet tinged cheeks and the small smile, fangs poking out, made Gohan's heart clench. He stepped into the room, confident that the bubbles would provide his guest with enough modesty to satisfy social norms and grabbed a new sponge, he passed it to Piccolo, along with another one of those small bottles.

"I got this the other day, I thought you'd like it"

Piccolo didn't know how to respond, or even understand why Gohan would purchase such a thing for him. Nearly a hundred years had passed though and he had learned to say thank you, even appreciated the gesture but couldn't help but wonder if the younger man was projecting. It made him feel odd. He nodded his thanks anyway and opened it, knowing that was the next expected step in these situations. Gohan watched his guest inhale the gentle scent of sweet orange and vanilla and his eyes wandered to the red pink muscles of the man's upper abdomen. Gohan glanced away, realising that the Namek was now sat upright and unknowingly baring most of his abdomen above the dissipating bubbles. His waist was narrower than he remembered, and although strong pectorals still stood confidently, he couldn't help but notice the muscle loss. Gohan sat down on the tiled shelf next to the bath, pale trousers feeling a little damp with the steam.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The Namek looked at Gohan directly and inhaled deeply. A part of him wondered if he had the boldness to wash himself whilst they spoke. Nearly a century's worth of familiarity, and the answer was a resounding no. He leaned back and regarded his old student. Maybe it was time to give in at least a little. He opened his mouth, with all the intention in the world but steam filled it and no words came out.

Or maybe not. The half Saiyan smiled wryly, for Piccolo that was so nearly a 'oh go on then'.

"Well, I'd like to talk, after you're finished." Don't make me beg.

He nodded, giving the other man what he wanted may accelerate the return to his precious forest. It may even alleviate a little of the constant guilt.

Gohan left Piccolo to finish up in the bath, knowing the Namek would be anxious to be clean again. He had been thinking deeply for a while and he had come to several conclusions, possibly incorrect ones, but he liked to think that they were well considered. He was expecting the Namek to behave a certain way, they were both generations old in human terms, but then, Piccolo wasn't human, he was Namekian. One that had always seemed so intelligent, strategic and strong. Had he confused that with maturity? Piccolo's behaviour did reflect a stoic, wise warrior and an excellent teacher. It also still came across as stunted, misunderstood and awkward. Sure he laughed now, occasionally, and he had mellowed considerably since the angry young man who had hurled a child into the wilderness to survive on his own. He continued thinking, making a mental note to speak to Dende about it, perhaps the Kami would have some insight.

Stalkerlike, he caught Piccolo leaving the bathroom, knowing the Namek would slope off given the slightest opportunity. A newly created outfit hung from his clean skin, and he smelled fresh and faintly sweet. It wasn't a gi, which surprised him, although it shouldn't. His old friend didn't train as obsessively these days, and had a whole other wardrobe of hybrid Namekian human clothes that he donned almost randomly. Long sleeves and a high neck, all dark grey. He almost asked if they were pyjamas, but swallowed it. Were they? No.

Gohan gestured to the staircase and they both descended. It was after nine and the living room would be warmer with the fire, rather than the chilly single bedroom that Piccolo was probably itching to dart into. The fire was already on, and Gohan stoked the logs some, watching the flames lick and spit in reply.

That was six months ago. The demi Saiyan pushed black rimmed glasses up his nose and leaned back, thinking back to that halting conversation with his best friend, in front of a roaring fire. Trying to focus, he typed confidently, having done it so many times before. Seventy four percent would be the overall mark he'd give this essay, an admirable effort from an energetic student who had nervously handed it in, one day late, and over email. An alarmingly charming rhetoric about events that were now history, but like yesterday in his mind, digital in reality. How he missed paper.

Piccolo's Chi had last been sensed five weeks, 6 days and approximately 12 hours ago.

Not for the first time, he felt bitterness well in the back of his throat. The Namek had played him so beautifully that night it might even be poetic. Gently placating Gohan in the warm ember light, making empty promises to his old student, humming tunes of mended bridges to the aging Saiyan and all the while, in the air, the scent of sweet oranges and vanilla. Closing the laptop, he sighed and took the glasses off. Strong fingers rubbed at his nose and squeezed, as if the indents would actually smooth out and the burning sensation would disappear. Vegeta's energy echoed far ahead of his arrival, always meaningful. Saiyan boots landed and Gohan smiled at the sight of the blue and white uniform through the living room window. Vegeta had long since dressed in human clothes, a respectful nod to his late wife perhaps, but this? This was business. They had both searched with Eighteen and even Seventeen, Goten, Pan and Bra joined in when they could, everyday for three weeks. After that Gohan had reluctantly agreed to scout once a week, though his mind did it every day, sometimes actively, sometimes in memory. The smaller Saiyan had said it plainly, though he fancied a sad sort of anger in his words. He'd even used his name. It's becoming less likely that we'll find him alive, Gohan.

It's not like the words needed saying, he already knew well what logic dictates. But he also knew that he would know. Piccolo's death would be like a sudden impact, he would have felt it. Unless he did just fade away, softly and gently, like putting out a match.

He thought of those ruby pink abdominals, how withered they'd be in his death, his corpse a silent whisper of the man that once was. Stop it.

Vegeta waited outside, his white boots solid against fluttering wildflowers and insects cluttering in the soil beneath him. This garden had been a fine one, at one time, Videl had grown green fingers in her later years but it now lay in disrepair. A lot like they did, he supposed. Waiting for the half Saiyan brat would take time, as it always did, and he crossed burly arms in thought. The vainer part of him wondered if his greying hair was more evident in this glaring sunshine, and did it look as dank as he felt. Was he still handsome? A female friend of Bra's had flirted with him today, he was almost certain of it. In an almost outlandish contrast, a part of him also thought of how much time Gohan had left; this situation had made the younger man's heart take another spluttering plunge into the erratic. Younger. That word had meant something else at one time.

Now it just resonated with watching your loved ones grow up, wither and die. He had another word for it. Borrowed time.

A butterfly came near and he leaned back, away from its obnoxious brightness, fine lines creasing as he did. He had grown an enduring affection for his rival's spawn, even thought of him for no reason at all sometimes, but it didn't live in the same place as the affection he had for the Namek. Piccolo was his equal in so many ways, had been to the darker side, had fought with him in the glory days, had absolutely no interest in people and their crap, had so much time to come to do exactly that. The stoic Saiyan swallowed unwelcome emotion as he waited, more patiently now he had so many years on his back.

You had better be alive you fucking, stupid Namek.

Even if just it saved from Gohan living out his final years in absolute total despair. Eighteen landed next to him in a graceful wisp, as he thought of the younger Saiyan, and the grass barely registered her. Black trainers, grey jeans with a pale pink shirt and silver jacket made her look exactly as young as the day he had met her. He'd begrudge it if he had the energy, but Vegeta hadn't slept since this whole fiasco started. Since he had plunged into the depths of the Eastern sealine to find the entirely problematic and apparently emotionally complex Namekian. Here they were now, mounting yet another search effort because of the one thing he had tried to keep at arm's length. Love. He hid a smile. How human we have become.

Eighteen glanced at the smaller man, although he fell just below her height, she knew it riled him as much today as it always did. Gohan would be out soon, he always took his time, faffing with things that don't matter no doubt. Not that she was any different, having spent the afternoon filling out elaborate paperwork to have her great, great Granddaughter admitted to a good school when she turned four in one year's time. A moment ago it had been Marron. Those childish, large blue eyes bobbed around in her mind, and for a moment, but not the first time, the sight of her beautiful daughter wasn't clear anymore. She thumbed the gold necklace adorning her gentle, sharp collarbone, fondly. Inside, an image of Krillin and her daughter frozen in time. The perfect husband she had not deserved. The man who was so full of honor and goodwill, that he would be here right now if he were not instead in the ground. Together with his friends, Goku, Yamucha and Tien, Puar and Chiaotzu, Master Roshi and that comical pig, Oolong. Fists clenched and ready to find their friend. A friend who clearly hadn't known just how very loved he was.

The blonde had become quite the matriarch in her family and adored it, in her own cool, calm way. Vegeta didn't think she'd changed much for it though, although he didn't think any of them had. He spared her a glance, a smile in the blank expression there, and she returned it. Her voice was demanding as it fell across the garden, shouting for Gohan to hurry up.

The three of them jumped into the air, headed to the Tsurumai-Tsuburi mountains. A place that Gohan had avoided mostly, although Eighteen had started searching there independently. Once Vegeta had spilled the story of Piccolo and the drowning incident, she had quickly realised that the Namek was on a very self destructive merry go round. He was still very strong, with an ego and self belief system that was borderline narcissistic to boot, so she figured he would go to the one place that might be able to beat him. For weeks they had scoured the forests, the deserts, the West and East oceans and everything in between.

Vegeta had refused to wear warm clothes and snarled at Gohan, who was flying competently despite the oversized thick winter jacket, scarf, woolly hat and gloves. The demi Saiyan's spirits were high, even though he felt so lost without Piccolo, a character in his life so integral that he wondered if there was even a story to tell without him. Eighteen had suggested this with exuberance, some evidence her sharp blue eyes had spotted, and he tried so hard not to get his hopes up. It hadn't worked. This was the first lead they'd had.

Mountain air began to bite terribly as they neared, the air drying and feeling light as they ascended to the North's hostile hills. The night seemed closer up here, like endless twilight and bad weather all mixed up in a way that said 'stay away'. Gohan landed on a high peak, noticing that Vegeta and Eighteen landed on the one to his right. He smirked. Like best buddies them two. Actually it had been three, together with Piccolo, before he had gone off the grid with a dramatic 'fuck you' a couple of years ago. Gohan was Piccolo's best friend hands down, but they were something else, equally important. His people.

He tried to think, deeply searching with his mind for any sign of his mentor, aching desperately for a sign. The search began, and be damned if he was leaving without Piccolo, dead or alive.

Piccolo felt them arrive somewhere in the back of his fevered mind. A dreadfully long time later, mahogany eyes so warm they made a mockery of their surroundings blurred into his vision. So close, if he could, he might have cried.

Until next time.

W.