Concerto Nineteen: Memories

A/N

Whew! It's been awhile hasn't it? Summer has been pretty busy for me. I hope you guys enjoy this latest installment! Parts in this chapter that are italicized indicate a flashback. Rest of A/N follows this chapter

oooOOOooo

The wooden oak that was the wall of the N'Ouija estate's basement swallowed any source of outside sound, giving Vegeta permission to play his piano as loud as he would like. It made him feel as if he was closed off from the rest of the world, that nothing else mattered in his current reality except for the ivory keys and their wails, giving him peace in an otherwise chaotic world. His mother had purposely refurbished the basement to his liking, creating a space that not even she would enter so that he could create with no boundaries, no limitations. The lush olive green accents of the furniture and soft lull of the faux waterfall against the wall made him feel like he was transported to some sort of sophisticated jungle, and every time his fingers ghosted over the keys, he mentally thanked her for giving him such solitude. Because the older Vegeta got, the more he realized that it was next to near impossible to focus on creating beautiful music when such ugly words were being thrown out of his parent's mouths almost daily.

His mother's loud cries were silenced immediately as he shut the door to the basement, cutting off her last words with a slam, and he was greeted by the sounds of silence. In a way, it was as if he was shutting the door to the rest of the world and its occupants, and he had a forethought to march back upstairs and grab his mother's hand and take her with him, make her see the beauty in the quiet. Down here, there were no arguments. No fathers who drank their apologies into the dirt, no men who cared more about duty than family. In this haven of a space, the only thing that mattered was the music. In Vegeta's world, he was beginning to realize that it was the only thing that mattered.

She wouldn't listen to him anyway. She never did. His mother was a genius, he would never deny that, but her foolish decisions to chase behind his ghost of a father left a bitter taste in his mouth that bothered him while he slept. And the powerlessness that accompanied him whenever his words of reason failed the situation made him want to stop trying altogether. 'I love your father, Vegeta,' her excuse would be, and Vegeta grew tired of hearing it, playing like a loop-de-loop of a record that wouldn't stop spinning. Love. The word was the most familiar and foreign thing to him. At this point, it might as well have been laced with acid. Vegeta thought he loved a girl three years ago, back when he first started the East City Academy of Performing Arts, but he quickly realized he was just curious as to what existed in the middle of her legs. And even then, he remembered being unimpressed, feeling as if he would have enjoyed penetrating his thoughts to paper, his fingers to strings. And that was when he threw away the idea of love, in the human form anyways. Vegeta would do anything for his music, for his craft. If he could manifest it into a physical form, he would nurture it the way a mother does her babe, and tenderly watch over it until his dying breaths. That was love as far as he knew, and despite whatever nonsense his mother tried to tell him, it was by his own standards that made him know that his father did not love her in return. He didn't love any of them - couldn't love any of them. If his father wouldn't even sacrifice his own pride for their happiness, how was love even a description for how he felt about them?

The bitter thought collided against the walls inside of Vegeta's head, and he plopped down angrily, rushing his fingers to the deep, velvety keys of his piano, in no sudden mood to hear chirping, fairy sounds. He huffed and experimented with different notes until they began to string together successfully, providing a soundtrack for his blackened emotions. Even if he couldn't speak how he felt aloud, he could always count on his best friend, his beautiful Bӧsendorfer, to replicate a diary and replace his words. Soon he began to feel the familiar tug of his conscious slip through his fingers like sand, until the notes absorbed into the fine spaces of his skin.

He didn't even notice the click of the unlocking of the door, or the shadow that stood behind his back. Only the void behind the spaces of his eyelids kept his sanity company, and he practically jumped from his skin as fingers brushed across his shoulder.

"Vegeta? Can I keep you company down here?"

Vegeta turned around with a scowl etched on his lips, irritated that he was forcibly pulled away from serenading his fiery mood. Tarble stood in front of him sheepishly, his childish eyes full of emotion that spoke the words that Vegeta knew he wanted to say. He was in his night clothes and clutching a doll at his chest. It was a strange looking thing that had been gifted to his brother as a baby; some weird alien plush that was the color of cement, with a round head and two black buttons for eyes that made Vegeta uncomfortable. What was worse was that Tarble had affectionately named it Gure, and while Vegeta wanted desperately to rip the thing from his arms, the ten year old clung to it like it was a member of the family. And Vegeta would feel too much of a bully to rob Tarble of the small speck of innocence the boy had left.

"You should go to bed, Tarble," he folded his arms and looked at him sternly, feeling more of a father at the moment than a seventeen year old brother, "I'm trying to work on my music."

"I know, big brother," Tarble's eyes glossed towards the floor, and he clutched his doll tighter to his chest, "But Mother and Father are being loud again, and it doesn't sound like they'll stop. It's keeping me awake." Vegeta also knew that Tarble in all of his sensitivity didn't like hearing his protectors scream at each other, but the boy had been programmed to be too proud to admit it. But it didn't cover the welling of tears that swam in the corners of his eyes, though.

Vegeta took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his flamed hair, running his eyes towards the waterfall. "Is there nowhere else you can go?"

"Nowhere I feel safe."

"Fine, but you'll make yourself useful if you choose to remain here. At the very least, you can grab the violin from the closet and practice your scales. You seemed rusty the last time you played."

A disappointed frown stole Tarble's face as he looked back towards his older brother, his lips pressed into a pout. "I don't like playing the violin, Vegeta. I don't think music is very fun like you do."

Vegeta rose his eyebrows at this. Tarble was gifted, extremely so, even more than Vegeta was at his age. The boy never liked to practice, and getting him to rehearse even a few chords was a chore, but he had chalked it up to him being lazy or distracted. He never thought that he didn't like it, and the admission made him slightly upset. "Oh? And what is it that you like to do, then?"

Tarble's eyes perked up then, a light emitting through his chocolate brown irises. "I like to write poetry, brother! Mother let me read a few of her books, and I began to write too, and I thought it was really cool!"

This was new, and Tarble suddenly had Vegeta's full attention. "Poetry? How come you've never mentioned it before?"

The light dissipated from his face and his eyes grew cloudy again, forecasting the heavy rain behind his next words. "Because," he said softly, "Father said it made me less of a man. He said a N'Ouija had too much honor than to worry about silly words and rhyming."

Vegeta's stomach sunk in anger as he absorbed the weight in Tarble's words. Less of a man? The same Vegeta Sr. who was more of a guest in the home than an occupant had the nerve to declare what a man's substance was? Vegeta was sure the waterfall in the basement was made up entirely of his mother's tears at his father's inconsideration, that the bricksthat made the driveway consisted of the man's hardened pride. It wasn't too surprising; since Vegeta Sr. had stepped away from the music scene, he scoffed at anything in regards to the arts, but Vegeta himself could handle such a slight. Tarble was still molding, still in the impressionable stage where he didn't understand why his family dynamic was so different than his friends at the prep academy. And although Vegeta wasn't exactly brother of the year, Tarble looked up to him and Vegeta took the role seriously. "Father," he replied finally, "Is a dick. The only way you'll be less of a man is if you allow others to dictate your passions in life. I'll lose all respect for you if you do that."

This made the boy smile, being personally amused at his brother's colorful language, and he let out a giggle. "So what steps have you taken to succeed in your poetry?"

"What do you mean," Tarble scratched his head.

"I mean, do you keep journals? Or notebooks? Where do you write them at?"

"Oh!" Tarble placed a finger to his temple, a grin threatening to split his face in two, "I keep them all up here! I've never forgotten a single one!"

Impressive. Vegeta smirked proudly, knowing that if the boy said it to be true, then it was. His brother had always been a daydreamer, his head lost in the clouds and his feet planted on the ground. Vegeta had always wondered what kind of secrets he stored in that massive brain of his, and now he knew for what. And he was quite happy with what he had found.

"At the very least, you should keep a book of them. Not for you, but for others. Someone may want to read what you've written one day, and then what will you tell them?"

"Do you think I can, big brother!? Do you think I'll be that good that someone will want to read my words!?" His tiny fists clenched at his side as his mouth dropped in glee, his eyes hopeful.

"Hmph," Vegeta closed his eyes and folded his arms, hoping to block out the sun that replaced Tarble's face, "You are a N'Ouija, are you not?" He turned back towards his piano, allowing Tarble to sit on the couch behind him. "Stay if you'd like, but I require a quiet atmosphere. Use the time to create more poems in your head, and tomorrow morning we can head to the book store and get you some journals. I expect that you will write them down if you're going to be serious about it."

"Of course! Thank you, big brother, you're the best! I'm really glad I have you around here, you know."

"Hmph."

Vegeta didn't need to turn around to see the admiration that swam through Tarble's eyes as he burned a stare in his back. And Tarble certainly didn't need to see the affection that clouded Vegeta's face, either.

oooOOOooo

Vegeta hated shopping. There was no beating around the bush when it came to that. He despised the crowds, the stuffy atmosphere and the even stuffier people, and the terrible music that spilled through the speakers like toxic gas. His own methods to buying clothes were concise and strict: get in, buy the merchandise and get out. And most of the time, he was in his car and driving home before the sun even had the time to properly greet the day.

And yet here he was, smack dab in the middle of a Saturday, in the ritziest part of town on a busy street, watching Bulma skim through dozens of racks in a quaint boutique, shopping for a wedding dress for Goku and Chi Chi's upcoming nuptials. He didn't even want to go to the wedding, but he would be damned if he let Bulma fly solo to an event painted in the allure of romance, quite possibly becoming susceptible to a harem of drunken men with drunken intentions of a reception rendezvous. He knew the kind of stares a woman of her stature acquired, and there was no way he would allow it, even if he knew Bulma would wave their lustful advances off like pesky flies. So when she batted her eyelashes at him prettily and asked him to accompany her to find a new dress, he obliged.

"What do you think about this one?" She held up a lavender dress and stuck her head through the space between the hanger and the material, forming it to her body. Vegeta eyed it up and down, mentally picturing her wearing it. He shook his head immediately.

"The color doesn't do your hair justice. I think you could find a better dress."

"Hmm, maybe you're right, although I really like the lace in the sleeves," she removed it from her head and pouted, giving it a once over again. "You know, I'm really surprised at how good you are at this. I would assume most men would grunt and ask their girlfriend to hurry up."

She may have been surprised, but the truth was that Vegeta was used to this. His mother would do the same thing, playing dress up with high spirits before a date with his father, parading around in front of himself and Tarble in colorful clothes before asking them for their opinion. But he had been a child at the time, back when a simple, "You look great Mother!" was sufficient for every opinion. He knew Bulma would require a more complex answer, and she at least deserved to know the truth. She sighed, placing the dress back on the rack and biting her lip.

"Maybe we should just go. It's been forever since I've been to any reception, and most of the dresses I own don't exactly scream wedding, but we've already been at this for hours. Maybe I'm shooting blanks here and just being overly picky," she rolled her eyes towards the door, and Vegeta could read in her face that she didn't really want to go, but there were no lies to her words. He checked his watched and noticed that they had already been in here for three hours, and Bulma was no closer to finding a dress than she was when they first arrived. But still, he heard the excitement drip from her lips at having an excuse to buy another outfit. Bulma's family was rich, there was no denying that, and her wardrobe could fill an entire mall if she wanted to, but it still didn't stop her from wanting to expand. And besides, a new dress could also be a treat for him too, considering he had already seen most of her more formal wear. So with a begrudging sigh, he skimmed through the racks himself, looking through dresses in her size. When he turned into this guy, he didn't know.

The dresses were so elaborate and detailed that it made him nauseous, with enough embroidery to make a craft store squeal in gleeful theatrics. Bulma had insisted on the boutique because of it's reputation for finding the right dress for a wedding, but Vegeta was sure that most of this crap was for the bride herself. "We're already here," he muttered to her, "So we might as well find you something you're satisfied with. Otherwise this day is for nothing."

He felt her feathery lips grace his cheek, making his skin flushed at the mere contact. "Thank you Vegeta, you're the absolute best." His fingers froze at the phantom voice behind her words, reminding him of a little boy who had said that to him at one point in time. He glanced over at her and tried to swallow down the pain that the memory brought up, and was relieved to see that she was lost in browsing through the racks. He turned back to the task at hand, rejecting most of the dresses because of their color of their gaudy appearance, trying hard to stomp out his wandering thoughts with the heel of his Oxford.

Towards the end of the rack, almost neglected and picked over, was a lone, long sleeved, ivory dress. The collar was high, almost a turtle neck, with sheer sleeves and neckline. From the bust area and down, underneath the sheer layer, was a creamy white, almost satin material, that swam down in waves until it puddled out around the ankles. Vegeta rubbed his fingers over the lacy fabric that adorned the dress, and admired it for its Victorian-esque look. He removed it from the rack and spun it towards her, holding it up in front of her face.

"Wow!" She remarked breathlessly, taking the fabric in between her fingers, "This is gorgeous." Her sapphire eyes drank it in, moving it around her fingers delicately. Vegeta watched her with interest, feeling slightly proud that something he picked out had such an effect on her reaction. "I really love this, Vegeta," her fingers dropped from the dress and she pouted, "But I can't wear this one."

His satisfaction diminished into pebbles and he frowned at her, feeling defensive as if she had insulted him. "And why not? It's in your size, and your facial expression shows that you admire it."

"Yeah but, I can't wear white. Then I'll upstage the bride."

"Isn't that supposed to be a color for purity? They have a child! And they're already married!"

"Vegeta…" Bulma pressed her arms to her side and raised an eyebrow at him, "It would be completely rude. I would hate for someone to do that to me at my own wedding. Besides, this looks more like a bridal gown than anything. Chi Chi wouldn't like it, I don't think anyone would."

A taller woman made her way over to them, her hands clasped at her belly, her smile lifting off of her cheeks. "Do you like that dress, Miss?" Her meek voice sounded hopeful, her fingers running circles around each other as if she was grasping at straws.

Bulma's mouth fell open as she looked between Vegeta, the dress, and the saleswoman. Vegeta could taste the apprehension that spilled from her lips as she spoke. "Yes, it's a very beautiful dress, but I don't think it'll work for the event I have planned."

"Oh," the woman frowned, placing a delicate finger on her cheek, "That's too bad. This dress is actually from France. I brought it back myself after a visit, but no one has bought it yet, even at the sales price. Everyone claims it's too old fashioned for a bride to wear in this day and age."

"Really?" Bulma's eyebrow rose in disbelief, as if she herself was insulted, "I think it's a gorgeous dress. I'm sure any bride would look lovely in it."

"Would you like to try it on?"The saleswoman gestured for Vegeta to pass it to her, which he did, and she held it against Bulma's frame, "It seems like it would fit you perfectly. You certainly have the figure to do it justice."

Bulma looked torn between her answer, although Vegeta was more than sure that she wanted to. Before she could deny the opportunity, he cleared his throat, having no more patience for her to hold back her own wishes. "Just try it on, Bulma. I highly doubt Chi Chi would throw a tantrum because you wore a white dress."

"I still won't wear it to the wedding, Vegeta, but…." A sigh slipped from her lips and she took reluctantly took it in her fingers, folding it over her arm, "I guess it's not every day that I get to try on something from France directly. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to see what it looks like on." The saleswoman seemed more than satisfied with the answer and led Bulma away to the fitting rooms, giving Vegeta the time to get off of his feet as he sat in a plush chair in front of the changing area. He pulled out his cell phone, responding to a text message from Nappa. Vegeta had been corresponding with his uncle since he paid a visit to Frieza, and Nappa had been burying his head in the sand trying to find a solution to Vegeta's woes. The last message Vegeta sent was one of absolute desperation, a question that burned the tips of his fingers the moment he typed it on his phone.

Should I just ask Bulma for the money? I really don't want her involved, Nappa.

And he didn't. Taking the money from Bulma was easy, and he was sure that she would offer it to him with a cheery grin on her face. It was just how she was, always offering her services to help out her loved ones in need, even if it meant bailing out scar faced idiots who didn't even deserve her speaking his name. But then what? How long would it be before Frieza found out just where Vegeta had gotten the money? Would he demand more? And what would that mean for her? He had already threatened her life, and Vegeta was sure that the drug lord's personal stamp on her flesh wasn't going away anytime soon, and he didn't want to provide any more ammunition to the loaded gun. Being with her was enough -loving her was enough, and Vegeta would rather take the bullet himself than make her a target any more.

And furthermore, Bulma wasn't the reason he was in this situation. Hell, even he wasn't the reason for Frieza's sick ploys, but something stung in his chest at asking her for help. He'd rather drain every avenue of possibility dry before diving to that option, and he wasn't entirely convinced that all odds were against him yet. The message from Nappa confirmed his stubbornness on the matter anyways.

It's not about the money, Vegeta. It's never just about the money when it comes to Frieza. For what he asked of you, the money is just a hook to dangle you from. Just give me a little time to work out some things, I think I may have found a way to rid this problem for good.

Vegeta read over the last few words again and again until it became permanently embedded in his brain. Surely Nappa didn't, did he? His mind wandered over the scenarios of what remedy Nappa was referring to, and he hurriedly typed a response that conveyed his questions. Before he hit send, however, a clearing of the throat demanded he look up and ignore his phone.

And when his eyes landed on the sight of her, he was glad that he did.

There wasn't a word in his immediate vocabulary that could accurately describe how she looked. Ethereal, maybe? But still, it wasn't strong enough. The gentle fabric lay tenderly against her skin, molding perfectly to her arms, her waist, her hips, as if the dress was conceived with her in mind. She had tucked her shoulder length hair behind her ears, letting her slender jawline be exposed and compliment the lacy, sheer fabric that cradled her neck. The white material offset the ocean water of her hair, balancing it in a way that kidnapped Vegeta's breath.

"So," she spun in a circle, mimicking a ballerina, smoothing out the fabric that bunched around her belly, "What do you think? I know I won't be buying it, but how do I look?"

Vegeta wanted to say something, he truly did, but any words that could have been birthed in his throat died out the moment he saw her. How was it possible, he wondered, that anyone could be so beautiful? Not just her pretty face, or her curves that made him feel very much a man, but all over? In the places no one could see, in the way her eyes sparkled, or in the way she breathed life into something as simple as a dress?

And how was it possible, that she belonged to him? That he was the one who got to run his fingers over someone so pristine, so angelic?

Her face twisted into worry as she circled in front of him again, and he knew that he was taking too long to answer. The phone in his hand suddenly felt very heavy, as if it was reminding him that he had more pressing matters to attend to other than heat that rolled from the flick of his hair to underneath the zipper of his pants. For a moment, he had forgotten why he was on the damned thing in the first place. He couldn't take his eyes away from her, even if his expression was as still as the chair that kept him from floating to the ceiling.

"Oh my, it looks just as exquisite as I thought it would!" The saleswoman cut him off, loosening the whip that tangled around his throat as he remembered how to breathe correctly. She walked around Bulma, getting a good look at her from every angle, nodding her head with intense approval. "You, my dear, are stunning! I swear, it almost makes me happy that I haven't sold it yet!"

"You think so?" Bulma blushed, her eyes nervously darting towards Vegeta.

The saleswoman walked over to him, resting her hand on the back of his chair. Vegeta fought with strict determination to not reach behind him and toss her hand off. "Oh absolutely! And you, sir? Don't you agree that she is a vision? Can't you imagine this beautiful creature walking down the aisle towards you in this dress?"

Bulma's face turned the shade of rose petals, and she nervously laughed as she strode towards them, making Vegeta feel like he was caught up in the rapture. "O-oh, I think you misunderstand, we're not shopping for our wedding, you see-"

"Well darling maybe not today, but someday soon, right?" She threw Vegeta an annoying smile, a suggestive hint forming in the pit of her eyes. "I see the way you two interact with each other. Would I be wrong to assume that wedding bells could be in the future for you?"

Vegeta suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Wedding? Marriage? Those were things he had never associated with himself, especially not before Bulma. And even in their relationship, although he knew that being apart from her was out of the question, the title of husband and wife never crossed his mind. Not because he didn't want to, or couldn't see it, but because he never assumed they were the labeling type. One day Bulma had referred to herself as his girlfriend, and he made no moves to stop her. Since their initial talk about dating, neither had brought it up to clarify exactly what they were doing. They were just doing it, and doing it well, if he had anything to say about it.

He studied her flabbergasted face and the way that she struggled to find a rebuttal. Did she find the idea preposterous? Was it completely insane to think of herself married to Vegeta, of all people? An insecure weight anchored down his chest, and suddenly he began to wonder if he were to ask her to marry him, would she even say yes?

A small breath escaped from her and she smiled softly at him, her face mirroring his own panic. She shrugged her shoulders, and Vegeta knew then that she was doing this for his sake. What, did she think he would be angry with her reply, whatever it was? Would he?

"Who knows what the future holds," he replied honestly, seeing no point in filtering his words, "And when we get to that point, I think this would be the perfect dress to wear." The expression on her face lifted as she drank his words in, her white teeth glimmering as her lips curled over them in a smile. Judging from the look on her face, he had given the right answer. It made his own mouth curve upwards as he locked eye contact with her, the world outside of their tunnel vision becoming irrelevant.

"Well then," Bulma spoke softly, "Perhaps I'll take the dress after all. Who knows what the future holds, right?" He nodded, feeling hypnotized by the entire idea. The saleswoman let out something between a sigh and a giggle, and began offering advice on how Bulma could keep the dress clean and pristine, but Vegeta zoned out completely. Bulma N'Ouija, he thought, didn't sound like too bad of a name. Maybe she'd want to keep her last name, or hyphenate it. It wouldn't be so bad, he decided, to someday repeat those necessary vows to make Bulma his wife.

But…

Vegeta couldn't erase the fear that accompanied the word marriage. Marriage changed people; that was something he had learned early on. And he didn't want that, not for her, and not for him. He wanted her to always be Bulma, and he wanted to always be Vegeta. It had been plenty, and it had been good for him. He didn't want to wake up one day and see hollowed shells of who they used to be, both of them looking through the foggy mirror of love from yesteryear. He didn't want to feel pressured to stay because of a piece of paper, and he didn't want her to feel obligated to love him because she called himself his wife.

Besides, he knew first-hand what world those kinds of people lived in, and it was one he had always vowed to never return to.

oooOOOooo

The soft lighting of their dining room reflected off of Vegeta's plate, his stomach writhing in fury at its emptiness. He drank down his second cup of water for the evening, hoping it would provide some sort of relief to the pit inside of his belly. The grandfather clock behind him rang madly in his ears, and he began to tap his finger impatiently against the edge of the table in synchronization with it's ticks.

"Vegeta," Yasai sighed, and he looked up to find her sullen stare washing over him, "Please, son, can you stop that racket? It's driving me mad."

Vegeta's fingers stopped its music, but he didn't miss the opportunity to grunt in dissatisfaction. It wasn't fair, he thought as his stomach rumbled again, that he was being subjected to wait.

"Mother?" Tarble sat his own glass down and whimpered, "Can we please eat? I'm starving!"

Yasai sighed and placed her napkin back in her lap for the umpteenth time. Her eyes slowly rolled towards the grandfather clock, her painted lips pressing into a tight line. "Your father should be here any minute, love."

"It's been an hour already," Vegeta huffed out, folding his arms across his chest. "You have to face the fact that he isn't coming, Mother." Vegeta stared down to his feet, his frown deepening in the line of his mouth. "I already have."

"There's no reason to believe that he won't be home!" Yasai's voice seemed panicky as it rose, and Vegeta knew he had most likely crossed a line. "It's my birthday, for heaven's sake! Surely he wouldn't….would he?" The last words were spoken with such a tender sadness that it made Vegeta angry, and he clenched his fists tightly at his side.

"Don't worry, Mother!" Tarble's lightbulb of a grin made his mother smile in return, and she sat a little straighter, "I know Father wouldn't miss your birthday! Especially not since I reminded him yesterday, maybe work is just keeping him behind."

"Hmmph, work indeed," Vegeta scoffed, refilling his glass with water. He may have been as naïve as Tarble and fallen for the 'work' excuse before, but Vegeta was twenty-one now, and there was no reason for him to deny it any longer. He had heard the rumors, and he was sure that his mother had too. Either his father was having some high collared affair, or he was sniffing his nose in business where it didn't belong. Either way, Vegeta Sr. got no pass from his eldest son about where his time was being spent. "I'm sure Father is working something, alright."

"Hush, Vegeta!" Yasai slapped her hand against the table, trying to regain control over the situation, "Don't speak of your father like that, especially in front of me."

"What's he mean? And just remember that I'm thirteen, Mother, and I understand sarcasm very well," Tarble looked back and forth between his mother and Vegeta, his cocked eyebrow demanding an answer.

"Nothing, dear," Yasai cut her eyes at Vegeta, her face burnt with a scowl that rivaled his own, "Your brother is just being silly, isn't that right son?"

Vegeta clicked his teeth and swallowed his answer with another sip of his water. His mother didn't release her attentive glare on him, however, not even when their butler strode to the table and bent down by her ear and whispered something to her. Vegeta intently watched her face fall and she desperately tried to catch it, plastering a smile and nodding at the man before he sauntered off back to the kitchen. Yasai reached over and grabbed the unopened wine from the metal bucket on the table, the soft clattering of ice cubes cutting through the tense silence.

"Well," she cleared her throat and he could tell that her voice was cracking, "It seems your father won't be joining us after all. 'Work' seems to have called his name," she loosened the corkscrew and poured herself a glass of wine before handing it over to Vegeta, "So I suppose you should have a glass too, son. In celebration for you being right over your fool of a mother."

A guilty weight sank in Vegeta's belly as he watched her eyes glisten and she drank down her wine. He dragged his stare over to Tarble, who was watching him with a saddened expression. "Happy Birthday to me," Yasai whispered before beginning to fix her plate and gesturing for her boys to do the same. Even though Vegeta was starving only moments before, the somber mood stomped on his appetite until it was nothing more than ashes in the wind. The silent room became too much for him to sit in, and he cleared his throat to grab his mother's attention.

"Mother," he spoke sternly, yet softly, as if his words would break her glass of a stature, "I've been working on an interesting piece that I plan to present to the theater. I'm hoping that they'll accept my proposal to head my own orchestra."

"Oh, really!" Her face perked up, although her features were still pained, "That's wonderful, Vegeta! They'll be fools if they don't take you up on that offer! Everyone else has been offering you a position, but I admire your tenacity on doing things your way."

Vegeta pushed himself away from the table and stood, walking towards the common area. "I'll play it for you," he said matter-of-factly, "And you can critique it where you deem it necessary."

"I can read you the new poem I wrote, Mother! I was planning on slipping it under your door, but maybe you'd like to hear it aloud. I wrote it for you, after all." Tarble followed suit, heading towards the staircase to his room.

"Vegeta, Tarble," Yasai spoke their names gently as if her words were a passing wind, but she did not lift her face from her wine glass, "Your father wasn't always this way. Sometimes people can get stressed in a marriage, someday you two may understand. I hope that you will make better decisions, if that is the case."

Vegeta scoffed internally, flicking her words away from penetrating his brain as if they were a pesky mosquito. Marriage? Absolutely not, not if this was going to be his life. Vegeta didn't need a wife, not when music would always be his mistress. And unlike his father, he would never pretend like he was conflicted when it came to choosing between the two. Nobody could be that important anyways, he decided.

"Happy birthday, Mother."

oooOOOooo

"That's almost everything!" Bulma wiped her hands against her shorts as she sat the last of Vegeta's boxes on his doorstep a few days later, turning around to beam at him. Vegeta loaded it in the moving truck and nodded, stepping back inside to access what still needed to be done. The apartment was practically empty, save for a few pieces of furniture, and relief washed over him that he would no longer have to call this place home anymore. He remembered moving in this apartment so soon after his family's passing, and how the yellow walls held the secrets of his agony at the situation he found himself in. A new start was long overdue.

"Wow, I can't believe how much bigger this place looks without any of your stuff. I can't say I'm surprised at how many instruments you own, but still, it's impressive." She placed her hands on her hips and sat down on a sofa chair, kicking her feet up and wiping her forehead. It was the hottest day of the year so far, and sweat began to pool down her chin and disappear under the cleavage of her tank top. "I can't wait to help you decorate the loft."

"Who says you're going to help decorate?" Vegeta handed her a bottle of water and greedily devoured his own, feeling it race towards his empty stomach. "With my luck, you'll shade the entire room pink."

Bulma swallowed the liquid down and glared at him, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. "Oh come on, I wouldn't do anything too crazy, but don't act as if you're some magician of interior decorating."

"I don't care about aesthetics, as long as I have a proper place to play my music as much as I want."

"Of course you don't," Bulma stood and strode towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck, "And that is why you need my help, Vegeta. I can give you the best of both worlds."

"Sounds dangerous," he placed his forehead on hers and enjoyed the feel of her soft body, the heat between them higher than the scorching temperatures outside. Bulma flashed him a smile and leaned her head backwards, slowly scanning her eyes all over the room.

"It's amazing when you think about it, the memories I have here. I know I haven't been here for long, but this is where we started, you know. I'm a little attached to this place." He watched her face grow somber for a moment, as if she were overthinking something. "Today's the last time I really get to be in here."

"There will be an entirely new place that you can get attached to, and even more so because it was yours first," he was taken aback a little at her mood change, especially due to the fact that she seemed to not want to look at him. Her face showed that she was distracted, as if her body lay in his fingers but her mind was a past the planet itself. "There's no need to be so sad, Bulma." He surely wasn't, although perhaps he could understand why she might. This was the home that Bulma had shared her body with him, her mind with him, where they danced their feelings out of their feet, where they both discovered a part of themselves that both had long since forgotten. But surely she couldn't think that this was the end-all-be-all of their journey together.

She didn't answer him, instead her eyes showing attention elsewhere. Something popped the bubble on Bulma's playful mood only moments prior, and Vegeta was beginning to wonder if it solely resided in the empty apartment surrounding them. She leaned her body away from him, unhooking her arms from his neck and walking towards his empty bookshelf. "Would you look at that?" She whispered it as if she were talking to herself, but Vegeta could hear an underlying emotion in her words that made him oddly curious. He watched as she stood on her toes and reached for something, clutching it in her hands as if it were a baby bird that required healing. She turned back towards him, a sad smile on her lips. "This is what started all of this, you know," and then she opened her palms to him, a small golden object radiating off of her skin.

Vegeta thought for sure that he tucked it away in a safe place, but maybe he had set it down while packing. Either way, relief he didn't know he needed spread through his veins as he approached and removed it from her hands. He held it up to the light, as if he needed to inspect it for the first time. "Indeed it is," he said, still examining it, "The golden lighter that I told you to keep your hands off of. You were never one to follow directions in the first place."

She blew out a laugh and rested her hands on her hips, finally gracing him with a long enough look. "Yeah, I guess not. But if I listened to you, we wouldn't be where we are now, would we?"

"I guess not."

An unnatural silence was birthed between them, stretching out the minutes until Vegeta could no longer stand it. He was about to question her in regards to her sudden void of words when she spoke, her large eyes staring up at him with the innocence of a child. "You never told me the story behind the lighter."

He swallowed, his mind replaying a black and white film that he would have loved to forgotten. It was his turn to avoid looking at her, choosing instead to run his thumb over the VN inscription on the underside of the lighter. "It was my grandfather's," he spoke softly, his words passing through like a dying breeze, "He was in the army and got it as an heirloom for his bravery. He used to tell my brother and I about how he saved a bunch of kids from a bomb attack, got them underground before it exploded. Didn't stop him from losing his leg in the blast, though. The villagers made it for him, and he was honored with a lot of prestigious medals. He passed it down to my father, and I thought he would give it me someday, but…" his words trailed off and his jaw clenched tightly, the rest of the admission dying in his throat.

"But what?"

Vegeta finally looked at her, unable to find the resolve to continue onwards. Repeating those words, saying the rest of the sentence meant that he would be forced to relive the darkest day of his life.

"Vegeta…" Bulma stepped forward, closing the gap between them until their chests touched, her worried eyes soaking him up, "It's okay, you can tell me." Her palm found home against his cheek, stroking it gently with an urgency for him to continue. Vegeta sighed, debating internally if he should.

It was impossible to deny the pleading of her face, even though his brain was programmed to shut the conversation down until he had forgotten it altogether. "My father made a lot of terrible decisions, and he almost took this to sell it for money. To pay Frieza. But I stopped him from doing it before he could."

He expected for her to ask why, and he had already formulated the sentence in his mind as a rebuttal, but the question never left her lips. Instead she let out a sigh and pressed her forehead against his chest, resting it there as if she carried the weight of his problems squarely on her shoulders. Instinctively, he wrapped an arm around her middle, growing concerned. "Bulma, it's not that sad of a story. I do have the lighter, after all."

She lifted her head, her lips pressed together with cement. The way she looked at him, the words that swam underneath her aquatic colored eyes, everything about her looking at him like that made his curiosity grow. But before he could ask her about it, her mouth crushed against his, kissing him eagerly as if she wanted to take his memory and drink it down herself.

It didn't settle well with him.

"Bulma," he said in between her lips as she pushed him down towards the floor with her body weight, "What are you-"

She gave him no time to reply as she forced her weight on him and straddling his legs, making it hard for Vegeta to concentrate. Her hands roamed his chest, searching for something, something that he knew he didn't have an answer for. He couldn't help his hands doing a natural exploration of their own, finding solace in the dips of her curves. But something about it wasn't right; something about the way she touched him seemed different. Her kisses were usually affectionate, screaming of her love and lust for him, begging him to give her the pleasure her body craved. But her lips were desperate now, demanding to give him something that he didn't know how to accept. He grabbed her shoulders to stop her, make her look at him so that he could see where her clarity lay. Her eyes were downcast as she stared at him with a pity that he didn't particularly enjoy, and Vegeta could no longer stand it. "Bulma," he said sternly, "What's the problem?"

"There is no problem," she tried to move her face back down to his, her lips puckered, but he gripped her shoulders harder.

"Don't lie to me," he narrowed his eyes so that she knew how serious she was, and she breathed out a sigh. "Be as honest with me as you would like me to be with you."

She looked towards the floor, her expression unwavering, and took a deep breath. "When I went to get Yamcha last week, I didn't exactly say where the jail was."

A jolt surged through his blood, making him prop his head up. "And just where exactly was it?"

She drifted her eyes to him slowly, biting down on her lower lip. "East City."

Vegeta caught a breath in his throat as the words echoed through his brain, ricocheting around until his head began to ache. East City. The city that was as much a part of him as the bones that barely held him together, and he wiped his face clean with his palm. "I see," he said, sitting up as she slid down to the floor. "You had to drive all the way there, is that it?"

"I did." He watched her play around with her fingers and he didn't need her to continue to know where this was going. "I had to go to an ATM because their debit reader was down, and the closest ATM was-"

"-Down the street from the jail, on Oak Forest avenue." He paused to suck in a deep breath before adding, "Just past the N'Ouija Manor."

Bulma nodded, her face showing that she knew she had been caught. "I couldn't stop myself even if I wanted to, I had to see it."

Vegeta sat up fully now, resting his elbow on his knee. He ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a chuckle. "Find anything interesting?"

"A little. A woman named Fasha came out and spoke with me. And what she told me made me-"

Vegeta's ringer cut her off, vibrating against his thigh. He brought it out to silence it when he read the message that illuminated the screen, drawing his attention away from the rest of the conversation.

I need you to come and see me as soon as you can Vegeta. Remember when I said I might know a way out of this mess? Well, I found it.

oooOOOooo

The door to the basement slammed loudly, startling Vegeta out of his composition. He looked up angrily, his father glaring down at him with barely contained irritation. His chest puffed out, his breaths staggering and uneven, a doppelgänger of his son and his worst mood.

"Vegeta," he spoke sternly, "You were supposed to meet me over two hours ago like we discussed. Mind explaining to me why I find you in the basement instead, son?"

Vegeta rolled his eyes and looked back to his paper, gritting his teeth as if they were his father's words. "I have more important things to do Father. Mind explaining to mehow you could have forgotten about my new job? About the orchestra?"

"Watch your tongue, boy!" Vegeta Sr. stormed closer, his heavy feet mirroring his rising words. "You think that your music is more important than business? Do you realize how much shit you caused me by standing me up in the first place!?"

"I told you I don't want to do business with you!" Vegeta glared at his father with enough fire to burn a city, his fingers wrapping tightly around his pen. His father had recently confided in Vegeta about his affairs with Frieza, and how he needed Vegeta's assistance with making more money to help him get out of his shit hole. But as far as Vegeta was concerned, that wasn't his problem. After all, he wasn't the one who got his father involved in the first place. "My place is my music, not helping you with your illegal-"

"-FUCK THE MUSIC!" Vegeta Sr. marched to the piano and pushed the papers from the top, letting them fall to the ground like scattered leaves. Vegeta stood, completely offended, his breaths coming out as ragged as his growing anger. "You care more about music than your own family!? Do you know how insulted Frieza was that I promised him a meeting with you and you stood him up? How angry he was?!"

"That's not my problem, Father! If you think that you could convince me to give up the only thing that's been fully there for me, then you're a bigger fool than I thought."

"Do you hear how idiotic you sound!? Music isn't real, Vegeta. You know what's real? Money. Money is real, and all of the world's problems that come with it. So many of our problems could have been solved, Vegeta! All you had to do was take a ride with your old man!"

"Music is real to me, realer than you've ever been anyways. My entire life you've been nothing more than a ghost. Why don't you do us all a favor and leave, huh? It would do us all a lot better!"

Vegeta Sr. looked perplexed, his jaw line tightening under his heavy, auburn beard. His eyes narrowed as he studied the man before him, his brain running crazy with overwhelming emotions. "Vegeta," he said sternly, "Perhaps I can convince Frieza to meet with us again. I'm sure that-"

"The answer is no. The answer will always be no. I don't care what you have to say - as a matter of fact, why don't you just stop talking. Go back up the stairs and run off to do whatever it is that's kept you away all these years. Does Mother know what you're asking of me?"

"Your mother will stay out of this."

"I'd expect you to say that. Keeping her out of your life is one of your more consistent hobbies."

An angry silence stretched between them, engulfing the room in angry flames. Vegeta refused to back down, not this time. He was a man of twenty-five now, not the same smart mouthed teenager who would still buckle for his father at any given moment. His father was a poison to this family, and if Tarble and his mother were too naïve to see it, then he would make them.

Vegeta Sr. brushed past him aggressively, bumping his shoulder against his. He stormed to the closet, pulling out boxes and rummaging through them before tossing them and its contents around the room. "What the hell are you doing, Father?!"

"Where is it, Vegeta!? I know you have it!"

"Where is what?!"

"The lighter!" Just as soon as he said it, he found the box it was in, hurrying to rush up the stairs. "This will more than cover the money that I need! Your grandfather would understand, him being the great hero and all."

"Absolutely not!" Vegeta rushed towards him, pulling his father back by the shoulders and grabbing the lighter, stuffing it in his pocket and racing up the stairs himself. His father had absolutely lost it, he was convinced, and now he was willing to sacrifice the only valuable thing that they had left. There was no way in hell he was going to let that happen.

His father marched behind him, screaming his name over and over, but Vegeta continued to ignore him, flying past his mother and Tarble in the kitchen and ignoring their protests. The breeze of the outside smacked him in the face, but did nothing to relieve his temper.

"Vegeta! Bring that back!" Vegeta Sr. slammed the door and tried to catch his son, but Vegeta made it to his car before that could happen.

"You've taken enough from this family! I'll be damned if I let you have this too!" Vegeta slammed his car door and sped off, mentally terminating his relationship with his father all together. He could have it all, he didn't care anymore. Not even his mother seemed to be in her right state of mind when he suggested that she finally do them all good and divorce him. And now he was done waiting, done pretending that one day they would be the family that she wanted, that he wanted. All that mattered to Vegeta now was his own happiness and his own successes.

And his father could burn in hell if he thought otherwise.

oooOOOooo

A/N

Thank you all for the support and reviews! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and I hope it provided a little more history into Vegeta, while offering foreshadow of whats to come. As always, please R&R my friends!