Warning(s): Cursing
Synopsis: Piccolo suddenly visits you out of the blue one day, wanting to tell you something important.
The sun hung low in the cloudless morning sky, casting warm streaks of gold through the tall windows of the dojo. Even at this hour, the summer heat lingered in the air, making the wooden floors faintly warm beneath your bare feet. The only sounds were the rhythmic creaks of the ceiling fan overhead and the distant rustling of leaves outside.
Saturdays were your favorite kind of mornings—quiet, peaceful, and completely yours.
With your students having their well-deserved rest days on weekends, the dojo was always empty. It gave you the perfect chance to clean the mats, reorganize equipment, or—more often than not—get some solo training in. The solitude had always been something you enjoyed—just you, your own steady breathing, and the echo of your movements filling the empty space.
Then, the gentle creak of the door sliding made your head snap toward the entrance, breaking you from your warm-up stretches. For a brief second, you thought maybe one of your students had forgotten their rest day—but the towering figure standing in the doorway was the last person you expected to see.
His presence was so unexpected that for a split second, all you could do was blink at him in surprise. His name left your lips in a breathless murmur.
"Piccolo?"
He stood there in the threshold, arms crossed as usual—his broad frame framed perfectly by the warm morning light spilling in behind him. His heavy white cape billowed faintly from the breeze outside before settling against his back. His dark, onyx eyes swept across the empty dojo, lingering on the mats and the small training equipment scattered around.
For a moment, he didn't say anything. He simply stood there, as if silently contemplating whether he had made the right decision coming here in the first place.
Your initial surprise quickly melted into a warm smile, tilting your head slightly.
"Hey… what in the world brings you here?"
Piccolo's sharp gaze flicked toward you, meeting your eyes—always so intense, yet never harsh. He didn't answer right away, his arms still firmly crossed over his chest. You swore you caught the faintest twitch in his brow—like he was still trying to figure out why he had come in the first place.
You waited, patient as always.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low—gravelly as ever, but with an edge of something… uncertain beneath the usual stoicism.
"…You said you trained early on Saturdays."
Your lips parted slightly in surprise. It was such a small, offhand comment—something you barely even remembered mentioning to him weeks ago. You hadn't expected him to actually remember that, let alone seek you out because of it.
A small warmth flickered in your chest, softening your smile.
"I did, didn't I?"
You straightened up, brushing your hands against your thighs as you took a step closer to him.
"Still… that doesn't explain why you're here." You tilted your head, a playful glint in your eyes. "Unless you suddenly decided to pick up cleaning duty?"
Piccolo's brow twitched slightly—just enough to let you know he was biting back a retort.
"Tch… Don't push your luck."
You chuckled softly under your breath, shaking your head. Piccolo wasn't the type to seek out company without a reason. He was always so self-sufficient, content with solitude or his own rigorous training in the wilderness.
Yet here he was—standing in your dojo.
You studied him for a moment longer, trying to piece together his reasoning. His arms were still crossed, his posture a little too rigid—like he was standing guard rather than simply visiting.
There was something… different about him today.
You were tempted to ask what was on his mind but you decided not to press him—not yet.
"…So?" You broke the silence again, your tone light but curious. "Are you just here to watch, or did you come to join in?"
Piccolo's gaze flicked away, his brow furrowing—like he was debating whether or not to answer honestly.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose—almost like he was annoyed at himself for what he was about to say.
"I want to spar."
You blinked, caught completely off guard. Of all the reasons you could have expected, that was not one of them.
"Spar…?" You repeated slowly, as if you needed to make sure you heard him right.
Piccolo's expression didn't change—stern and unwavering as always—but there was a subtle tension in his jaw, like he was waiting for you to laugh or brush him off.
But you didn't.
Instead, a slow smile tugged at the corners of your lips.
"Well… color me surprised." You folded your arms, mirroring his stance in playful challenge. "Didn't think you'd ever voluntarily ask for that."
Piccolo's brow twitched again, his gaze narrowing slightly. "I wouldn't have come if I wasn't serious."
There was no hint of teasing or condescension in his voice—just pure, blunt honesty.
He meant it.
Your smile softened at that, the warmth flickering a little brighter in your chest. It wasn't just the request itself that caught you off guard—it was the fact that he had come here entirely on his own.
Piccolo had always been your silent observer—always watching from the sidelines during your classes, never interfering unless absolutely necessary. He had seen you train your students countless times. He had even helped sharpen your techniques once or twice when you asked—but those moments had always been brief, more instructional than anything else.
But this…?
This felt different somehow.
You glanced toward the mats, then back at him—your smile turning playful again.
"Well… if you're offering, who am I to say no? It has been a while since we last sparred properly. Curious to see if my technique has improved since then?"
Piccolo's eyes flicked back toward you, the faintest glimmer of amusement hidden deep beneath the stoic mask.
"Don't expect me to hold back."
Your heart gave a small flutter—not out of intimidation, but excitement.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Without another word, you turned on your heel, padding barefoot toward the center of the mat. The soft creak of wood filled the quiet air as Piccolo's footsteps followed behind you.
The heat of the morning pressed against your skin, the distant hum of cicadas filling the stillness.
You stole a glance back at him as you stepped into position, your pulse quickening ever so slightly.
He had sought you out.
And whether he realized it or not, the fact that he was here—asking for this—meant more than either of you were ready to admit.
A small smile played at your lips as you dropped into your stance.
"Alright then… let's see what you've got."
Your smile lingered as you watched Piccolo reach for the shoulder pads of his weighted cape, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The fabric billowed slightly before he shrugged it off completely, letting it fall to the mat with a muffled thud. His turban followed soon after, landing beside it with just as much weight. The floor beneath your feet vibrated faintly from the sheer density of the discarded garments—a reminder of just how much Piccolo constantly carried with him, both in a physical and metaphorical sense.
Your eyes flickered back to his now-unburdened form, noting the way his posture seemed just a fraction lighter without the additional weight. His arms were now hung at his side as he regarded you with that ever-serious expression, but there was something else there—something that lingered in the way his smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, subtle yet unmistakable.
"You're awfully confident about yourself," Piccolo remarked, his gravelly voice carrying just the faintest edge of amusement.
You grinned, rolling one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Of course! This is purely skill-based combat. Look, I know I can't beat you at your full potential—I'd eat shit the moment you disappear from my view."
For a split second, there was nothing but silence. And then—
You could've sworn you heard it.
A chuckle.
It was faint, barely more than a breath, but it was there.
The sound sent a small jolt through your chest, your heart swelling at the rare display. Piccolo's expressions were always so carefully controlled, his reactions so measured, that hearing something as simple as a quiet laugh felt like an unexpected victory.
Your grin widened. "Wait, was that a chuckle? Did I just—did I just make the Piccolo laugh?"
He shot you a flat look, but there was no real bite behind it. "You're hearing things."
"Oh no, I definitely heard it." You tapped a finger against your temple, feigning deep contemplation. "A genuine laugh, too. Not one of those sarcastic, 'I'm-amused-but-won't-admit-it' snorts."
Piccolo exhaled sharply through his nose—whether out of irritation or mild amusement, you couldn't tell. "Are we going to spar, or are you just going to waste time patting yourself on the back?"
"Both," you quipped, rolling your wrists as you loosened up your stance. "I mean, come on—this is a momentous occasion. Should I start keeping track of every time I get you to laugh? I could make a chart."
Piccolo gave you a look that said I will end you.
You laughed, bouncing on the balls of your feet as you settled into your fighting stance. "Alright, alright—I'll drop it." Your grin softened just slightly as you met his gaze. "But… for the record, I like hearing it."
Piccolo blinked, something unreadable flickering across his features. For a moment, he didn't move, didn't speak. And then—so subtly you almost missed it—he exhaled, shaking his head as if to brush off whatever thought had passed through his mind.
"Tch… don't expect it to happen again."
You smirked, feeling the familiar rush of excitement coil in your gut as you steadied your breath. "We'll see about that."
Then, without another word, you lunged.
Your chest rose and fell in heavy, labored breaths as you bent forward, hands braced against your knees for support. Every inch of your body burned from exertion, muscles screaming in protest, but despite the exhaustion weighing down on you, there was a triumphant glint in your eyes.
"Fuck—you're still stronger than me." You panted, wiping at your brow with the back of your hand before straightening up slightly. "I still don't understand how I beat you that one time!"
Piccolo, who seemed far less winded than you (because of course he was), merely crossed his arms over his chest, his usual impassive expression in place. Without a word, he reached out and offered you a towel—small, clean, and neatly folded.
You blinked at the gesture, surprised by the simple but thoughtful act before quickly taking it. "Oh, thanks." With a relieved sigh, you patted the sweat off your face, savoring the brief moment of respite.
"You beat me?" Piccolo echoed dryly, brow arching slightly. "You were using your energy back then."
You paused mid-wipe, eyes narrowing as you pulled the towel away to give him a skeptical look. "Uh-huh… and?"
Piccolo remained as unreadable as ever, his stance unwavering. "You didn't know how to control it back then."
There was a beat of silence as his words sank in. Then—
Your eyes widened. "Wait… are you implying I cheated?!"
"I never said that," Piccolo responded smoothly, his voice as calm and steady as ever.
You gasped, pointing an accusing finger at him. "But you aren't denying it either!"
His expression remained neutral, but you could see the telltale flicker of amusement buried somewhere deep in those dark eyes of his.
Your jaw dropped, scandalized. "Wow. Wow. You're just gonna sit there all smug and act like I didn't earn that win fair and square?"
Piccolo gave a slight shrug, his arms still crossed. "I'm just stating the facts."
"You're implying the facts," you shot back, wiping the last of the sweat from your face before dramatically tossing the towel over your shoulder. "Let's be real—if you really thought I 'cheated,' you would've said something back then."
Piccolo exhaled sharply through his nose—a noise that might've been a scoff, but with him, it was hard to tell.
"I let it slide."
"Ohhh, you let it slide?" You placed a hand over your chest, feigning offense. "How gracious of you, oh mighty Piccolo. I should count my blessings that you allowed me that one moment of glory."
He rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly—almost a smirk. "Are you done?"
You narrowed your eyes up at him, a defiant glint flickering behind them before you let out a small huff, crossing your arms in front of your chest with a reluctant pout.
"…For now."
You turned away with a stubborn tilt of your chin, still stewing over your supposed victory in that long-ago match. The memory played on repeat in your mind—every detail, every move, every second of triumph that you were absolutely sure had been earned fairly. You were so wrapped up in your own thoughts that you didn't notice the way Piccolo was watching you.
His gaze lingered longer than usual, studying your expression in a way that seemed almost… thoughtful. The sharp, assessing glint that usually dominated his dark eyes had softened, just slightly, as if something about you in this moment struck him differently.
And then—he remembered.
The real reason why he had come here today.
"(Y/n)."
His deep, steady voice cut through the silence, pulling you abruptly out of your thoughts.
You blinked, head tilting slightly as you turned to meet his gaze, the teasing defiance from earlier slipping into curiosity.
"Sparring wasn't the only reason I came here today."
There was something different in his tone this time—something uncertain. It was subtle, barely noticeable to anyone else, but you caught it. That slight hesitation, the way his voice faltered for just a fraction of a second.
That had your full attention.
Your brows furrowed as you studied his expression. Piccolo was never one to struggle with words; he was always direct, always composed. But now, his jaw tightened and loosened, his gaze shifting ever so slightly. The faintest creases formed at the corners of his eyes—not from frustration, but from… hesitation?
That alone was enough to make your chest tighten.
Something was wrong.
The silence stretched between you like an invisible weight pressing against your ribs, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, finally—after what felt like an eternity—he spoke.
"I'm… leaving."
Everything inside you froze.
Your body, your thoughts—everything came to a screeching halt, as if his words had knocked the breath right out of you.
Your mind raced in a million different directions at once. Leaving? What did he mean by that? Where? For how long? The possibility of permanence loomed over you like a storm cloud, and you had to physically force yourself to push it back.
No.
You could not freak out. Not now.
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry as you barely managed to stammer out, "Y-you're… leaving? Like… permanently?"
The moment the words left your mouth, Piccolo visibly stiffened, caught off guard. His normally unreadable expression wavered for a brief second, his eyes widening just slightly. A sweatdrop formed on his cheek as he hurried to clarify, his voice firm but laced with the smallest trace of exasperation.
"What? No, that's not—"
Before he could finish, the tension in your chest snapped, and a wave of overwhelming relief crashed over you.
"Fucking hell, Piccolo!" you blurted out, pressing a hand against your forehead as your shoulders sagged. "You had me worried! I thought you were leaving for good!"
Piccolo's brow twitched. A very distinct look of irritation crossed his face as he let out a slow exhale through his nose.
"…You didn't let me finish," he muttered, voice laced with mild annoyance.
You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down as guilt crept in. Maybe you had jumped to conclusions too quickly.
"…Sorry," you mumbled, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly.
Piccolo closed his eyes for a moment before exhaling again, this time as if regaining his composure. When he opened them, his gaze met yours again, steadier now.
"I'll be heading north to train for a few days," he finally explained. "There's a high chance I won't be around to help."
His words settled in, and this time, you actually processed them properly.
Not permanent. Not forever. Just a short trip.
But still…
Your relief didn't fully ease the lingering feeling in your chest.
"So, you train up north?" you asked, tilting your head slightly. "Wouldn't you be freezing while you train there?"
Piccolo merely folded his arms across his chest, his usual stoic expression unchanging. "My skin is thick enough to withstand the low temperatures unaffected," he stated matter-of-factly. "Unlike humans that require proper protection from the elements."
You blinked, considering that for a moment. "Huh." You leaned back slightly, nodding in mild admiration. "That's actually pretty cool."
Piccolo arched a brow at your choice of words.
"Cool," you repeated, smirking at your unintentional pun. "See what I did there?"
He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly unimpressed, but you could've sworn you caught the faintest twitch of his lip.
Shaking off your amusement, you turned your attention back to the more important question lingering in your mind. "Okay, so you can withstand the cold. Cool." You grinned when you saw the faintest hint of an eye roll. "But, um… how many days will you be gone exactly?"
Piccolo closed his eyes, his expression contemplative. "Hard to say. It could take five days… maybe a week. Depends on the type of training."
When he opened his eyes again, his gaze immediately zeroed in on you.
The playful glint in your eyes had faded, replaced with something more distant—far away, as if your thoughts had drifted elsewhere. And deeper beneath that, he caught something else. Something subtle.
Sadness.
It was brief, barely noticeable, but he felt it.
His chest tightened.
Why?
Why were you sad?
It was only for a few days—nothing unusual for him. He had done this countless times before, retreating into solitude to train, pushing his limits further and further. This was nothing out of the ordinary. So why… why did seeing that expression on your face suddenly make him feel so—
He parted his lips, intending to speak, but before he could, you beat him to it.
"Just don't push yourself too hard during your training, alright?"
Your voice was soft, filled with that same warmth you always carried. And just like that—just as quickly as it had appeared—the sadness in your eyes was gone, replaced by a gentle, reassuring glow.
Piccolo blinked.
For a moment, he almost doubted what he had seen. Had it been his imagination? A trick of the light? Or had you really looked that sad just seconds ago?
His gaze lingered on your face, searching for any remaining trace of that fleeting sorrow, but there was nothing now—only your usual, unwavering kindness staring back at him.
It was… unsettling.
Not because of the shift itself, but because of how effortlessly you had masked it.
And that realization stuck with him.
Piccolo considered pressing the issue—asking you outright about that momentary flicker of sadness he had seen—but ultimately decided against it. If you had brushed it aside so quickly, maybe you didn't want to talk about it. Maybe you weren't ready to.
Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight slightly. "Hmph. You don't have to worry about me," he said, his tone firm, yet lacking its usual edge. "I've dealt with harsher training before."
You let out a small chuckle, placing your hands on your hips in mock exasperation. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You're a big, strong Namekian who can survive anything and handle his own in a fight." You waved a hand, as if to dismiss his typical warrior bravado. But then your voice softened, the teasing fading into something more sincere.
"But still…"
Your gaze met his, and he immediately noticed the shift. Gone was the playful lightheartedness. Instead, there was something else—something warm, something real.
"I worry, Piccolo," you admitted, voice quieter now. "Because you're my friend. And I don't want anything bad to happen to you, okay?"
Piccolo didn't move, didn't say a word.
He only stared.
It was strange, how those simple words seemed to settle so deeply inside him. He wasn't unfamiliar with concern—Gohan had always been that way, ever since he was a kid. But hearing it from you…
It was different.
Maybe because, unlike Gohan, you weren't someone he had taken under his wing. You weren't looking at him as a student to a teacher, or even a warrior to a comrade. No, you were looking at him as something else entirely.
As a friend.
The word shouldn't have felt as foreign as it did.
Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Just promise me you'll take it easy and not push yourself, okay?"
Your eyes shined with unwavering sincerity, and for a brief moment, Piccolo found himself… at a loss.
Not because he didn't have an answer.
But because, despite all the years he had spent in solitude—despite the battles, the meditation, the relentless pursuit of strength—he wasn't used to people saying things like that to him.
Finally, after a beat of silence, he spoke.
"…I promise."
His voice was quieter than before, but steady, holding a rare softness that only you would notice.
Your lips curled into a smile, satisfied with his response.
Piccolo wasn't sure why, but seeing that smile—knowing that such a small assurance from him was enough to ease your worries—made something settle in his chest.
And for the first time in a long while, he found that he didn't mind it.