Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ The Art Room ❯ The Art Room ( One-Shot )

Vegeta slumped over sullenly, his forearms resting on his crossed legs and his hands hanging loosely from his limp wrists. A pencil rested between two flaccid fingers; a pad of paper lie opened to a page in the middle, on the other side of the room. The prince had thrown it there. He hated drawing. Art was a waste of time. If thoughts must flow from my mind and manifest themselves physically, let them become light and heat radiating from my body. Let them become sweat and blood leaking from my pores. I will not scribble away my ambitions in lines and tones.

 

But why…why then, was he here?

 

The sketchpad called for him. He ignored it, and took to twirling the pencil.

 

I will paint blood on the battlefield. I will draw out my sweet victories. I will not doodle. I do not like art.

 

Why had he pulled up the chair? Why had he started sketching rough ideas that came to his mind?

 

Why had he bought the sketchbook in the first place?

 

The sketchpad called again. Vegeta heard its blank pages sing discordantly, as if he might rectify their clashing notes by covering them with drawings. The first page had a few lines. The second had a few different lines. The third page contained the beginnings of an eye. On the fourth, there was a suggestion of a human form. The fifth page waited to be filled. The prince took up the pad and thumbed to a different page. This one, about three-quarters through - this one would be where he would draw.

 

Vegeta twirled the pencil one last time before setting it gingerly upon the paper. Where did people look for inspiration? He saw no beauty in mountain ranges or flowering fields; at least, not any longer. What Vegeta saw was a landscape that he knew would be destroyed someday, in a battle or perhaps in the humans' attempt to control the planet that let them thrive. He saw tragedies waiting; he saw minutes ticking by until the inevitable sadness ensued.

 

So he let his mind wander. Fighting. That was what he should be doing, right then. Sparring Kakarrot, or training his son. Locked in battle - that was where he belonged. Instead he had locked himself in an art room.

 

Why?

 

It was on accident, of course - purely on accident. Trunks, about to enter West City High School, had gone to a tour and introduction night, and without Bulma, he found himself with no choice but to accompany his son. Aggravated beyond reason at the fools around him, Vegeta had stalked off down and unknown hallway, entered one of the rooms that lined it, and slammed the door shut behind him.

 

Three weeks later, with a sketchbook and a pencil in hand, he had returned.

 

The first time he had come, that art, that art - was purely on accident. Anger had unleashed itself upon a large piece of paper, to form a picture in vivid oil pastels. His furious markings had changed to gentle caresses as the art absorbed him, calmed him. What resulted was a moving abstract piece in reds and oranges and purples, fresh in its raw, austere realness.

 

It was still there, ripped in quarters and stuffed to the bottom of a trashcan.

 

Art is a waste of time.

 

Vegeta was locked in the art room. He had locked the door himself, and he could get out easily…but he didn't; he wouldn't give in. He was not so weak that he would run away from whatever had brought him back here. The man sketched a form onto the paper mindlessly. As he added in details, he found a familiar face staring back at him. Bulma had been taken too early - an assassin, eager for power and fame, had shot her one day. He hated that man; he'd given him his thoughts in the form of blows as soon as he'd found out. Vegeta had been at Kakarrot's that evening; perhaps if he'd been at Capsule Corp. instead, he would have been able to prevent it from happening. He hated Kakarrot; how dare he invite him over to spar that evening? Reasoning was of no importance. It was Kakarrot's fault.

 

Bitterness had become ruthlessness in battle. Vegeta fought with all of his being, and yet could never quite succeed in outdoing his rival. He flipped the page and pressed a few angry marks onto the paper. They became Goku's hair and eyes, and he added a happy mouth, laughing. Laughing, perhaps, at Vegeta's lack of purpose anymore…at the fact that he had come back here, and was drawing - drawing, of all things. He was a pathetic Saiyajin prince. Vegeta ripped the paper out and set it on fire with a ki blast. He threw it into a corner and set someone's art project on fire. Not that he really cared.

 

But he did. Somehow, whatever kid had drawn that was able to see the beauty that his eyes were incapable of finding. It had been a panoramic view of a forested mountain, and a river, and an apple tree. Clouds blossomed in the sky. Flowers formed shapes in the fields below. “Sorry, kid,” he muttered roughly. On the next page of his sketchpad, Vegeta scrawled a note. `Apologies for what happened to your art project. May you have luck with making your next piece as superb as this one was,' it read. He taped it to the wall against which the canvas had been leaning.

 

Vegeta pulled out another piece of paper from the sketchbook and distractedly folded it into an airplane. Yes, Kakarrot had apologized profusely for what Vegeta had accused him of, even though it wasn't his fault. The fool really was sorry. As the prince had withdrawn into a lonelier life, he had stopped chasing him, bothering him to spar or come over for dinner. Vegeta suspected that his rival was withdrawing from the world as well. Annoying as the harpy had been, Kakarrot missed her. Disease had taken her several years after Bulma had died; something she had cooked had been infected, and as a Saiyajin, Goku appeared to have been immune to it. It was a logical explanation; his two children had fallen ill for a time but recovered fully after several weeks.

 

Death was a part of life. Vegeta threw the paper airplane and watched it soar around the room before crashing into a shelf and falling into a neglected container full of water that someone had been using while working on a watercolor piece. The man threw the soggy airplane out and dumped the water into the sink, drying the container and setting it with the others. Only when he had finished the task did he consider what he had just done. But what did it matter? No one was there to see him, to make fun of him. He took up the sketchpad again, and, leaning against the counter, scribbled out a form with wings. Just as he was about to find a person to become the angel's face, he paused, his pencil hovering over the paper while he hesitated. He ripped the paper out and tossed it into the trashcan. Stupid Kakarrot.

 

He paced restlessly. He would not leave until he had accomplished something. This, he sensed, was a defining moment in his life - he was tired of being suspended in time, nothing moving, nothing changing. A shy inner optimist told him that change was always good. He wondered what had been good about Bulma's death. But he was ready to experience change. No more days filled with sitting around in inescapable ennui. Vegeta would decide something before he would leave this place. He flung the sketchpad across the room once more.

 

Without daily sparring sessions, without a nagging wife, was Kakarrot also bored? Or was he absorbed in his sons' lives, supporting them and watching them with interest? He doubted it. Much as Vegeta cared for Trunks, he could not subject himself to being fully involved in the young man's everyday life. Kakarrot, although he had the heart for it, would not have the patience, or the ability to connect. Having lived a completely different life, the other Saiyajin would be incapable of understanding his sons' daily problems and victories. Vegeta knew well, out of personal experience with his own child.

 

He glanced out the window. It was impossible to find inspiration from a view like this. He saw a couple of buildings off in the distance, and group of saplings that were a vain attempt at making the city look more aesthetically pleasing. The afternoon sun hung in the cloudless sky, inducing an inexplicable nostalgia. Vegeta suddenly longed to be outside, to be alive, to smell greenery and rivers and life. But…no. No, he would not leave until he did something. Until he produced some interesting piece of art, until he made some decision that would provide for change.

 

Vegeta decided to turn away from the window. The art room looked so much less inviting, now. It was dim; he had not bothered to turn the lights on, as the sun outside provided enough light for him to see anyway. The scent of the room drew him in, and yet nearly made him feel sick to his stomach. He decided to turn back toward the window. Maybe he would crack it open and let in a bit of that for which he ached. Life.

 

As he pivoted on one foot, a tapping noise drew his attention to another window farther across the room. He ignored it and cracked open the window nearest to him, closing his eyes and leaning forward until he was pressing his face against the screen to take in the aroma of the outside.

 

Something pressed back.

 

Goku smiled, flushing. “Hi, Vegeta,” he greeted shyly, moving back a bit so that his lips no longer touched the screen.

 

Vegeta became conscious of his breathing, and the fluttering in his abdomen. He did not speak. This was different. The prospect of change outweighed his confusion, his urge to smack Kakarrot for humiliating him so.

 

The other Saiyajin stared back, waiting for a response. When Vegeta did not lash out, his smile warmed. “Whatcha doin'?” he questioned, noting the fact that the prince was in the art room of a high school building.

 

“I could ask you the same,” Vegeta finally answered.

 

“I was lonely. Goten is at the arcade with Trunks, and Gohan moved out a while ago. I was wondering if you were lonely, too.”

 

His voice was so honest. Vegeta had no choice but to answer with equal sincerity. “Yes.”

 

“Why are you here, Vegeta?”

 

“I don't know.”

 

“Can I come in?”

 

Vegeta shrugged. He looked away and touched his fingers to his lips. That was so strange. Kakarrot didn't usually kiss people as a greeting, much less on the lips, and much less Vegeta.

 

A moment later, Goku appeared in the room. “It's kind of dark,” he commented.

 

“It's bright outside. I don't need to draw attention by turning on lights, anyway.”

 

“What's this?” something across the room caught the younger man's eye. He picked up the sketchpad. “I wonder whose this is? It looks like someone threw it across the room.”

 

Vegeta did not answer. He wasn't sure he was ready to tell his rival that he had bought that sketchbook.

 

“Hey, these pictures are pretty good. Wait…is that Bulma?” At the name, he suddenly hushed, quietly looking over the picture. “Vegeta…is this…”

 

He exhaled heavily in answer, as if to say, `You found me out, Kakarrot.' Vegeta sunk to the floor forlornly.

 

“You miss her a lot, huh?” He set the sketchpad down and stepped closer to the prince, finally sitting down beside him.

 

Vegeta pondered this. “I suppose.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I miss the emotions she brought. For once, I knew how it felt to feel affection, and how it felt to receive it. I learned freedom and new kinds of frustration. I learned life. I learned change.”

 

“So you miss…you miss her because she gave you those things?”

 

“That's what I just said, isn't it?” he snapped. “I've been suspended in this lifeless monotony, this lack of purpose, for too long. I have the gravity machine, I have all the resources I could want, and I have as much privacy as I desire, but what I don't have is change.”

 

“You would give up any of those things for change?”

 

“I suppose I would.”

 

“Hm,” Goku sighed thoughtfully.

 

It nagged at him until he asked it. “Kakarrot…why did you…?”

 

“Huh? …Why did I what, Vegeta?”

 

Speaking it might somehow make it more than it was. Vegeta shook his head. “Never mind.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Moments, minutes, a quarter of an hour of silence ensued.

 

“Somehow,” the younger man finally spoke, “I feel like I'm wasting less time here with you than I would be if I were at home, even though I'm doing the same thing. Just sitting.”

 

“Don't you train at all?”

 

“Yeah. But I can't do that all day. Do you?”

 

Vegeta frowned. “Some days, that's all I do. Eat and train.”

 

“You must be a lot stronger, then.”

 

“I haven't improved at all,” he grumbled dejectedly.

 

“That's all right. Neither have I.”

 

More quiet, as Vegeta picked up the sketchpad and looked it over. He threw it across the room again.

 

“Life is so confusing,” Goku muttered. “What does it want me to do with it now?” He thought for a moment, but spoke again when the prince did not respond. “Vegeta, why are you here? Is there anywhere else you'd rather be?”

 

“I told myself,” he began, “that I wasn't going to leave here until I changed something. I refuse to continue this cycle.”

 

“What are you planning on changing?”

 

“I don't know.”

“Why an art room?”

 

“I don't know.”

 

“Why didn't you yell at me?”

 

“For what you did at the window?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Because it was different.”

 

“Hey, Vegeta?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Want to try it again?”