Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ The Colours Within ❯ Secrets ( Chapter 8 )

A/N: That update didn't take as long as I'd expected it to. I wrote this chapter in a day (I had a day off and this is how I spend it - if that's not dedication I don't know what is!). You know how it goes - you start and then you just can't stop. So in this chapter we get a bit of insight into Narumi, and also into Yamcha. Oh, and just a disclaimer: I don't own Marmion by Sir Walter Scott, to which I alluded briefly.

 

eight. secrets.

 

There were things about Fujihara Narumi that she kept secret - and by this she meant Secret. Giichi didn't know, her friends didn't know, and her family definitely didn't know. One of these Secrets was her motive behind her “dating” Gouhara, for by now his girlfriend had returned from England and had been handed the hard news (she had, incidentally, smashed most of Giichi's belongings while she was inside gathering up the last of her things. She had refused Giichi's offer of staying at the house until she found another place, and had made several trips back and forth from her mother's place to take all of what was hers - which was, incidentally, most of what was in the apartment - and on her final trip to the apartment she'd destroyed most of what remained. And, incidentally, as she was exiting the apartment, Narumi strode up, full of seduction and confidence, straight out of whoredom as the ex-girlfriend believed, and she had tried to smash Narumi as well. It had been one hell of a catfight, complete with scratching and hair-pulling, but also a few hard and well-placed knocks on both girls' accounts, and Narumi now sported a blackened eye and a cut and swollen lip, not to mention cuts and bruises on various other parts of her body).

 

Narumi also smoked weed - another one of her Secrets. Her friends knew that she smoked cigarettes, and they greatly disapproved of her habit. She didn't blaze regularly, not anymore, maybe once or twice a week, depending on her schedule, but she still considered it one of her Secrets. Worse was the cocaine she would snort on occasion, usually a couple times a month, which seemed to be whenever her “friends” could get a hold of some.

 

Her “friends” were yet another Secret. Nobody knew about them - they were, literally, the people her mother had warned her about during public school.

 

“Don't get mixed up in the wrong crowd, Narumi-chan,” her mother would say. “They'll take you down the wrong path in life, and they'll get you into trouble. And how do you think your father and I would feel knowing that our baby has gone down the wrong path because of the wrong people? How do you think your life will be once you've gone down the wrong path?” Then she would smile, as always. “But I know you're smart - you won't make that mistake.”

 

That, of course, had been when her father was still apart of her life, before he had split one night like his ass was on fire. He'd never come back, though Fujihara-san had often told her children not to worry, they'd hear from him soon. Takeshi had always clung tight to this hope, but Narumi had known better. The man was gone, and who knew to where? If he'd cared he wouldn't have left the way he had. Narumi knew this, even at ten.

 

Not that she strayed down the “wrong path” right away, partly because Takeshi was a good role model. He was fifteen, top of his class, and while not oozing popularity he had his group of close friends (who also happened to be intelligent and wholesome). When he was eighteen he went away to university, and Narumi, now thirteen, lacked her brother to look up to and fell victim to the “wrong people,” though she wouldn't consider herself a victim.

 

There was the brief period when she was sixteen and seventeen when she'd smoked marijuana twice a day or more, everyday, but that part of her life was over now. She hadn't been able to afford that kind of intense habit, and she'd reasoned that if she pulled herself together, got better marks and got into university, she could get a well-paying job and then she would be able to afford the drugs and cigarettes she craved. Besides, Takeshi had returned home to take a master's course at Western Capital University and, though Fujihara-san was too caught-up in her work in her desperate attempt to support everybody fully to notice, Takeshi instantly spotted the change in his younger sister.

 

Now whenever Narumi went out to smoke or snort or sleep with Giichi, she used one of a few excuses: She was studying late at (pick one) school/a friend's house; or She was out with her friends at a (pick one) friend's house/bar/club (for now she was old enough to legally go to such places). Occasionally she would tell her friends that she was going out somewhere with Giichi: Going out to (pick one) dinner/a movie/a walk through the park/etc. Her “friends” never knew what she was up to, unless she was getting high with them, and they didn't care.

 

It hadn't taken Fujihara Narumi long to figure out what it was about Vegeta that so captured her interest - she knew that he, too, had Secrets.

 

///

 

Puar watched him with barely veiled disapproval, hovering close to Yamcha's head as he bustled from one room to another, much to the warrior's irritation.

 

“Can you relax a bit?” Yamcha grumbled. “I'm trying to get ready; you're in my way.”

 

Puar didn't answer, but his mask dissipated just a bit more. He continued hovering around Yamcha's ear, never straying too far and making sure that he followed him into each and every room. He watched as Yamcha stood before the bathroom window, tidied his hair and fixed his dress shirt. He watched as he took out a bottle of cologne and sprayed it strategically on his body and clothes.

 

“Not too much, not too little,” Yamcha said absentmindedly. “What was it that Bulma used to say? Less is more.”

 

He put the cologne back, checked his reflection a final time, and then headed for his room. He picked up his wallet, checked it quickly for his credit card and cash, and stuffed it in his back pocket.

 

“What jacket do you think for tonight, Puar?” he asked. “I'm thinking the black leather one, to match with the black outfit.”

 

Puar finally spoke up. “I don't think that'll be quite warm enough.”

 

“That's okay, I guess. It's not as though I'll be outside much.”

 

“What did you say her name was?” Puar asked.

 

“Rizu,” Yamcha replied as he tugged his jacket sleeves on.

 

“And what if Bulma were to find out about this Rizu?” Puar demanded. “What do you think will happen then? You guys just broke up and got back together - don't you think this is a little wrong?”

 

“It's nothing, Puar, just dinner.”

 

Puar scowled. “Then why did you put that condom in your pocket?”

 

Yamcha's face coloured, then darkened. He rounded on his friend. “Why does it matter to you, huh? Stay out of my business. What I do with my life is my decision, isn't? It has nothing to do with you.”

 

“You're going to hurt Bulma.”

 

“Nothing will happen!” Yamcha repeated. “Besides, how would she find out anyway?”

 

Puar looked at him critically. “What if I told her?”

 

The look Yamcha gave him was one of complete betrayal, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. “Bastard!” he said. “You wouldn't do that! What kind of a friend are you?”

 

“No!” Puar squeaked. “What kind of a boyfriend are you? You told Bulma that you loved her - you always tell her that you love her - but you're going on a date with another woman! Don't look at me like I'm being the backstabber here, Yamcha, you're the one cheating on your girlfriend. At least I'm still doing the right thing by telling Bulma what she ought to know.”

 

Yamcha held his fingers to his temple and gazed briefly at the floor. “Look, Puar. Nothing is going to happen. I don't plan to have sex with her - it's just a safety precaution. You know that I love Bulma - no, you know that! - and as a matter of fact I plan on proposing to her.”

 

It was Puar's turn for his eyes to widen and his jaw to drop. “Propose… marriage?” he asked. “Why?”

 

Yamcha frowned, not pleased with Puar's response. “Well… why not?” he asked. “We've been dating a long time and yeah, sure we've had our problems, but I do love her, and I'm sure that she's in love with me too.”

 

“…but you're going to dinner with another woman…” Puar said slowly.

 

“It's just dinner, holy shit. Rizu knows that I'm dating Bulma and she knows that I love her. The dinner is completely, one hundred percent plutonic. Okay? I'll probably be home around midnight.”

 

Without further ado, Yamcha left, closing the door loudly behind him, and leaving Puar feeling very much torn between his disloyal best friend and his unknowing best friend's girlfriend.

 

Of course Puar knew that it wasn't a plutonic dinner. If it were then Yamcha wouldn't have spent so much time and effort getting ready. He wouldn't have worn the nice black button-up shirt, and the new black dress pants, or the black belt with the silver buckle, or the classy black shoes. He wouldn't have put gel in his hair to ensure it stayed in place, and he definitely wouldn't have used cologne. And to think, thought Puar angrily, that just last night he had gone to a hockey game with Bulma!

 

According to Yamcha, the date had been a success. Both had enjoyed the game immensely, and the dinner afterwards had consisted of some of the best French cuisine Japan had to offer… courtesy, of course, of Bulma's wealth and status. Yamcha hadn't come home that night, opting instead to remain at the Capsule Corporation. Not that anything had happened, Puar knew. Bulma was no idiot - she wasn't about to give it up to somebody who had a history of giving it up to everybody. Perhaps for good reason, thought Puar, eyeing the door.

 

Early that afternoon, when Yamcha had arrived home, he'd announced that he would be going out for dinner again that night. Puar had naturally assumed that it would be with Bulma, and he asked if she would be picking him up - he'd wanted to say a quick hello since it had been a while since he'd seen her.

 

“No, not with Bulma,” Yamcha had said, somewhat awkwardly. “This woman named Rizu. She's an old friend of mine. I ran into her on the subway on the way home.”

 

“I've never heard you mention her before,” Puar accused.

 

Yamcha had just shrugged.

 

As the hour of the date drew nearer, Puar's suspicions mounted. It was no friendly dinner when Yamcha had that spring in his step and that half-smile on his face.

 

And now the bomb! He was planning on proposing to Bulma Briefs? This astonished Puar more than anything else he'd heard that day - more than Rizu, more than the dinner-date.

 

What magazine had it been that had put Bulma Briefs in the top spot of most eligible bachelorettes in Japan? Even the American magazine People had the Capsule Corporation heiress listed as one of their bachelorettes. Not that it had meant anything to Bulma - it hadn't changed her outlook on life or love, or Yamcha for that matter, and it hadn't seemed to affect Yamcha in anyway either. But Puar found it funny that a woman who men so clearly sought after should be within arms' reach of a proposal from a man who had her and sought after others. It didn't make sense.

 

Yamcha was making a statement, and that was all. He could say that he loved Bulma until the cows came home, but Puar knew otherwise. He loved the idea of her, loved the fact that he, a down-and-out baseball player, a martial artist who received no credit and lived in the shadows of his stronger friends, should have a claim of some kind on a woman like Bulma Briefs: Beautiful, ingenious, and wealthy in her own right. And that was all. Perhaps at one point he had loved her - certainly he'd liked her, and he probably liked her still - but it was no longer enough to keep him loyal. Yamcha had long since convinced himself, though, that he was completely and madly in love with her, and, Puar thought, maybe that was the reason behind his twisted logic of going on a date with one Rizu and planning a marriage proposal to one Bulma. What he was doing with Rizu couldn't possibly be wrong, because he loved Bulma too much to hurt her.

 

It was ass-backwards, Puar thought. Love, or whatever this was, really was blind.

 

And perhaps that was true, because as Yamcha took a seat near the back of a subway car and headed into downtown Western Capital, he didn't realize just how good he had it with Bulma Briefs. He took her for granted and assumed that no matter what he did she'd always take him back at some point - she had thus far. He was blind to how fragile the relationship really was, blind to the fact that it was he who cradled the cracking affair and it was now solely up to him to pamper it until it healed, blind to how tangled his web truly was. He was blind to the fact that others would not be blind to his secrets forever.

 

Not that Yamcha really considered them to be secrets, not in the true sense of a secret. Not as in, “You have to promise me you won't tell anybody…” He had never once requested that Puar keep the knowledge of Yamcha's affairs to himself, never begged him not to tell Bulma or anyone else. He had even only rarely thought of the possibility of anyone other than Puar finding out. Yet sometimes, after a particularly close call, or a particularly effective guilt-trip from Puar, Yamcha's stomach would be clenched in a cold fist of fear, usually reserved for battles, that Bulma may find out what he'd been up to. But he never really thought of his actions as secrets.

 

Something that Yamcha was not blind to was the plunging neckline on Rizu's tiny dress. He was not blind to the way it barely covered her behind, and not blind to the faint outline of her nipples through the fabric. He was not blind to the way her black hair cascaded in waves over her bare shoulders, nor to the way her chocolate eyes seemed to melt when she looked into his own. He was not blind to the contrast of her pale skin against the black of her dress, hair and eyes, or to the vibrant red of her lipstick. He was not blind to the way she crossed and uncrossed her legs, to the way she placed a perfectly manicured hand on his thigh, or to the way she flashed her dimpling smile his way. He was not blind to what Rizu wanted that night.

 

Add yet another secret to his growing list: That night Yamcha returned with Rizu to her apartment.

 

In the morning, as she sat naked in bed smoking a cigarette, she asked him, “So what happened with you and Bulma Briefs?”

 

He glanced over at her as he pulled on his boxers. “What happened?” he echoed.

 

“Why'd you two break up?”

 

“Oh… just some problems. We're back together now.”

 

Rizu's face suddenly hardened. “Is that so?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Then why are you here?” she demanded. “Why did you go on a date with me? Why'd you agree to spend the night here? You have a girlfriend, you jackass, why are you cheating on her?”

 

It was the first time ever that Yamcha had woken up with a woman who had berated him for sleeping with her, even if they'd found out that he was dating Bulma Briefs. He looked at her in surprise. “Do you know her?” he asked.

 

Rizu frowned. “No.”

 

“Then… why does it matter to you? She won't find out.”

 

Rizu's eyebrows raised, and, turning away to put her cigarette out in the ashtray on her night table, she shook her head to herself. “Well, thanks for the night, Yamcha,” she said stiffly, formally. “I think it's best if you don't come around here anymore.”

 

Yamcha sensed that feeling begin to grow in his stomach again. It was something about this woman's disapproval that made him feel that Bulma could never ever find out about it. He buried it down inside of him, refused to think of it. If he didn't say anything nobody would ever know.

 

Puar regarded him evenly when Yamcha returned home that afternoon. “Midnight, eh?” he snapped angrily, his tiny voice shrill.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“I find it really funny that you'll accuse Bulma of cheating on you with Vegeta and refuse to speak to her because of it, but you'll go out and sleep with some woman you met on the subway,” Puar continued. “Very hypocritical of you, Yamcha. Very smooth. And you want to marry this woman! Good luck!”

 

For the rest of the day he refused to come out from under the bed, blowing raspberries in Yamcha's direction whenever he tried to coax him out, or just ignoring him altogether. It wasn't until Puar shockingly shouted at Yamcha to piss off that he finally did, relieving himself in the washroom before camping out on the couch. He felt like a rejected husband.

 

It didn't once cross his mind that his secrets could come spilling out, or that somewhere along the line there could lay a fork in the road. His path and Bulma's had intertwined for so long that the very idea of her walking in a direction different from his own was unfathomable. He never once thought that Bulma could reject his marriage proposal; it never occurred to him that Bulma didn't love him or wouldn't want to marry him. So was the naivety of Yamcha. For all the girls he'd slept with, he certainly didn't have a way with women.

 

And, as irony would have it, Bulma Briefs was sitting up in bed at that very moment, her lights dimmed but not off, thinking intensely, thinking that although she cared for Yamcha, he wasn't the right one for her.

 

This was her secret.