Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Violet and Crimson ❯ Violet and Crimson ( One-Shot )

Disclaimer: DB/Z/GT do not belong to me. And I'm too tired to think up anything original to say about that, because I stayed up very late to write this story.

A/N: Wow, I was on a roll with this one ... I started writing it around ten p.m. or so, and once I started writing, I just couldn't stop! My Dad tried to tell me to go to bed, but I managed to convince him that if he interrupted my train of thought, my muse would get tired and go to sleep and I would lose the idea forever . . . so I was allowed to stay up. I feel so happy!

Anyhow, this is kind of a Piccolo and Gohan POV, similar to my fic "Third in Line", but with more narrative and action, rather than just thoughts. It occurs during the year where Piccolo trains Gohan in the desert (I love that bit!), and deals with Piccolo's reflections on his life, the point of his existence, and his relationship with a certain young demi-Saiyajin...

O, and as an aside .... nope, no yaoi. Pic' and Gohan have a paternal relationship in this one, thanks. Just thought I'd clear that one up, in case any of you were wondering.

Violet and Crimson

Orange firelight flickered over emerald skin and purple clothing as Piccolo sat in front of a campfire, staring fixedly into the dancing flames as though they could give him answers. He frowned, but there was no threat or malice in the expression this time; only the hopelessness that spawns from the lack of knowledge.

It was a time when Piccolo's goals should have been perfectly clear -- the Saiyajins of whom Radditsu had spoken would arrive in a few months, and Piccolo, as well as the rest of Chikyuu's defenders, were preparing to fight them. Increasing his strength had been an obsession of Piccolo's since the very moment of his hatching, so another year of intense training should have exhilarated him.

But it didn't. Along with the quest for power and the removal of his physical limitations came an undeniable feeling of emptiness. Piccolo couldn't explain it, and he didn't understand it -- and that angered him. The things that used to give him pleasure seemed to mean nothing to him anymore. To know that there were others who surpassed him in strength was an annoyance, surely, but it gave him the excuse to train harder, to push himself far past his own expectations. Up until now, that had been the only thing Piccolo lived for.

That, and killing Son Goku. The desire to eliminate the Chikyuu-bred Saiyajin had been ingrained in Piccolo's consciousness from the start of his life, and had burned through his veins like fire. Son Goku must be surpassed . . . Son Goku must be destroyed, at all costs -- whether to Piccolo or to anyone else. It had been a slow, but steady, climb in the ladder of Piccolo's life, as he built up to his ultimate goal of killing the man who had been the cause of his birth.

Eight months ago, Piccolo had done it. His fangs bared in a predatory snarl as he remembered the power coursing through him as his energy beam drilled through Son's chest, knocking him to the ground in a bloody mess. A ghost of a smile traced Piccolo's lips as an image came to mind of Son's friends weeping over their dead comrade. It had been almost amusing. The small excuse for a smile disappeared, to be replaced by a scowl, for this accomplishment was the root of Piccolo's discomfort.

Son was dead. Piccolo's lifelong desire, his hope, his goal . . . they had been met. Instead of joy and satisfaction in the doing of the deed, however, Piccolo felt only a great vacuum within himself. He had come to the top of the ladder, only to find that there was nowhere to go but down.

Piccolo growled, a low, feral sound that began at the base of his throat and emerged as a threatening roar. Who would have guessed that he, the Demon King, would find unhappiness in the very act that he had been bent upon accomplishing his entire life? It made no sense.

His father must be having conniptions, wherever he was. Piccolo could almost hear the guttural laughter rising up to him from hell, where he assumed his sire now resided. He had killed Son, but to what was he reduced now? A babysitter! A babysitter for Son Goku's five-year-old brat, no less.

That in itself wasn't so bad. Son Gohan was strong -- at times he had expressed a power that was greater than Piccolo or Son himself, and training him had proved to be an interesting, and sometimes challenging, experience. No, that wasn't the problem. The problem was the boy's trustfulness, his unshakable faith in 'human' nature. The problem was the child's disarming grin, the one that made Piccolo's lips twitch upward in response no matter how hard he tried to remain aloof. The problem was the fact that, in the offspring of his greatest enemy, Piccolo had found a friend.

The sound of quiet breathing slowly brought Piccolo out of his morbid train of thought, and the warrior shook his head to clear his muddled mind. He glanced down at the small boy who lay curled up next to him, and Piccolo snorted. The stupid kid had taken to sleeping beside Piccolo (who never slept himself, merely sitting awake all night, meditating or staring into the fire), though Piccolo wasn't sure why the boy insisted on his proximity. Gohan was strong enough to protect himself from anything that resided in the desert, but he took comfort in Piccolo's presence.

And he staunchly refused to accept that Piccolo was, by far, his worst enemy.

It was things like that -- sleeping at Piccolo's side, refusing to believe that there was evil in Piccolo's soul, his unwavering devotion to his sensei -- that had slowly begun to endear the boy to his teacher. It was the boy's unshakable trust, the one that allowed him to slumber peacefully next to someone who could easily dispatch of him with a single blow, that had caused Gohan to slowly worm his way into Piccolo's cast-iron heart.

And it was that fact that made Piccolo so angry.

He didn't need friends. He didn't want friends. Relationships were a weakness; they took over one's thought processes, and made one lose focus, taking the place of what was really important. Piccolo had found himself not caring if the Saiyajins killed him, just so long as Gohan survived. His heart, which previously had only known hatred and greed, was beginning to be invaded by another emotion. Instead of power, Piccolo found himself becoming intrigued by friendship.

At this rate, he was going to be a pushover when the Saiyajins came . . . and with him gone, so would be his legacy. No one would bother wishing him back with the Dragonballs, which was what was happening to Son in four months' time. No one would weep for him, or remember him, or even bother giving him a decent burial. Most likely he would be left in the desert to rot, or be consumed by scavenging mammals. The life, the dreams, the ambitions of Piccolo Daimau Jr. would be forgotten forever.

All because of this blasted boy, who was distracting Piccolo from his true focus. In training Gohan day after day, Piccolo had no time to increase his own strength . . . it would be the brat's fault if Piccolo did not have the ability to defeat the Saiyajins. Piccolo had been right all along -- friendships and attachments were weaknesses, and should be eliminated.

It wouldn't take much. One well-placed ki blast, or a swift blow to the head -- he could even snap Gohan's neck with ease, and the boy would never know what hit him. Son would be furious, of course, but without Gohan keeping him back, Piccolo could train hard enough to defeat Son . . . again. That would be no problem.

Piccolo lifted a hand, poised to strike. It would only take a second -- Gohan wouldn't even feel any pain . . .

Gohan stirred, face scrunching into a yawn, and one eye cracked open. "Pic'lo-san," he smiled sleepily, then moved closer to Piccolo, propping his head against his mentor's knee. Letting out a small sigh of contentment, the child fell asleep.

The green-skinned fighter stared at Gohan for a few seconds, then dropped his hand, muttering a virulent curse. The boy had power over him, even as he slept! Without doing more than saying a single word, or even realizing what he was doing, Gohan had completely removed Piccolo's resolve to kill him. It was infuriating.

Out of instinct rather than coherent thought, Piccolo let a hand fall to rest on Gohan's shoulder. Still asleep, Gohan reached up and took hold of Piccolo's fingers, all Gohan's fingers fitting around Piccolo's index one. Piccolo grunted, but didn't try to detach the boy's grasp. It was embarrassing to know that he had become almost a security blanket for the child, but in a way, it was nice, too. No one else had ever needed Piccolo before.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but the stars had rotated in their position in the sky when Gohan let out a cry in his sleep. The boy's face was contorted as he thrashed about on the ground, and he let out a yell: "Come back! No . . . Come back!"

Piccolo's eyes widened, and he shook the boy roughly. "Gohan!" he gripped his shoulders, giving him another shake. "Gohan, it's just a nightmare. Wake up!"

Despite Piccolo's efforts, Gohan remained under the influence of his subconscious, and Piccolo watched with surprise as tears began coursing down the boy's cheeks. "No . . ." Gohan whimpered, "Come back to me . . . Please, don't leave me . . ."

This was too much for Piccolo's curiosity, a trait he thought he had buried years ago. Piccolo pressed a hand to Gohan's chest, holding him down, and with his other hand he placed two fingers on Gohan's forehead. Closing his eyes, Piccolo stretched out his mind to touch Gohan's, attempting to see what it was that had Gohan so terrified.

The landscape was dry and barren, but the ground was splashed with blood. Dark, violet blood. It clumped the fine sand into large wet patches, sticking the individual grains together into a thick, unnatural mud.

Gohan knelt in the dust, beside the still form of a fallen warrior. Piccolo lay in a crumpled heap, and he was dead. His eyes were glassy, his skin was cold, and his arms and legs were bent in ways they shouldn't be. He wasn't breathing, and his heart didn't beat.

He had been killed by the Saiyajins. Killed because he was protecting Gohan. Killed because Gohan was too weak to defend himself.

"No!" Gohan cried, taking Piccolo's limp hand in his and holding it to his heart. Tears rolled down his face, and they felt like fire, burning his cheeks. "Piccolo-san, don't leave me. Come back!"

But his friend gave no response. Gohan threw himself over Piccolo's lifeless form and began to sob. "Please, Piccolo-san . . . come back to me . . ."

Piccolo's eyes flew open, and he let out a gasp. This was what held Gohan in its power, torturing the small child as he slept? The thoughts of his death? Not his father, not his friends . . . but Piccolo? The same person who trained him with a brutal intensity, giving him bruises and abrasions like they were nothing. The same being who had abandoned Gohan to live, alone, in the wilderness for an entire six months. Who brushed off any attempt at conversation, and who seemed to have no heart within him.

Despite all that, it was he whom Gohan seemed to treasure the closest, whom Gohan was most afraid to lose. This realization kindled a spark of warmth inside him, and Piccolo felt a sense of wonder. Son respected him, that much he knew, and the others feared him . . . but not one of them -- not one -- had nightmares about his death. No one, save a five-year-old demi-Saiyajin.

Gohan was still held in the merciless grip of the nightmare, tossing and turning, his clothing soaked with a cold sweat, still ejaculating, "No!" in a heart-wrenching manner. Piccolo regarded him, noting the expression of fear and anguish that twisted the boy's features, then he reached down and lifted the child onto his lap.

"Gohan . . ." Piccolo said gruffly, pushing the boy's black hair off his face. "Gohan, I'm here," when Gohan continued to cry out, Piccolo again rested a hand on his forehead, but this time he projected his thoughts into the boy's mind.

Gohan . . .

P-Piccolo-san?

Gohan, it's just a dream. I'm right here.

You're not . . . you're not . . . d-dead?

No. Of course not! Now go back to sleep. You have a lot of training to do tomorrow.

Gohan's thoughts returned to the normal passiveness that came with sleep, and Piccolo withdrew from his mind with a small snort of satisfaction . . . and received a shock.

Though his mind was no longer touching Gohan's, Piccolo could still sense the boy's emotions, and his sleepy thoughts. A drowsy peacefulness washed over the boy's mind, caused by the knowledge that Piccolo was near by, and it made the warrior grin a little. This could prove to be interesting -- he would be able to tell for sure when the kid was lying, now.

The down side was, Piccolo knew that Gohan would also be able to sense his emotions, as well, once he knew how to look for them. Piccolo groaned, for he realized what he had done -- through that mental conversation, Piccolo had created a bond between him and the child. He and Gohan were now linked in a manner that could never be destroyed.

Well. Perhaps it wouldn't be that bad. As long as Gohan never learned how to use his side of the bond, Piccolo's thoughts would remain private . . . but even if they didn't, he didn't think it would be too much of a bother. Gohan wasn't the kind of child to be intrusive.

The fire had almost gone out now, flickering down to the last embers, but the stars provided enough illumination for Piccolo to see Gohan clearly. The boy had settled back into slumber now, and Piccolo gave an unconscious smile of relief. He couldn't explain it, but it had pained him to see Gohan in such misery.

Gohan's lips curled in a smile to match Piccolo's own, and he snuggled up to him, wrapping his arms around Piccolo's waist. Piccolo's eyes widened until they almost burst. He had no idea how to deal with affection such as this -- it was something completely foreign to him.

His first instinct was to shove Gohan away, but even as he thought this, Piccolo saw Gohan's forehead wrinkle. Stay . . . came the child's dozy, half-coherent thought, creeping into Piccolo's mind almost tentatively. Stay with me . . . Piccolo-san.

Piccolo pursed his lips at the invasion into his mind, but he softened a little when he realized Gohan didn't know what he was doing. In all probability, the boy wouldn't even remember what happened when morning came. No one was watching, either. No one would ever know, save Piccolo himself . . . and he would never tell.

Shaking his head slightly, Piccolo put his arms around the boy's small frame, holding Gohan securely on his lap. A warm, protective feeling washed over him, and an expression that could have been called fondness coloured his features -- he still didn't understand, but he knew that now, he was responsible for Gohan. During the battle, and ever after, as long as Gohan needed him. Strangely enough, it wasn't a burden to be tied down to a kid. In fact, it was almost a privilege.

Perhaps his life wasn't purposeless after all. Instead of striving to better and kill an opponent, it seemed as though Piccolo's existence had taken a different turn. His role on this planet had fundamentally altered . . . he was now a surrogate father to an abnormally-powerful halfling, a role that many would be too afraid or cowed to accept.

It was one that Piccolo gladly took on. If he could pass on his knowledge to this boy, the offspring of the strongest fighter on Chikyuu, then perhaps . . . perhaps he would not die without a legacy. Perhaps he would not be forgotten.

Dropping his chin down to his chest, Piccolo closed his eyes and meditated until morning.

******

Black eyes blinked sleepily as Gohan slowly came awake. His first thought was that he felt warm, even though the sun hadn't risen and the temperature of the desert was still in the chilly zone. His second was of how safe he felt -- it was a feeling he hadn't experienced since his father used to hug him at night. Gohan glanced at himself, half-hoping to see his father's arms holding him close, though he knew all along that his daddy was dead.

Two green, muscled arms encircled him, in a light but protective embrace. Gohan felt a stab of surprise as he realized he was sitting in Piccolo's lap, and that his sensei was holding him the same way Goku used to. The boy smiled, an expression of comfort and familiarity, and he relaxed, nestling closer to Piccolo and resting his head in the crook of the fighter's arm.

"O, no, you don't," a deep voice startled him, and Gohan squeezed his eyes shut a split-second too late. "You're not asleep."

"Yes I am," Gohan murmured, feigning sleep-talking and all the while realizing the effort was futile. Piccolo wasn't stupid.

"No, you're not. I may live in the desert by myself, but I can tell if a little brat is faking or not," Piccolo's voice seemed to contain a hint of amusement, much to Gohan's surprise. Piccolo never found anything funny. "You know my rules. You wake up, you get up."

The next second, Piccolo had dumped him onto the cold sand, and Gohan scrambled to a sitting position, sending the other a baleful stare. "That wasn't nice," he muttered, spitting out dust and running his fingers through his unruly hair. Sand flew in all directions, and Gohan shook his head like a dog to dislodge the last few stubborn pieces of grit.

"You want nice, you can go home," Piccolo sneered, rising to his feet and crossing his arms. His eyebrows furrowed for a second, and a turban and cape appeared on his person. As he did every time, Gohan gaped at him, wondering how on Kami-sama's green earth Piccolo was able to do that. It was so . . . so . . . cool!

Piccolo's mouth quirked, and Gohan got the distinct impression that his friend had read his thoughts, though he didn't know why -- or how. "All right, kid. Ready to start?"

Gohan clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, and a white flame surrounded him, lighting up the surroundings in an eerie glow in the half-light of pre-dawn. "Sir?" Gohan had to raise his voice a little over the roaring of his energy. "Can we wait a few minutes?"

His teacher looked at him as if Gohan had suggested they forget about the Saiyajins altogether. "What for? Even a moment's loss of training could prove to be a crucial mistake in the future."

"Please?"

"Gohan, stop being ridiculous."

"Pleeeeeaaaaase?"

"Child, what is the matter with you?"

"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase?"

"No!"

"PleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaC"

"You're turning blue. Take a breath before you pass out, for heaven's sake!"

"-eeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaC"

"Gohan, if you don't stop now, I'll blast you."

"-eeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaC"

"I'm not kidding, kid. I'm counting to three. One --"

"-eeeeeeaaaaase?" Gohan finished, recognizing the familiar hint of threat in Piccolo's tone. He knew when to quit pushing it. "I just wanna' watch the sun come up, Piccolo-san."

Piccolo actually blinked, an action that he rarely did, and only when something caught him off-guard. "Why? It's just the sun. It comes up every day and never changes."

Gohan scowled, his small forehead wrinkling and his mouth puckering to a small circle. It was almost comical to look at, but since he rarely expressed anger, the humour was overlooked. "Hey! Quit acting so tough, Piccolo. I know you like looking at pretty stuff. You look at trees and clouds all the time. I'm not dumb, I can see you doing it. How come you won't watch a sunrise with me? I watched the sunset with you."

It was true . . . having grown from an egg to physical maturity all on his own with virtually no companionship, Piccolo had learned to appreciate the beauty of the planet on which he lived. He found a comfort in the solitude of nature, especially in waterfalls. He missed waterfalls, but the harsh environment of the desert was the best place to train Gohan.

His favourite thing, however, was watching sunsets. When the sun sank to the horizon and the sky was shot with crimson and violet, it made Piccolo feel at one with the planet, and its inhabitants. The purple and red in the sky, mingling together to create such beauty, represented something that Piccolo couldn't find anywhere else -- a union between himself and the humans. Purple blood and red -- the same chemical properties, but so different in appearance. People found it so difficult to look beyond factors such as colour, and physical appearance, that they often overlooked anything inside.

Over the years, Piccolo had come to expect the alienation from the rest of the inhabitants of his homeworld because of his physical anomalies, but he never really accepted it. The intense feeling of loneliness, though buried beneath his façade of self-reliance, could still be found when Piccolo took time to meditate.

But when he watched the sunsets, it was as though everything fell into place for a few moments, when the sky was a blaze of glory. It almost took Piccolo's breath away, and nothing else could do that. It never lasted more than a minute or so, though . . . after that, the sky surrendered to the night, the colours swallowed up by darkness. Just like him. He and Son had shared a brief moment of brotherhood, united against Radditsu, but Piccolo had broken it by killing them both.

Gohan stood in the sand, eyes nearly popping out of his head, and he gradually quit powering up, though he didn't realize it. He'd been watching Piccolo's face, watching as his jaw muscles tightened and something that looked like hurt came into his eyes, when all of a sudden, thoughts and feelings had come pounding at Gohan like energy waves. Somehow, Gohan knew what Piccolo was thinking. He could feel the pain and loneliness, and all sorts of other things that he had hitherto only guessed Piccolo felt, but had never known for sure. All the thoughts slammed into him in a matter of seconds, and it took Gohan a while to sort through them.

Finally, Gohan took a step forward and tugged on Piccolo's pant leg timidly. "Sir? Piccolo-san?"

His sensei jumped, and again Gohan was surprised. Piccolo was never startled, unless Gohan landed a punch on him or something. "What?" he asked waspishly, but Gohan knew -- again, without knowing how -- that he was just trying to cover his embarrassment.

"Sunrises are nice, too," Gohan ventured, risking a smile. "They're just as pretty as sunsets, but the colour doesn't go away. It just gets brighter, 'cause the sun's coming up instead of going down. It's really nice to watch."

Piccolo stared at him, an unreadable expression on his face, and Gohan could sense his confusion. "Gohan . . ."

"You taught me to like sunsets," Gohan pressed, and he turned to face the East, stepping backward so he could lean against Piccolo's leg. "Now it's your turn to learn. Okay?"

A grunt was Piccolo's only response, but it elicited a grin from Gohan anyway. He could tell what his friend was thinking.

Master and pupil stood together, staring out at the horizon as the sun peeked over the desert landscape. The brilliant, scarlet orb scattered crimson light across the ground, catching each individual grain of sand and making the desert look like a sea of multi-coloured gems. The sky became splashed with reds, purples, and oranges, slowly fading into an ever-brighter blue. Golden beams began to lick the landscape, eventually making their way to the two figures, glinting on Gohan's black hair and Piccolo's pointed ears. For a second, the sunlight that played upon their features made it impossible to tell the difference in the colours of their skin, giving them both a surrealistic appearance of family.

A heavy hand fell onto a small boy's head, ruffling untidy black hair in an uncommon gesture of familiarity. Gohan smiled.

"Maybe you're not so alone after all, Piccolo-san," Gohan whispered, reverently, not wanting to break the spell. "You can't be. Not when I can watch the sun come up with you."

"Sentimental infant," Piccolo shot back, but in the same tone of voice. A comfortable silence fell between them -- the silence that can only exist between two friends who have nothing to hide from each other. For the second time, Piccolo felt truly at peace. The direction his life was taking was still unclear to him, but he no longer felt the need to puzzle everything out before it happened. What he did know, was that this boy was a fundamental part of it.

At last, Piccolo cuffed Gohan on the back of the head. "C'mon, kid, time to spar."

A bright, contagious smile spread across Gohan's face, one that rivalled the very sun in its brilliance. "Yes, sir!" he saluted sharply, and dropped into a fighting stance.

The fighting continued on through the day, but though the blows were just as harsh and Piccolo still didn't let Gohan rest until he got a good hit in, something subtle had changed. An understanding existed between them that hadn't been there before -- it was nothing no one else would be able to see . . . but then, they liked it better that way anyhow.

******