#piccolo junior

Vaguely his remaining unbroken antenna picks up the vibration as someone--he thinks it's you--rushes to his side. Then he feels your hands clenching onto the ripped purple silk that should be covering his muscular back. Oh, he can tell it's definitely you by your aura and your familiar scent. Thank Kami, you are alive. One of the other fighters must have finished the enemy off or driven it away.

Pain suddenly spikes everywhere as you heft and roll him over onto his uninjured back, and he can't hold back what feels like a groan. He doesn't want you to have to see him like this--never meant to scare you like this--but he knows his regeneration is no use this time. His cells can't keep up with the damage, he can't be revived with the Dragon Balls, and he can't even physically speak to you, because from the gout of thick cobalt-tasting blood in his mouth, he's just realized that his sharp fangs have bitten through his tongue on impact.

He's hazy-brained and fading fast. He doesn't have the strength to lift his head. What he wouldn't give to train his blind eyes one more time on your face, the one that he always sees, no matter where he is or what he does. He casts around for some clear way to speak to you, because he has something important weighing on his mind. Then it comes to him. Telepathy!

He grunts your name mentally, but no response. He's not sure if you can hear him, but uncertain of his remaining minutes, he tries to send you his thoughts anyway through your telepathic link. He begins bravely, stoically, as is his custom.

You're alive. Don't think I have much time. Trust you to make the best call. Revive me, or not...I'll be content with your decision. It's been a good life. Worth exchanging for yours, any day.

Eyes closed, he curses his mounting weakness and wonders if you're picking up any of this, because you're not answering, and it's important to him that you hear. If only...he could have been braver. He's had many chances to speak truthfully from his heart to you, but it was too vulnerable for him back then. His heartbeat slows, and he hacks and coughs. If he's waiting for chances, this will be his last. He grits his jaws and with soldierly determination, he sends you emotions from your past together.

You've been a great teammate and friend to me, even when I didn't like myself or feel worthy, but now I gotta tell you I feel...more. I've held it back like a coward. Tch, and I call myself a fighter with honor. Just hope you get what I'm saying. This...feeling. Are you feeling it now?

Worse than the pain from burned green and pink skin on his abdomen and limbs, outstretched to shield you, and worse than the excruciating energy breaking his soul away from his body, is his next thought.

I'll never know what it's like to hold you so close that your heartbeat bumps mine. Or maybe--what it's like to gingerly pass my claws over your hair...'n' try not to snag it. I couldn't find any courage before, but now I sure won't be able to ask if...if you can show me what a kiss is like...too late now. Damn, I'll never see you again.

Without Kami or Shenron, his chance of getting wished back to you is slim. But your face is still with him. Just now he feels you grasp his pinky finger in your hand, and your warmth touches lightly on a less injured spot on his tattered ear. Maybe...that was a kiss and...you received his confession after all? In spite of his bleeding lips cut by the blunt force of his own fangs, he softly smiles for you. He blesses every moment he has had with you.

His pain quiets. Then he fades peacefully, the last of his being clinging to your comforting aura and familiar scent before darkness takes him.

You're in shock. You kneel over the prone figure of Piccolo, the mighty Namekian, the best friend you have ever had. Demon King? No longer, but a warrior prince in your eyes. He has just thrown his seven-and-a-half-foot frame, his 225 pounds of muscle and bone, and his precious heart of gold, between you and certain death. Your heart cracks open as the finality of grief punches your gut, and you cry out, "No! Piccolo!"

His skin is losing its lustrous emerald hue; his angular face, usually so serious and fierce in its expression, now goes peaceful, jaw slack and graceful ears drooping. All hope of ever hearing his gruff, kind voice aloud has been crushed, but nevertheless, every single one of his telepathic messages went through with crystal clarity. He'd laugh, if he were here, at the pathetic irony of it. You've been trying desperately to send a telepathic reply, but he must have been too far gone to receive, and in a rush to send out. You can only hope your comforting aura, your hands' tentative touch, and your heartfelt kiss communicated your reply to him.

It was indeed enough for Piccolo, because now, close-up, you see, through your own blurring eyes, tears pooling below his closed eyelids and trickling down his bruised cheekbones--such beautifully inhuman, iridescent tears of molten opal. Crying, you kiss his burned palm and lay it against your own face as you telepathically transmit: "Piccolo, wait for me! It can't be over...I swear I will bring you back, even if I have to defy Kami, King Yemma, and every Kai in existence! Because, Piccolo...I love you too."