Chapter Text
The gates of West City High creaked shut behind him with a groan that echoed too loud in his ears.
Vegeta kept walking.
He didn’t limp. He didn’t wince. Not where people could see. But every step set fire to his nerves, and the world swam behind a film of grey pain. The weight of his backpack pressed cruelly into the fresh gashes on his back, and the bandages—hastily wrapped and soaked with blood—itched and burned under his uniform. His ribs throbbed with every breath. His wrist clicked wrong every time he flexed his fingers.
He was late. Again.
He glanced at the clock on the school building as he passed beneath it. Five minutes into first period. That gave him fifty-five to pretend he was okay.
His shoes thudded across the tiled hallway. No one stopped him. No one dared.
The silence of school was different than the silence of home. At home, silence meant danger. A footstep in the hall. The rattle of a belt. The faint scent of cologne and liquor bleeding in through the cracks in the door.
Vegeta blinked hard, banishing the memory. Focus.
He passed the counselor’s office. He could still remember sitting there once, sweaty palms pressed into his thighs, trying to breathe through a cracked rib.
“Is there someone hurting you at home?”
He hadn’t answered.
Frieza’s voice was louder than the question.
“Say one word and I’ll bash the baby’s head in while you watch.”
And he’d believed him.
He still believed him.
He reached his locker, swapped out books without looking. Each movement made his wrist scream. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
The walk to class felt longer than usual. By the time he reached the door of Room 1A, his shirt clung damp to his spine and his vision tunneled at the edges.
He opened the door without knocking.
Thirty pairs of eyes turned to stare.
“Mr. Ouji,” the teacher said, his voice dry. “You're late.”
“I know,” Vegeta muttered, not stopping.
He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Not until he passed the first row and felt the heavy, artificial perfume of her reach his nose.
Bulma Briefs.
Her eyes flicked up from her notebook, icy and disdainful. The corner of her lip curled in disgust.
His face remained blank. His pulse throbbed behind his temple.
“Couldn’t bother to set an alarm?” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear.
He kept walking.
“It's the first day,” the teacher continued, voice rising. “Couldn’t you at least pretend to care?”
Vegeta’s shoulders twitched. His teeth ground together.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t explain.
What would he say?
Sorry I’m late, sir. I had trouble washing the blood off my bedsheets.
He dropped into the last empty seat—back of the room, corner, always the same—and bit down a grunt of pain as his body resisted the motion. He couldn't lean back. Couldn't shift. Every inch of his skin felt like it had been sandpapered raw.
The teacher gave up and turned to write on the board.
"He's such a jerk," Chichi whispered to Bulma.
Vegeta heard it. He heard everything.
He turned his head just enough to glare daggers across the room.
Bulma was already glaring back. Perfect nails, perfect hair, perfect fucking life. He hated her. He hated the way her voice never trembled, how she walked like she owned the hallway, how people fell over themselves just to be in her orbit. She didn’t know anything about pain. Didn’t know what it meant to crawl out of bed and pretend you weren’t dying inside.
And still she looked at him like he was the one who didn’t belong.
His mouth twisted.
The teacher’s back was still turned.
He flipped her off.
The reaction was immediate—her mouth dropped open in an outraged gasp—but by the time she found her voice, the moment had passed. The class moved on. She fumed in silence.
Vegeta stared at the board and saw nothing.
His vision blurred again, this time not from pain.
He hadn’t slept. Not really. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. And he could still feel the sting of disinfectant on open wounds, the rough grip of Frieza’s hand in his hair, forcing his head down until—
He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.
Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just keep breathing.
.
By the time class ended, Vegeta felt like his body might collapse under him. He walked the hall beside Radditz and Turles, the two loudest bastards on the football team, letting their voices fill the space where his thoughts would normally be.
"...and I'm telling you," Turles was saying, "that girl's ass is basically a public safety hazard."
Vegeta smirked without humor.
"You're disgusting," Radditz said, elbowing him. "Hey, Vegeta, you even listening?"
Before he could answer, something slammed into his shoulder.
He staggered a half-step, pain flaring through his arm and chest. His eyes snapped up.
Bulma.
Her papers were scattered on the floor. Her mouth twisted in fury.
"You jerk! Watch where you’re fucking going, you idiot! Who do you think you are?!"
For one brief second, the hallway disappeared.
He saw a different floor. Blood on tile. A voice snarling above him: Who the fuck do you think you are, talking back to me like that? You think you matter? You think you’re someone?
The rage hit him like a hammer.
His lip curled. His voice dropped to something cold and lethal.
“Stupid bitch.”
He walked past her like she didn’t exist, ignoring the people staring. Radditz and Turles followed with wide eyes.
Behind him, she hissed, “Fuck you!”
He didn’t look back.
.
Lunch was unbearable.
The cafeteria was loud, crowded, full of smells that turned his stomach. Vegeta sat at the edge of the football team’s table, between Nappa and someone whose name he didn’t remember, and shoveled food into his mouth like it might disappear. Every bite felt like sand in his throat.
A few tables over, Bulma’s voice rose above the din.
“…and then he called me a stupid bitch. Can you believe that idiot?!”
He didn’t react. Not outwardly. But his fingers tightened on the fork.
Yamcha said something about kicking his ass. Krillin made a joke about how Vegeta could kill him with just a glare. Laughter followed.
None of it mattered.
Only one voice mattered. And it wasn’t angry.
Goku.
He wasn’t laughing. He was quiet, head tilted slightly, eyes flicking toward Vegeta’s table.
Vegeta looked up, just for a second.
Their eyes met.
Goku looked away quickly. But not before Vegeta saw it.
Worry.
It twisted something sharp in his chest.
Of course Goku knew. He always knew. He’d known for years. Knew the bruises weren’t from fights. Knew the lies were just smoke over rot. But he never said anything. Never pushed.
Just sat with him in silence when he couldn’t stand being alone.
Just brought him painkillers and gauze when he could barely walk.
Just stayed.
Vegeta didn’t deserve him.
He looked down at his food again.
Across the cafeteria, Bulma huffed. “He’s an asshole.”
Goku said nothing.
And the silence said everything.
.
.
Vegeta sat slouched on the cracked park bench in front of the rundown kindergarten, the weight of the day already pressed deep into his shoulders. His hands were buried in the pockets of his worn hoodie, his face carved into that usual scowl — a perfect mask for the chaos underneath.
Then he heard it — light footsteps, high-pitched laughter — and the ice around his heart cracked.
Two small bodies flung themselves into his arms.
Tarble, six years old, was like a miniature shadow of Vegeta — sharp-eyed and serious, always trying too hard to be brave. And Trunks, barely four, toddled behind with the fierce joy of someone who hadn’t yet learned fear. Trunks couldn’t pronounce his r’s, still stumbled over steps, but had a mind like fire and a smile that made the world tilt just a little less off-center.
They were the only thing in his life that still made sense. The only good. The only soft. The only real.
Vegeta dropped to one knee, scooping Trunks into his arms and ruffling Tarble’s hair with a gentleness that didn't seem to belong to someone who wore bruises like second skin. He clutched them tightly, letting their warmth remind him — if only for a second — that he was still human.
“C’mon,” he murmured, his voice hoarse from a night of screams. “Let’s get you home.”
They walked slowly, Trunks babbling nonsense into his ear while Tarble kicked a rock along the road. The mansion loomed on the hill ahead — a cold, elegant monster of a place. Its beauty was a lie. Just like Frieza.
The front door creaked open on hinges that had long forgotten warmth, and silence swallowed them whole.
Vegeta ushered the boys inside and locked the door behind him — a reflex more than a strategy. Frieza never knocked.
The kitchen was spotless and cavernous. Empty. Like always.
He opened the cabinets. Nothing. The fridge held a single jar of pickles and a bruised apple. Frieza kept most of the food under lock and key, hidden behind heavy chains in the walk-in pantry. “Because rats don't get a feast,” Frieza had told him once, slapping a sandwich out of his hand with a grin that still haunted Vegeta in his sleep.
He swallowed the burn rising in his throat and pieced together something vaguely edible — crackers, a bit of cheese, an old juice box split between two cups. He placed the food on the table, knelt down, and tried to smile. "Gourmet dinner tonight, boys."
They giggled, and for a moment, it almost felt normal. Almost.
When they were busy eating, he slipped away upstairs, past the grand staircase and the polished portraits of people he didn’t recognize. In the bathroom, he peeled off his hoodie. His ribs flared with pain. Purple and green splashed across his torso like storm clouds. One of the cuts across his side had reopened. Again.
The mirror was kind enough to fog up.
He cleaned the wounds quickly, efficiently. Bandaged the worst of it. Tried not to flinch.
He didn’t cry anymore. Not unless Frieza wanted him to. Not unless the screaming had dragged on long enough for him to forget that he used to be someone’s son. Someone's boy.
He sat on the cold bathroom floor for a moment, back against the tub. Just breathing. Listening.
The house creaked.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Every second closer to Frieza’s return was a countdown to survival.
Sometimes, Celipa — Goku’s mom — picked up the kids for him when he got stuck in detention. But he hated letting them out of his sight. He was paranoid, sure. But paranoia was just another word for instinct when someone like Frieza was in your life.
He tried to rest, stretching out on the floorboards of his room — if it could even be called that. No posters. No comfort. Just a mattress and a lockless door. He closed his eyes and told himself maybe tonight would be different.
But he knew better.
Frieza had left scars on his body, sure. But the worst ones were the threats — whispered promises that he’d go after the kids if Vegeta ever stepped out of line.
He hated his uncle.
Hated him with a fury that didn’t burn—it festered. A rot deep in his chest that grew darker every year he spent trapped under that man's roof. Vegeta had been forced to move in with Frieza Kold a few years back, after his father died under “mysterious circumstances” during a business trip abroad. That’s what the news said. That’s all anyone ever said. No further questions. No deeper probe.
Vegeta Sr. had been a war hero, a tech genius, a man who built Ouji Enterprises from the ground up and rivaled Capsule Corp in global influence. But when he died, there were no parades. No tributes. Just cold silence. A rushed cremation. Closed caskets. And Frieza—always Frieza—suddenly owning everything.
Somehow, every cent of inheritance meant for Vegeta and his siblings disappeared into Frieza’s hands. It didn't matter that they were half-brothers who hadn't spoken in years, not unless Frieza was threatening blackmail or muscling his way into corporate shares. All the money. All the power. Their custody. All of it went to Frieza. And no one said a damn thing.
Even back then, Vegeta had known something was wrong.
At first, it was just insults. Slaps. A hand that shoved too hard. A sneer that lingered too long. But when his mother left—not with a goodbye, not even with a backward glance—everything snapped.
Frieza didn’t explode. He unleashed.
He beat and tortured Vegeta so viciously, so methodically, it was like he took pleasure in every bone he cracked. Every breath he stole. He didn’t just strike—he lingered, hovered, waited for the fear to hit. And when it did, when Vegeta finally cried or begged or screamed, Frieza would smile.
He loved it.
That was the part Vegeta couldn’t forget. The laughter. That sound. Like it wasn’t pain—it was entertainment.
And Vegeta was the main act.
But Frieza never touched the little ones. Not directly. No—he used them.
He’d stand over Vegeta, dragging a cigarette down his arm or slamming a boot into his ribs, and whisper threats about Tarble. About Trunks. About what would happen if Vegeta didn’t behave. If he didn’t take the punishment quietly. If he didn’t keep their little secret.
So he kept it.
He kept everything.
Even when his throat was too swollen to eat, and he collapsed at school from dehydration. Even when teachers asked, concerned, and he finally—finally—told the truth. Even then, Frieza’s influence swept in like a storm. A few calls. A few favors. The teachers vanished. And that night, Vegeta paid in blood and tears and screams and lung-splitting desperation for daring to speak.
He tried to run. Once. Twice. A dozen times. But the cops never listened. Not to the rebellious boy with the black eyes and the bad reputation. Not when Frieza shook their hands and gave speeches at fundraisers. Frieza was a saint, and Vegeta was just some violent little stray under his roof.
He tried his mother.
She was still alive. Not far. Just a few towns over.
The first time he showed up at her doorstep, ribs fractured, eyes swollen shut, she barely opened the door. The second time, he begged. Told her everything. Every word Frieza said. Every bruise. Every scar. She cried—but she didn’t let him in.
She said she was afraid. She said Frieza would find her. That she couldn’t risk it.
Even when he begged her to take Trunks and Tarble—just the kids, just them—she said no.
Vegeta left her porch with blood crusted down his face, walking back to hell, dragging hope behind him like a corpse.
And so he stayed.
He stayed and suffered. Because if he didn’t, they’d suffer too. And he couldn’t let that happen. He’d take the beatings. He’d take the threats. He’d take the shattered ribs, the sleepless nights, the bone-deep terror—anything—as long as they were safe.
Even if it killed him.
Maybe especially if it killed him.