Chapter Text
You have never heard such desperate tears.
An array of colorful flowers sits in front of your party; for such a display, there are no smiles to accompany the colors. Instead, garlands of lilies and roses and tulips circle around a framed photograph of your smiling brother-in-law. A smile so large, so kind, it could unite the most unlikely of friends. Did you ever expect to be friends with a three-eyed martial artist and his tiny companion? A blue-haired rich girl? No.
But Goku brought all of you together.
Now, your older sister sobs in front of his picture. You’re surrounded by close friends and family, mourning his untimely, murderous death. He put up a fight until the very end, likely saving so many of you from doom. Saving his son, the beautiful mix of him and your dear sister.
And god, you have never heard such desperate tears.
You’ve never witnessed someone lose their lover, especially in such a brutal way. Blasted through the chest to kill his estranged brother and save his only son. His only son, who is buried in your shoulder right now, hiding silently from the gloomy faces all around us. His only son, who you’re sure just wants to be in the arms of his mother, rather than his young aunt. And you, who desperately wants to hold your sister right now. You would tell her it will be alright, but how could you lie to her like that?
“Auntie,” Gohan whispers close to your ear. You start to lightly bounce him in your arms, soothing hushes exiting from between your teeth. You don’t want him to cry. Instead of quieting, though, he just tugs on your shirt, his small hands tightly gripping the soft fabric of your dark clothes. “Auntie?”
“Yeah, Gohan?” you mumble, turning towards him, still rocking him gently.
“I wanna go home.” His small, thin tail wraps around your arm.
“I know. I know, Gohan,” you whisper. You don’t want to be here, either.
“Please,” he begs. “Mom’s so loud.”
You manage to crack a smile. “Yeah. Okay, let’s go for a bit,” you agree, knowing his young ears are much more sensitive than yours. You turn to the person nearest to you, blue-haired Bulma, and excuse yourself and your nephew. “Tell Chi-Chi I’ll be at the house with Gohan. He doesn’t want to be here right now,” you tell her, little Gohan still breathing into your neck.
She nods, a quiet “I understand” reaching your ears as you duck out with Gohan. You tread down the steps outside of the building, Gohan holding your shoulder as he bobs up and down in your arms. “You wanna walk?” you ask, understanding that the young boy might want some freedom. He nods silently, and you slowly let him down to the ground. Being so little, though, you don’t let go of his hand. “Where do you want to go?” you ask, assuming he might want to stop somewhere before going home.
“McDonalds?” he asks, a hopeful smile lighting up his face for the first time in a very long time. It’s so refreshing, you can't refuse.
“Okay, bud. Let’s go.”
In his smile, you see his mother’s. A smile you miss so much. A smile that would honestly be absent if she knew you were taking her son to get fast food. But a smile that you remember would be on her face when she ate McDonalds with you as young girls. She’s not different now that she’s a mother – she’s more than she was before. It means the highest highs, and still the lowest lows. It brings you joy and sadness almost as much as it does her – you two are extensions of each other.
You’re best friends just as much as you’re sisters.
And her pain causes you pain, too.
You hold the restaurant’s heavy door open after walking for ten-ish minutes, Gohan equally excited and exhausted. He hurries up to the counter, grubby hands gripping the edge. You smile softly, walking up behind him and cupping your hand around the back of his head. You order him a McNugget Happy Meal with chocolate milk and apple slices, opting for a cheeseburger meal and a Coke yourself. You pay, then walk with your nephew to a booth where he climbs up into the seat across from you, impatiently waiting for his food. That signature, freshly made smell wafts out from the kitchen, and you must admit that you’re kind of excited, too.
A teenage worker, surely not much younger than you, delivers your meals on a tray. You smile in thanks as Gohan reaches, his short arms extended fully, for his meal wrapped in a cardboard box. Unsurprisingly, he needs help opening the box, so you smile and offer your assistance. He beams at you, the love in his heart pouring out through his smile and adoring eyes. He’s the cutest ever.
You never considered having kids, and frankly never liked them, but when Chi-Chi announced her pregnancy five years ago, you never expected to love this kid so much. You were still in high school at the time, your sister three years your senior, and you weren’t sure how excited you were for a baby to be in the house when you had been the baby of the family for so long. But you held her hand in that hospital room and when you got to hold your nephew, you knew right then that your best friend had just created another best friend of yours. For four years, he’s never wanted to leave your side, reciprocating the joy and love you feel for him. He has such big feelings for a little kid, you and Chi-Chi and Goku often joke.
And now you’re sitting together eating french fries like you weren’t just at his dad’s funeral.
Gohan scarfs down his meal, and takes slow sips of his chocolate milk – a surefire sign that he’ll be falling asleep soon. You take the last sip of your drink and gather all of the garbage onto the tray, then urge Gohan to follow you to the trash can to throw it out and leave.
“Auntie Y/N?” he calls, his voice small and far below you.
You look down at him with a kind smile. “Yeah, Gohan?”
“Can you carry me?” He almost looks ashamed to ask.
You could never say no to that face. “Of course,” you tell him, and his grin is so big it nearly rips open his cheeks. You laugh, taking him into your arms and carrying him out of the restaurant, re-beginning your journey back home. You know Chi-Chi and Goku want to ween him out of being picked up all the time, but he’s still so little – and so convincing! – that you don’t see much of a problem. So you carry him the whole way back, and maybe five minutes in, you hear the distinct sounds of tiny toddler snores.
When you’re back at your sister’s house, you open the door with the copy-key you have and push it open with your free hand. There’s something so empty about the house right now: no Chi-Chi to call out, surprised and still happy, no Goku to greet you with a hug. If Gohan weren’t in your arms, no doubt he’d be running up and tripping you by wrapping his arms around your legs in a hug, even when his mother advises against it. You trudge up the stairs to Gohan’s room, aptly decorated with dinosaurs and space ships and other common interests that young kids have, switching the light on and wishing you smelled Chi-Chi cooking dinner and Goku teasing her downstairs.
No more.
You lay Gohan in his bed, his tail instinctively curling up around your wrist even though he’s asleep. Gently, you unfurl it, and instead it wraps around his own wrist as he lays on his side, assuming a fetal position. You take a moment and slowly, lightly sit on the edge of his bed as you tuck his blanket over his body, softly stroking his hair as he decompresses. You only wish someone was here to stroke your hair and put you to sleep, too. Something your big sister was good at, and taught you how to do well. But now she’s the one who needs it, and her son does, too. Maybe you weren’t directly affected by her husband’s death, but the grief has still hit you like an unyielding train car. He was like a brother to you; kind, capable, a listening ear. And as much as you miss him yourself, you also bear the weight of Chi-Chi and Gohan’s grief, trying to hold yourself together so you can keep them afloat. You’re turning 21 in a couple months, but you feel like you have the burdens of a dozen elders. Like Sisyphus and his boulder.
To ease your mind, you decide to go put something on the TV downstairs. First, you head into the spare room – which is basically your room in your sister’s house – and change out of the tight black shirt and ill-fitting black pants you’ve been wearing. There’s some comfy leisure clothes in the closet, a small walk-in, and you tug them on before slinking down the stairs and later collapsing on the couch. The remote finds its way to your hand, and you turn on some cheesy reality TV show to make you laugh. It’s exactly what you need right now – ridiculous main characters, crazy angles, high stakes. It takes your mind off of everything happening in your life, and instead forces you into the wild lives of these personalities. When a knock comes at the door, you barely register it – you’re too caught up in this bullshit. But then it comes again, louder, harder, and jolts you from your concentration. Assuming it’s Chi-Chi, who must have her hands full or forgot her keys, you turn down the volume of the TV and saunter over to the door.
You make the mistake of not checking who’s there through the window before opening the entryway to the home, and your loveable sister is not the person at the door. Instead, standing in front of you is a green alien wearing a purple gi underneath a white cape and turban, arms crossed and brow furrowed, a fang slightly poking out from beneath his top lip. Your eyes go wide with surprise, and before you can ask if he needs help, his deep voice assaults your ears.
“Where’s the boy?”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“The boy. The Saiyan.”
Raising an eyebrow, you solicit, “Who’s asking?” You feel like you recognize him, oddly enough.
He scowls, fire bursting forth from behind his eyes. “The only person who sees his potential and is willing to train him,” he barks. With immense force, he shoves you aside like you’re a ragdoll, scratching the exposed skin of your arm – on purpose or not, you can’t tell, but the whole right side of your body aches from his manhandling. You watch in fear as he stomps into the living room, surveying the visible parts of the home with eyes seven feet off the ground. You wince when you try to move your arm, the scratches from his long nails tearing your bare skin open, and you rush to cover the cuts with your other hand, forcing pressure onto the wound.
Rage bubbling up inside you, you exclaim, “Get out of my house!” Only afterwards are you worried that this commotion will wake young Gohan up, and the realization gets you to shut your mouth pretty quickly.
The alien squints at you. “If you don’t tell me where your son is, I’ll find him myself.” The house practically shakes with every step he takes towards the stairs, heading there as if he senses your nephew above him.
A surge of energy pushes you towards him as he tries to make an exit, and you grip his cape tightly with both hands before he can leave. A trained fighter like your sister, you tug him backwards, successfully knocking him off balance and catching him by surprise. Bewildered, he turns to face you, your tight clutch keeping the two of you in close proximity.
“He’s not my son,” you growl, “and you will leave him alone.”