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What Gohan held out to me was a single fountain pen. It was a magnificent piece, recognizable at a glance; the deep purple barrel made the nib—which was undoubtedly gold—stand out all the more.
"Please, accept this. I bought it with my very first paycheck a long time ago... and I've been using it ever since."
The early summer sun was beginning to set, and outside the window, the voices of eager evening cicadas echoed through the air.
"I don't do much writing, however..."
"When I'm gone, and you happen to remember me, I want you to write it down. When you look at a flower, when the rain falls, when you visit the sea... if something triggers a memory, write it. Write about how we did things like this together, what we said... about just how much I loved you, Piccolo-san."
Gohan’s proposition made me show an involuntary trace of agitation. It was an issue we should have faced long ago, yet one I had continuously postponed. Gohan will step out onto the journey of death first, and I will be left behind in this mortal world.
"Even if I do not write it down, I will not forget."
"But the difference in our lifespans spans hundreds of years, doesn't it? Ten years will pass, then fifty, then a hundred, and memories will fade. Keep me alive through your writing."
Since he continued to hold out his hand, I had no choice but to accept it with mixed emotions. The fountain pen was much heavier than it looked, and upon closer inspection, it bore tiny scratches and scuffs—proof of how fondly it had been used.
"...If the day ever comes when you love someone else, or if remembering me simply becomes too painful, you can throw this pen and everything you've written into the sea."
"As if I would ever do such a thing."
"I'm willing to bet on it. One day, you'll want to let it go."
Gohan puffed out his chest proudly. He wore his usual fearless smile, as if he knew absolutely everything about me.
"If I win the bet... Well, if I win, it means you'll have wanted to forget about me, so I won't get anything from you. Only if you win, Piccolo-san, do you get something..."
Irritated by how Gohan spoke of me as if I were some cold, heartless creature, I thrust the pen I was clutching back toward him. The evening sun streaming through the window caught the pen’s clip with dazzling brightness. I spoke to Gohan with rough force as he closed his eyes against the glare.
"In that case, if I win, you had better reincarnate and come back here. I will train you all over again from scratch—including that weak spirit of yours."
"...Are those really words meant for a disciple who just gifted you his favorite possession? How strict, my master... Well, fine, I promise. But I'm going to win, absolutely."
Gohan was already smiling triumphately, pushing my hand—along with the fountain pen—back toward me. A wager like that... the outcome was obvious from the very start. No matter how much time passed, there was no way I would ever forget Gohan, and there was no way I would ever want to throw this fountain pen away.
"The time will surely come when you'll want to let it go. When that happens, remember what I just said. Until then, I want you to remember me... but I never want to be a burden to you."
The evening sun, not yet having reached the full intensity of midsummer, was sharp, dancing upon his unruly black hair. The fountain pen in my hand was made of metal, yet it felt strangely warm.
"...But until I die, you have to keep your eyes on me, okay?"
Gohan spoke playfully, pulling at my arm. Our lips overlapped as if in jest, and the body I drew into my embrace was powerful. A nostalgic heartbeat, a familiar breath. It was utterly impossible to imagine now that this would one day vanish.
Ten years passed, then fifty, a hundred, two hundred... so many years passed that counting them became a chore. I had lost track of how many journals were now filled with his words and the memories we shared.
The day Gohan fulfilled his natural lifespan, the very first thing I wrote on the first page was the sight of him saying, "I'm willing to bet on it," with that utterly confident smile.
As expected, there had never been a single moment where I wanted to let it go or forget.
"The wager was my victory... and yet."
When on earth will I be able to claim my winnings? You said you promised, didn't you?
No matter what I looked at, no matter where I went, Gohan was always remembered, and there was always something to write. Each time, I dipped this fountain pen into the ink. It felt as though the empty bottles I accumulated without discarding were filled with Gohan’s memories instead of ink, and with just one more, they would completely cover the entire wall.
——What were his final words? Even though I have written down everything down to the last detail, are you still not going to fulfill your promise? Only when the empty ink bottles completely cover the wall will it be proven that I won the wager, and only then... Unable to do anything but cling to such delusions, I open my journal again tonight.
The nib of the fountain pen had worn down, and because it had been repaired over and over again, perhaps none of the original metal he gave me remained. The purple color of the barrel had faded completely, looking almost black.
From the voices of the evening cicadas I heard today, I remembered the voice I heard on that day, the voice I heard in the woods at the corner of the wilderness, and every single one of the hundreds of voices we heard together in the decades before death parted us. I was at a loss as to which one I should write down.