Kakavege One-shots

Colors

During the seven years Goku was dead Vegeta spent his time training. But he likely had difficulty with both the fact that he had lost his chance to prove himself and restore his pride, and that he was now the only Saiyan left (since he didn't know about Broly). Bulma fells pity seeing the, normally attentive and aggressive, Saiyan prince fall so low, now finally realizing what they meant when they voiced how they needed to be near one another. To fight. To feel company. To feel understood. She gives Vegeta a small project to take up his time when he wasn't training. Now, years later, when Vegeta had moved out and began living with the Saiyan he had so desperately tried to best, she found the simple eassay left behind. Crumpled. Dirty. Forgotten. She sits on the empty bed as she unravels the paper. Her eyes notice the tear stains on the paper, the way some of the words are scribbled out, the way the writing looks different in some areas. The way it looks like it hurt to write.

- What I Think Of Colors -

Red:

I hate the color red. I've seen so much of it. It pools my feet. It runs down my fists. It pumps under my skin, protected by a thin layer of skin and fragile bones. I cough it up like it's normal.

It stares at me with malice.

It's his gaze, it's the look in his eyes when he says my name and drags my name through the mud.

It's the look in his eye when he sees me. The way his eyes squint just a little bit, and the red seems to glow that much brighter.

It's the warmth of organs when they're ripped from their home.

It's the first thing to leave me when I've gone too far again.

It's me. It's my Royalty. It's my people's belief that Freeza would be killed by Saiyan hands. My hands.

Orange:

I hate the color orange. It's an ugly color. It's dishonorable upon the Saiyan culture. It should have never been born

It's warm. Like a hug. Or a first kiss.

It's like being craddled by the sun.

It's like that traitor.

It's like the smile that never fails to creep onto my face.

It's like my heart beating loudly in my ear.

It's like that low class trash.

It's like the battlefield.

It's like home.

Yellow:

Yellow is a strange color. It's bright. It's a light. It's the lights below my ship. It's the stars I traveled through.

It's something.

It's something that I miss a lot.

I debate going back to it, if only for a moment, to feel the comfort of normality. Like how it used to be. But then I remember that that's no longer an option.