Author’s Notes:  The story is made up into two parts – the first is told from Gohan’s point of view, the second from Trunks’.

Chapter Title: Absolution

I’m leaving.

After seven years of torture I could probably sell to Hollywood for a sizable profit, I’m getting out. I’ve packed my bags and the last of my belongings are out of the bathroom. At this point, fuck the little things – if there’s anything left when I’m gone, I hope it’s a benefit to the next hopeless victim of adult severity that inhabits these shoddy quarters.

God knows I’ve had my fill.

One last look…to make sure the room is just as I found it: bed made, bureau cleaned, and the nightstand as immaculate as the first night I arrived. The only indication that I was ever even here is the line of microscopic nicks on the wall behind the lamp. One for every day that I was forced to be here.

There are two thousand, five hundred and thirty-five of them.

I counted them last night…once more before I went to bed, just to be sure.

And now…I’m leaving. One last look, I think I can spare it that. But that’s all. It’s already had my tears, my pain, my passion, and my hate.

I can give it a glance.

***

My bags are stacked in a pyramid at the bottom of the stairs and I slip my canvas backpack over one shoulder as two of the younger students distribute the rest amongst themselves. I can’t remember their names; I think they’re new this year. How unfortunate for them. I hope their story is better than mine.

I walk without hesitation even though I think my mouth has a taste for my heart. That’s how I was raised. Show no fear. Even when it has a grip on your balls.

I barely remember shaking the Head Master’s hand, or the chorused farewells of a place I had learned to endure for the latter third of my life. It was better than home, I guess. Though God knows I tried leaving in the beginning. Often.

Papa always brought me back. And after the first time, I was enlightened to my father’s view on my delusion of freedom.

As in I didn’t have any. But I do have scars.

But that was seven years ago. I think they’ve both forgotten about me. Neither one of them bothered to come today. Although Mama was kind enough to mail me the address of the apartment she so graciously purchased for me. Fully furnished.

Like I want anything from them. After what they did…

Another thing I learned from my father. There is no ‘forgive and forget’.

I open the door.

I remember how to breathe once the initial disappointment has worn off. He’s not there. I’m not exactly sure why I expected him to be there, why I assumed my knight in shining would be there for my coming of age and not miss my coronation.

But he has.

And I’m trying my royal damndest to hold my head high so the crown doesn’t slip over my eyes.

***

The cab driver pops the trunk and takes the bags from the others and myself. There’s an awkward hush as they try to find something to say. I never made any real friends here…their parents always decided they wanted them back eventually, and I was left with nothing but another mark on the wall. I think it’s stupid of me to take a taxi – I mean, capsulize the baggage and fly to my new place; that would be so much easier. But Mama’s hell bent to make me a proper human gentleman. She blames my ‘illicit affair’ on my Saiyan heritage. Hn. She’s almost right, there…

She should be pointing that painted nail at my father.

Sighing, I shrug an indifferent shoulder to my aides, lifting the latch and opening the door. Tossing my hair out of my eyes, I slide into the backseat.

And am forced to swallow my heart.

Gohan…

I slam the door shut behind me out of habit. He’s here. He’s really here. And I can’t do anything but remember how to breathe. In…out…in…

Hentai.

I blush…he’s the only one in the world that can decorate me in those violent colours besides my father. I think it’s because he’s so familiar with them himself.

We stare at each other. We stare at the floor. I notice one of my shoes has come unlaced. It’s not until I’m prompted by the driver that I recite the address off the crumpled piece of perfume-tainted paper clutched painfully in my hand.

My voice shakes with the words.

Gohan coughs quietly, large hands smoothing nervously over his thighs. Good God, his hands are still as big as I remember. And again, the crimson calls my thoughts. I…I don’t even know if he’ll want me…

“H…” He clears his throat a second time. “How are you?” He smells of candles and communion, though his collar’s not on. They never told me if he left the Order…but it pitches me backward into our forbidden frenzy – the feeling of my back against an unlocked door, the softness of his lips as he whispered my name in the wick-lit office before Bible study…the wobbly feeling of my legs as I tried my utmost not to stumble on the way to my pew in the first row…

He smells of church and comfort…and all my lasting fantasies are made real again with his uncertain query.

“Fine.” Lie. I’m so anxious I could piss my pants. Thank God for my father’s self-control.

“That’s good…” Right. Look up, look down, look away…I can’t bring myself to do more than stare at his profile when his head is bent in clueless concentration. God…he’s so beautiful…angelic almost…

And I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him as I did when I was younger.

Instead we ride the rest of the way in apprehensive silence.

***

“Domo arigato,” I murmur, slipping the key back into my pocket to accompany the letter it was sent with. I step out of the way, allowing him into the hall and indicating with a nervous flip of my head to put my belongings next to what looks like a closet door.

The place is about as generic as is legally allowed; my mother must have hired someone to do it for her. God knows she never would have taken the time to do it herself. I can’t stand the blue they chose for the living room. It reminds me of the colour of Papa’s training suits.

“You…want something to drink or…something…” Great. Real smart, Trunks. Allow me to astound you with my brilliance again, Gohan.

“Water…thanks…” He walks a circle before perching on the edge of the loveseat. I wish we could just cut these adolescent pretenses…but I don’t know if he’s come here to love me or leave me.

Either way, I’m fucked. It’s just a matter of whether or not I enjoy it.

It takes me a few minutes of calculated searching to find the glasses. They’re in the same place as the ones at my parents’. How imaginative. My hands tremble and the stream of water slips over the brim of the cup to wet the back of my hand. Wiping it on the leg of my pants, I turn off the faucet, not daring to pause for fear that I’ll lose my nerve and run from the building….

Fail him again…

I sit next to him on the sofa and hand him the glass without looking; I can feel the familiar warmth of his body and I want to be a child again…to never have to account for what I’ve done…to lose myself in the rapture of his lips and hands….

He takes a hearty gulp, downs the entire thing in a single drought. And then he fiddles with it, turning it over in his hands as though it’s going to show him the secrets of the universe. One of us has to speak, or I’m going to explode.

I just don’t know…if I’m really ready to lower all my carefully crafted defenses…

Onegai, Gohan…

Make it all better…

***

“Did you really…mean all those things you said?” I swallow at his reluctant question, licking my lips and turning…finally…to look him in the eye.

Good God…I don’t know when you blinked, but you lost an angel in that momentary darkness…

And he’s sitting right here next to me with more questions in his eyes than Adam himself.

“I…in the letters?” He nods hesitantly, leaning forward to place the cup on the transparent coffee table. God, how can you ask…

Did I mean it when I said that everyday without you was like trying to breathe underwater?

That I was overwhelmed with images of you – in my dreams, my waking moments filled with the remembrance of your touch, the lingering taste of a mouth that made me feel loved…wanted…

That I wanted you, was faithful to you, that every person I fucked was just practice for you, for when I had you again…so that I could be perfect…

That you were my super hero since chibi-hood, and that when I saw you again it was like God was granting me the second chance at a love I’d only whispered to my pillow at night…

That you were the love of a father I wish I’d had…

Oh. I never told you that.

“Hai.” Surprisingly enough the midnight marble of his eyes doesn’t waver at my answer and it is I that lowers my gaze first. I can’t let him see my tears…I don’t want that to sway his decision…I need him to be here…but only if he wants to…

“But you never wrote me back…” Everyday I waited for the mail to come…for the remote possibility, that maybe…today…but when there was anything at all, they were just occasional concerns from my mother that I dutifully answered. But four ‘o clock every single afternoon…

“I…” God Gohan, speak…even if it’s just to tell me that I’m being childish and that my love for you is fantastic and impossible…

I think he tries to speak again, but I’m a lost cause. I can’t see beyond the blur of my stinging tears, and I don’t want to brush them away for fear that he’ll see…

And then he’s doing it for me, the pad of his hand gentle and tender as it brushes aside the unwanted saline stain on my face. Trapped by tradition, I never indulged the human release, the freedom allotted in emotional solace; the liquid personification of my grief repressed and hushed by the harsh, unwavering regal training imposed upon me.

I’m fine for about a minute. A whole sixty seconds. That’s pretty good, right? For seven years worth of pain…

It’s the agonizing mumble of “T-chan” that breaks me completely, sundering my dignity and slashing my resolution of strength into little more than shards of light.

***

“Go-gomen nasai, Gohan…but Papa…” I try to breathe, really I do, but my throat is cinched tighter than my mother’s point of view and I can’t get all the words out…about how Papa…made me tell him about us…when he saw the marks on my arms…but I said you never hurt me – that I liked it when you touched me, that I wanted it…and that…

But he didn’t understand. And I’m so…s-s-sorry…Gohan…forgive me…

Onegai…

…his arms are as strong as I remember.

His embrace as comforting…

His lips…as soft and pliable…

God forgive me, I’ve lost all capability for conscious thought.

I’m crying freely when his mouth melds to mine and his hands careen down the slope of my back as though I were still a child in his grip…I taste tears and not all of them are mine, but I’m so lost in his sweet, musky, Saiyan flavour…

My arms are latched around his neck and my head tilts to rest against the firm support of his shoulder as he revives my dormant senses with his tongue. Fingers in his hair…the nape of his neck…over the impressive plane of his back…pulling at the hem of his shirt…

I’m moaning, and purring syllables that resemble his holy name; our movements frantic now, eager to taste and touch and memorize what has been denied too long and I want to offer up every inch of myself…

Because now it’s mine to give.

***

We made love in every room in the house.

Nothing will compare to the feeling of his body building a rhythm between my thighs. It hurt like hell, but after seven years of utter despondency…

It was something I could greedily accept. In fact, everything he had to give me was devoured…

His whispered words of apologetic devotion panted into the sweaty tendrils of my hair as we lay…recovering…

The adoration in his hands as he bathed me in poetry from his fingertips…

The beautiful expression of blissful release as he tensed…whimpered…then collapsed upon my chest to curl like a child in my arms.

We didn’t stay in my newfound home for very long. When our desperate desire was sated enough to allow us the freedom of movement, we flew to his loft and praised God again. He held my hand the entire way there.

He’s still asleep though; he didn’t wake when I crawled out from under his body this morning. He was so warm…I think I cried again to look down…and see him there and to know that tomorrow I wouldn’t open my eyes to the bleached white of my own pillow…that it wasn’t just a dream…

I walked to the kitchen after that – I don’t think I’d eaten for the last two days. And being Saiyan only heightened my awareness of this very painful fact. But something I saw on the table made my insistent stomach take a backseat.

My letters. All of them, protected by a little garrison of green bottles that smelt like cheap liquor.

So he did read them…I fingered the banded bundle, watching the progression of my writing as I matured, the post dates becoming more infrequent. I told you everything, Gohan…you were my priest…

But now you’re my lover and there’s one more thing I have to do.

***

I haven’t been to a church in years, but the smell of incense and candles…the scents that brought tears to my eyes for almost a decade make me smile now fondly in remembrance. It makes me want to find a dark corner and…

Heh, I was never a choir boy. I just sang my praises to God from between the legs of his earthly devotee every Sunday.

The confessional’s just as dark as it was when I was younger, albeit smaller…and when I hear the swish of the partition, I swear…it’s you…

But it’s not, and that’s why I’m here. You’re not my priest anymore. So I need to tell someone my secrets…

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been seven years since my last confession. Last night I stole one of your angels…” I smirk. “And I’m not sorry.”

Author’s Notes:  The story is made up into two parts – the first is told from Gohan’s point of view, the second from Trunks’.

Chapter Title: Confession

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been seven years since my last confession.

I know that’s a little long, especially considering the way things used to be. I tried staying away – but it’s in my blood now…no, more like it’s in my spirit, my soul. His light guides each step I take, fills my lungs with each breath I draw. I…can’t believe…that I…

Well, you see Father…I used to be where you are now. I used to be a priest. Ten years ago I found God. I can still smell the pressed scent of my first vestments, as though I were still new to the pulpit; the hint of rosemary that brings to mind images of the rectory and the little old woman that washed all our clothes for free. Our parish…didn’t have a lot in the way of finances…

I suppose I should start from the beginning. I’m just nervous, I think. I haven’t been in one of these for quite awhile, and last time the circumstances were completely reversed. I was the blank, nondescript face and caring voice that could solve all your problems with verbal absolution. You know how it is…five Ave Marias, ten Our Fathers…

Somehow…I don’t think that’s going to cut it this time, Father. I really fucked up, and now…

I’m not sure how to fix it.

But either way, I only have five hours…because after that…It’s either sink or swim.

And I can already feel the water rising.

***

A decade ago…I…I can’t even say it. Forgive me Father, but I did something awful, that I feel is best left between God and myself. No man on earth could possibly find the compassion in his heart to whisper away the guilt of what I’ve done, and I…

I’ve learned to live with my demons. With God’s merciful strength I have reached beyond the mortal scaffold upon which I took the initial step in ascension. Those matters lie in the heat of my palms each time I clasp them in prayer. And I think…it’s best if they stay that way…maybe some day…

But that day is not today.

I was strong once, you know? Believe it or not, I was considered to possess more skill, speed, and might than even Satan himself. There’s a gross irony in that…because with my actions…penance can only come in the arms of the Mourning Star. But I need to stop thinking about that. My judgment for decisions I made will come only when I reach His holy gates; when the sunlit pearl shines opalescent on my unworthy eyes and He either takes pity…

Or punishment.

Now…I have…fi – no, four and a half hours before I have to make the greatest decision of my life. And I…I don’t know what to do…

What a surprise. I can’t decide on something.

Gomen nasai Father…but it’s like I’ve got this knot in my stomach that tightens every time my watch ticks. It’s been like this for the last seven years, you know. I wake up in the middle of the night and stare, unseeing, into the moonlight caress on my bedroom carpet for hours imagining his face as it was when I saw him last…youthful…brilliant blue and virtuous violet…a visage crimson kissed…

And sometimes…the tears come before I can stop them. Usually when I smell the…the musky fragrance of the cologne I bought him for his Baptism…on another…

God almighty…please lend me strength…

No…I’m ok. Really. I just…need to start from the beginning – that much I know. Where to start?

It’s how it all ends that I can only trust in God.

***

My father died when I was rather young…twice actually…

Nani? Oh…never mind…That’s something else that only God can understand. I mean, he did have a hand in it. But this is all beside the point.

My mother and I didn’t get along well after my father left and…I said some things that I’d rather not repeat in God’s house. And…I…

I did something rather rash and unforgivable.

I can vividly remember holding my brother’s hand at her funeral, and the periodic sniff as he wiped his running nose on the back of a sleeve too long for his small frame. It was warm – September…the leaves had just started turning all those colours that make me wish I knew how to paint with more than my fingers. I’ll never forget that day…the melodic, monotony of the priest’s last recited rites, the crumbling softness of newly dug earth between my fingers, and the tinkling splash it made as it hit the wood of her casket. Goten – my brother – he got the dirt all over his borrowed black suit and shiny new shoes. He never let go of my hand. Not even when the others came to take him away.

G…gomen…

He…his…eyes…so full of questions…and pain…and the pleading whines that eventually turned to screams – for me to stay, for me to make it all better…one of my father’s old friends actually had to restrain him, to bodily carry him to my grandfather’s…

Don’t leave me too Gohan, he said. But I couldn’t give him that – after everything that I took away from him, I couldn’t give him that. That’s why I don’t visit him often although he’ll be turning twenty this spring…

I don’t want him to be anything like me.

God…forgive me…I say those words so often, I wonder if you still hear…

But after what I had done…I couldn’t go home. Not back to that house, not after…

I did a lot of soul-searching before I found myself turning to the only person I thought could possibly understand, to reconcile…to make it all better…like I couldn’t do for my brother…

I finally found my solace in God.

Gomen…I think I’m avoiding the issue – as a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that I am. This isn’t what I came here for – absolution for this will come when my breath no longer obeys my mortal will. But…this isn’t easy for me…I’ve never told anyone…about…any of this…

No, it’s ok. I need to do this. And I only have…sugoi…four more hours…

If I got any more anxious, I think they’d put me on Ritalin. Or in a coffee ad.

Ok…breathing…I can do this. You sure…? You’re not too –

Got it. Get to the point. Alright…

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been seven years since my last confession. Eight years ago I…slept with one of my parishioners. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem began when his parents found out.

***

I remember the way the liquid gold shone through the stained glass of the church windows. I liked the way it broke each meticulously crafted shape into its base components, shattering the images on the foot-worn carpet whose colour was long lost to the pacing path of the priest and congregational communion.

Candle wax and incense; white pools that dripped down the immaculate engravings and onto the pristine purity of the cloth draping the altar. The collar of which I had just been blessed itched at my neck and it was all I could do not to fidget during the sermon.

But I hardly cared – I was doing what I loved most. There is no equivalent in life to leading devoted worshippers in prayer, to hearing their raised voices beseech and praise the Lord with mutual need and affection…And a need for His affection.

I suppose that’s why I enjoyed confessional as much as I did. I delighted in my self-assigned duty, my payment to humanity for all the destruction I’ve wrought…the simple task of listening…calming the fear people have, the awe they sense in His presence. And comforting those who cry in humility when exposed to His love for the first time…

That’s what makes this decision so difficult for me. If I…do what I…want to do…

Will God forgive me when I no longer keep His vigil?

I can finally appreciate the fraternal relationship between faith and hope…

…but I was happy then. It may have been eight in the morning, and our flock may have had one foot still in their beds, but I had been up since the sky first blushed with day and it was all I could do to keep from smiling like an idiot as the daily lesson was read.

I think…of everything I remember about that day, one image will always dominate my recollection.

The way the red of Joseph’s robe bled the perfect lavender of his hair into a darker mockery of fading magenta. That is to say, the sun through stained glass…cast such…such a magnificent array of rainbow hues on the soft, concentrated countenance…

He sat so straight in the uncompromising wood of his seat. Such a gentleman. I never would have guessed…what with whom his father was…

But I get ahead of myself. You see, I knew – know – his family. His mother was an old, old friend of my family, and his father…well…

The man made it his business to know.

But I hadn’t seen them since my mother’s funeral almost three years before, and the boy that had knelt so quietly in his flawless black; fingers interlaced so properly on the back of the pew before him, afraid to make even the smallest sound…the boy that had played with my baby brother; grown up with him, learned with him, trained with him, baked batch upon batch of botched cookies, and looked upon me as the older brother he would never have…

Had grown into a fine young man.

And Father…I do mean fine.

***

The church was perpetually stuffy the more morning progressed into afternoon, but the presence – sudden presence I would like to add – increased the heat as my heart defied all my training and logic. It shocked me that his mother and he attended mass; I had never seen them before. I didn’t even think they were Catholic. I was to discover later she was there as a courtesy…I told you the parish was monetarily challenged…and well, she was quite the opposite.

But seeing him only made the atmosphere even warmer, and when those bright blue eyes I remember so vibrantly on the face of a child flickered over the priest as he spoke, to rest, unabashedly on me…

Father…I felt as though the collar would choke me. I think that was God’s way of warning me…and again, I failed…

I should have listened.

But…when he took the wafer from my hand with a lingering lick…the ruby of wine on his lips afterward when he tossed a careless wink over his shoulder, a gesture that almost made me spill the scarlet liquid on my robes…

I don’t know how he knew – I guess the attraction was instantaneous. Undeniable. And he played me like a puppeteer.

I was shaking when I bid the masses farewell, my sweaty palms grasping each hand in my own with attaching fervor, prolonging the inevitable – the lilac splash of color amidst the blacks and casually curled blondes. It was like all my life I’d walked in a world devoid of anything other than varying shades of grey…

He…he thrust me into Technicolor.

***

With him there was red. And a lot of it. The faithful blush that sprang to my cheeks whenever his name was even mentioned in conversation, the crimson brush stroke of first blood…the rusty garnet of my broken nose as the police lead me handcuffed from the chapel…

But I jump ahead. I…I honestly don’t know where or even how the immediacy of our magnetism sparked into being, what bastard devil’s seed spawned our unholy acts.

All I really remember is the close quarters we held, the heat, friction, and always…the scent of his adolescent exuberance filling my nose with its perfume, my soul with need, and my body with lust…

He came by the church often after that first day. After he all but offered himself to me on the steps of the house of worship…a fleeting trace of slender fingertips on my forearm…a slanted look of insidious calculation that merged into a glittering glance of lascivious desire even as I watched…

And his confessions had me chanting Hail Marys…

‘Forgive me Father…I’ve had impure thoughts…’

And, God save me, when I asked him about who…

‘…about a man of God, Father…I can’t stop thinking about him.’

I swear Father, my heart accelerated; pulse defining the hitched uncertainty of my breath…Good God, and then…when he asked…in that sultry tone…there was no doubt, the boy knew he was sexy…

‘Father…is masturbation wrong?’

***

We played this ambiguous game of glances and innuendos for weeks. I never meant it to go further…he was a boy and I was his priest: the man he was supposed to be able to trust more than teachers, friends, or even parents…

But…I’ve never been able to deny anyone. Ever. And he…

He was no exception.

I tried desperately to avoid him, to avoid being alone with him, but…he found a way…and when he did…

My vows became ashes in his hands.

He came to me after evening mass, the quiet click of the door my only indication of his arrival. I can still remember the clock in the hall chiming nine as I turned from my desk, placing aside the ceremonial white in favour of my comfortable black.

And there he stood; a boy to me, ten years my junior cast in the flattering shadows and amber lamplight of my ill-equipped office space, the tie on his neck loosened just enough, that had I desired…I could have propelled him forward like a dog on a leash.

‘Father…’

To this day, the force that drove me forward is an enigma to me.

‘Gohan…’

And the demonic push that saw me embrace the fourteen year old, to crush his muscled body to my own, to kiss the silken tendrils of his sunset hair…as my eager hands dispatched of his belt; an ardent harmony of euphoric purrs and growls as we sought the forbidden temple of our mouths…

But I wasn’t possessed, and it was no means of Satan that lifted that boy onto the cluttered mess of my desk, not his mouth that made love to the smooth, curving contours of youthful flesh as they were revealed to seeking, impatient hands…

It was I.

I that coaxed his velvet thighs to part with needy ministrations.

I that allowed his elegant digits to divest me of my own leather barrier.

I that moaned and licked and encouraged his hands to explore the area below my waist, a site virtually untouched…

And I that shed his innocence on the pressed fabric of my pants.

…I’m sorry…am I making you uncomfortable?

***

I…

God…Father…forgive me…he was just a boy…and I was weak…

Always weak.

And he robbed me of my strength as easily as any incubus.

Many times. Several of which where hurried, passionate tumbles in the hazardous realm of the public rectory right before Sunday morning mass. We weren’t careful…we should have been more careful…

And I should know my own strength.

There are so many things I shouldn’t have done…

I shouldn’t have let him entice me…kiss me…

I shouldn’t have found myself so many times between his thighs…his legs wrapped around my waist, hands in my hair as though I were the only way to God himself…

And I shouldn’t have left any marks.

His mother has always been perceptive. And his father…

I can’t believe how stupid I was.

But I’ll tell you, Father…a fist in the face and a knee in the groin can make things so much clearer…put the whole picture in perspective.

Couple that with the public arrest, the stone faced cops that clapped the cuffs around my wrists, my young paramour’s pissed off father threatening to end my pedophiliac existence, and the wondering whispers of an entire chapel filled with people…

Yeah, perspective.

God…no matter how many times I seem to forsake you…you’ve shown me nothing but patience…

And how I’ve repaid you…

…they shipped him off to boarding school. I wasn’t allowed to see him before he left. The last time I did see him was in the police station when they brought me in for questioning.

But he had more bruises than I ever gave him. I know he never meant for it to happen…but one doesn’t contradict his father. Vegeta has ways of making people talk.

And ways of keeping one silent…he backhanded me for having the audacity to attempt communication with his boy…when he caused him greater harm than I ever did.

But you learn early on not to touch Vegeta’s toys.

***

I was never charged. The church settled out of court, and I was left with nothing but my old, battered Bible, and my shame.

I left the priesthood. My sin was apparent everywhere I went – I’m not very good at hiding my emotions. I think that may have been one of the reasons I was taken in so easily. The boy knew which buttons to push and a finger that itched to do it.

God knows I’m not guiltless. I should have known better, acted as more befitting my position…

But the boy was like chocolate. And my family’s not exactly known for showing the greatest self-control in the face of temptation. Hn. Man of God indeed…

I just wish it were easier…I wish I knew if I loved him…like he obviously loves me…

He wrote me every week we were apart in the beginning. They eventually tapered down to once a month. And as he got older…more months passed in between his missives…

But I got a letter postmarked last Wednesday only yesterday.

I hadn’t opened them. It’s been seven years and I hadn’t broken the seal on any of his letters. Well…not until last night…when, prompted by fate, or God, or whoever…

I drowned my pain, my loss, my inherent ache for him that is slowly driving me to insanity… in a thick glass bottle. Six of them, actually. Seems the devil has my number…

I tore into those letters, intent to wallow further into the swamps of my self-pity by reading the pages and pages of hatred I knew he must direct at me…

Only to have each letter end with ‘love you always, T-chan’.

He still loves me. After seven years, several other affairs he dubbed ‘practicing for perfection’, and a nightmare of parental chastisement, my little lover, my T-chan…

Still loves me.

I wanted…no, I needed to get this off my chest before I made my choice.

You see, Father…he’s getting out today. In about…

KUSO! I’ve got to go, Father! Domo arigato!

Artist’s Notes: This scene has a bit of intimate contact through clothes, but is rather hot. This is Future Gohan and Future Trunks, just to clarify, and happens in the midst of Trunks training. Many thanks to Lord Truhan for encouragement writing this pairing! I am using the timeline written by Lord Truhan as reference for this fan fiction.

*****

A half hour later Trunks and Gohan touched down near the slightly cracked dome of the Son home. Neatly small pieces of wood had patched the hole in the roof, and Gohan spotted the battered white car with the Ox king logo on the side. By now, he guessed his grandfather was helping unload the piles of groceries brought from the village that still bartered down the hill. Once Gohan’s booted foot crossed the threshold through the open door, he saw the movement of the two occupants. Behind him, he felt Trunks ki, hesitating to step inside. He could almost see Trunks staring at his black and white sigil on the rear of his vest rather then look inside at who was coming to the door to greet them.

“C’mon in, you’ve been here before,” Gohan glanced over one shoulder.

“Your mom and my mom are starting to sound too much alike,” Trunks whispered, rolling his eyes.

Chichi’s hands fluttered in her sleeves that seemed too sizes too large. She pushed them up automatically, and then spun around to see Gohan trudging through the door with Trunks only partly behind him. At sight of her son’s return, she clasped both her hands together and rushed up towards him.

“Every time you leave lately, I don’t know if you’re coming back, Gohan,” she began to lament.

“Hi Mom, sorry to worry you. There was another fight in Central and they needed my help…” Gohan began. Despite seven years of taking up his father’s mantle as Savior of the world, Gohan still faced his mother’s impending disapproval of his choice to fight.

“Now Gohan how can you run around playing superhero without a thought for…” Chichi began.

Just how easily Gohan smiled and shrugged it off blew Trunks mind. Had he become immune to his mother’s worries? He could tell with but a glance that Gohan was putting up a brave front, though he could peer through a minute crack to see Gohan’s eyes dulling slightly with guilt. Not to mention the clenching of Gohan’s fist at his side that he pushed behind his back.

“Now honey, let’s just be glad he got home in one piece,” the Ox King interrupted, slowly raising his bulk from the nearby battered sofa. “You know Gohan would go nuts here when there’s people who can use his help… and just because he says help doesn’t mean he’s always fighting…”

“I know, but I worry so much! You can’t expect me NOT to worry, Gohan!” Chichi bit her lip, her dark eyes the same shade as Gohan’s peering up anxiously into her son’s face. “And what will Bulma say with you dragging her little boy around like a sidekick!”

“He invited me home for some of your famous cooking. Space rations get to be a drag after a while,” Trunks neatly interposed, interrupting Chichi’s impending woeful barrage of reproaches.

“Don’t try to soft soap me, young man. I suppose I should be glad that you’re tagging along with my Gohan, because there’s very little chance he’d be fighting with you around… if he knows what’s good for him, as far as your mom is concerned. She warned me to make sure you two didn’t start conspiring…” Chichi waggled her wooden spoon at Gohan.

“Now Mom, don’t worry,” Gohan started, raising a protesting hand. Despite all the misery they had seen each day, a domestic confrontation seemed like a peaceful and welcome break for them both.

“If you’re worried he’s dragging me off to train, don’t be, ma’am,” Trunks appealed, his arms outstretched. “He just invited me over for dinner… and my mom thought you could give her some more of that antiseptic herb that you happen to grow in your garden. Mom thinks she can duplicate its formula in the lab if she has a sample…”

“And since I happened to be heading back home, I figured why not bring him here and kill two birds with one stone? Besides Bulma did need help on her newest project, right Trunks?” Gohan continued, tagging along the train of Trunks excuse. Not only did he fight to save people with his techniques bequeathed to him by Piccolo, but also Gohan would roll up his sleeves and nudge Bulma aside when she had overwhelming piles of broken machinery to fix.

That’s right. I can’t drag mom out of her lab except to eat lately,” Trunks chimed in.

“You can’t argue with that, dear,” the Ox King shrugged.

“That’s awful! Don’t tell me she’s not eating properly!” Chichi groaned, shaking her head and resting her hands on her hips.

“It’s okay, I help out when I can,” Trunks waved his hands across his face, giving a smile to dispel the continuing waves of tension.

“Well I do have an extra plate set just in case someone happened to come by after one of those awful attacks,” Chichi relented. “But both of you should wash up before you eat, and help me set the table!”

“All right Mom,” Gohan nodded, and then jerked his head in the direction of the bathroom, winking at Trunks. He nodded, and both of them made their way through the short hallways of the little home. In the distance, they could hear father and daughter continuing the same argument that always commenced when Gohan came home, and Trunks visited for dinner.

“I hope they’re not catching on, Gohan… I hate having you have to lie for me,” whispered Trunks.

“You know as well as I do that there’s nothing going on, right?” Gohan interrupted, though his nose wrinkled slightly. “Besides, my mom’s as smart as yours. Moreover, there ARE many different ways of ‘fighting’ that don’t always involve martial arts. It’s not a true lie.”

“But she said training,” Trunks mumbled.

“No she didn’t. She said conspiring. And how can we be conspiring if we’re helping your mother save the refugees?” Gohan whispered, nudging Trunks. Reaching past him, he opened the door to the washroom and urged him inside.

For a moment, Trunks wondered just what Gohan had in mind when he saw the small sink washbasin near the commode. A small shower stood in the corner behind the plastic garishly colored curtain.

Glancing at Trunks out of the corner of his eye, Gohan reached for one of the towels. He tossed it towards his student, who was reaching for a bar of soap. A fresh minty smell permeated the atmosphere as Gohan reached behind them to close the door.

“That shower curtain needs a few more batteries,” Trunks joked.

“Hey, at least it doesn’t need to be polished till you can see through it. Then again…” Gohan trailed off; half-chuckling at what he was thinking. Tugging at the bottom of his shirt Gohan pulled it out from where it was neatly tucked into the waist of his pants. Then he heaved the shirt off his head, revealing the dark midnight blue shirt underneath. Its sleeves came almost to the tops of his elbows. Across the front of it glimmered the bathroom’s overhead light, indicated a set of tiny interlocking metallic rings forming a layer on the outside like chainmail. Underneath it was a layer of soft cloth that absorbed sweat comfortably. Two shades lighter then it was the knotted blue sash and wristbands.

“Uh huh. But it’s still loud,” Trunks chuckled back. Smooth china handles were slightly cracked and marked with an H and a C, unlike the single plastic dial on the Capsule bathroom taps.

A quick twist of Gohan’s wrists later Trunks heard the thump of one wristband, landing on the tile floor atop the red gi. He moved to the side and blocked the flow of water with his hand plunged into the stream. Glimpsing Gohan suddenly tugging up on his shirt he shivered in expectation, only to feel a spray of wetness douse his shoulder and the front of his shirt. Trunks backed away, cursing at the water that suddenly dribbled down the front of his sweatpants.

“Says the guy who can’t use something as simple as an old fashioned tap,” Gohan teased, reaching around him to turn off the water tap. A sudden burst of inspiration crossed through his mind when he saw the wet splotches on his t-shirt.

“How’d YOU like to share?” Trunks laughed. Immersing his hand into the basin, he suddenly scooped it up and tossed it onto the unsuspecting older half Saiyan.

“Hey!” Gohan spluttered, droplets of water gliding down the blue weighted shirt. Half untucked it dangled lopsided across his hip. Trunks didn’t see that his hand was tucked behind his back at that moment until something much wetter connected with his face. Bouncing off the wet sponge then hit the wet floor with a smack and skittered towards the far wall leaving a trail of suds in its wake.

“Hey yourself!” Trunks responded, grabbing another handful of water from the sink to douse Gohan. Before it contacted Gohan suddenly dodged around and grabbed Trunks wrist.

“Better watch it, or mom will complain about getting the floor too wet,” Gohan whispered, his solitary arm suddenly pinning Trunks wrist to the sink. Trunks felt the warmth of his sensei’s body pressed up against his back and shivered with delight. Quirking his mouth in a smirk Trunks leaned back heavily into Gohan’s body. Yet he found himself toppling much further back then he expected judging from the room pitching to the left. A second later, he landed against something hard and solid with a grunt and was treated to a sideways view of the loud shower curtain he’d commented on before.

“Whoof,” Gohan gasped, loudly near one ear. “Damn wet floor…”

“Smooth move. You okay Gohan. Sorry about that,” Trunks laughed, feeling himself balanced across the sturdy form of his sensei. Judging from the way he landed, Gohan must have twisted his own body beneath when he felt them falling.

“This is pretty unfair,” Gohan murmured, voice vibrating through his chest. Trunks twisted on his side and craned his neck to see Gohan’s stern look. His strong muscular arm latched around Trunks waist, imprisoning him so he couldn’t move.

“Well don’t give me that look; I’m not the one who…” the lavender haired younger Saiyan began.

“The one who what?” Gohan asked simply. His hand tightened considerably, tightly binding Trunks atop him.

Trunks noticed the devious grin crossing Gohan’s scarred face, and realized he was far from angry. In fact, he made no move to push Trunks off him or get up. Rather he lay back on the cold tile, shifting his hand to clutch hold of Trunks shirt in his large hand. Trunks felt the water soaking into his skin and slid his other hand to tug his shirt up so Gohan wouldn’t have to let go.

“I’ll get that,” he breathed deeply, shivering at the rising and falling of Gohan’s chest under his side. Gohan released him so he could sit up in the other Saiyan’s lap and pull his shirt up. White skin steadily came into view while Trunks purple hair vanished into the tent of his shirt. Gohan watched it flutter to the floor, then saw Trunks eyes grow wide. A hand landed on Gohan’s bare abdomen, gliding accidentally over the smooth skin.

“Something missing?” Gohan glanced seemingly innocently up at his student.

Ivory skin flushed a pale pink beneath those blue eyes staring down where his palm lay flat on Gohan’s now bared chest. Just when had he removed the shirt, Trunks wondered? He marveled at the hardness of Gohan’s flattened muscle covered in slick olive skin. It was only a shade or two darker then Trunks, but the quality of it was distinctive. In comparison, Trunks skin was ivory flushed with a bit of pink. While he had seen his sensei shirtless before, lately it grew harder for Trunks not to stare longer then one normally would at such perfection. Now he could trace his fingers along the grooves of Gohan’s six-pack up to the solar plexus, and beyond. Lifting his arm Gohan rested it behind his head, dark eyes expectantly pinning Trunks there.

“Damn, he’s perfect,” Trunks realized. He felt blood pounding through his body, and a strange tingling along his now goose pimpling skin. The way Gohan watched his every move so intently reminded him of a predator waiting for an open moment to strike.

Also visible without the shirt was the stump of Gohan’s left limb. Trunks felt a pang of guilt to see the absence of what had been the mate of the strong arm that curled around his back. Various scars crisscrossed Gohan’s chest, radiating from the amputated bud over his left pectoral. Diagonal streaks traversed the six-pack of his abdomen before blurring into the pale olive tan of his natural skin. They were pink in color, the same hue of the scar tracing over his forehead down his cheek.

Trunks shifted back when Gohan’s eyes narrowed in concern. Did Gohan really think he cared about the scars? To Trunks, they were handsome, adding character to his sensei. Even the lack of an arm didn’t detract from what Trunks saw as perfection. There was only one Son Gohan, hero and savior of the shattered world. Only one that he admired and looked up to, who was his whole world.

“I don’t give a damn, Gohan,” Trunks whispered.

“What about, Trunks?” Gohan asked.

“You know what I mean,” Trunks answered, bending over to lightly kiss the tip of the arm stump. Gohan smiled sadly, squeezing and rubbing Trunks back gratefully with the acceptance. Although Earth’s population was drastically reduced, there were younger people who Trunks could desire rather than him

“Are you sure this is what you want, Trunks?” Gohan asked, glancing up at him.

“You knew how I felt, didn’t you?” Trunks inhaled deeply, kissing across the spider web of scars to lick his prominent Adam’s apple.

“I am pretty smart, thanks to my Mom always nagging me to study,” Gohan could not help bragging.

“Well she screwed up. You became one hell of a fighter anyway,” Trunks laughed lightly, kissing the tip of his chin.

Trunks warm body contrasted the cool tile pressed into Gohan’s bare back. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the smooth alabaster and peach skin covering Trunks slender arms and torso. From all the endless training, his once waiflike body now contoured with generous muscle. More like a cheetah rather than a tiger in build, Gohan reasoned. He himself was the enormous tiger, all solidly heavy, but nowhere near the build of his father.

Banishing his shyness trunks swung around and straddled Gohan’s hips. Somehow, it felt more comfortable, and he wanted to see the look on the other’s face as he explored the terrain lying under his slender hands. Gohan’s abdominal muscles tensed then relaxed, small pants escaping his lips to feel the light feather touch of the youth’s fingers rubbing over his skin. An unspoken challenge to Trunks to dare to explore and claim what could be his seemed to cross the gap between them. At least that is what Trunks sensed by staring deep into those bottomless midnight pools regarding him. Beneath Trunks pelvis, he felt something stirring to life, and blushed. Especially when he felt how pleasant it was against the bulge developing in his own sweatpants.

Ever so slowly, he shifted his hips forward, bracing his hands on Gohan’s pectoral muscles. A low groan escaped Gohan’s lips, causing Trunks to smile mischievously. Dark lashed eyes pressed shut, and he felt Gohan’s hips slowly buck upwards. While not forceful enough to dislodge Trunks from his perch, it was sufficient to catch his attention. A bolt of sheer energy tingled from his groin and spread like a tidal wave over Trunks young body. Experimentally he shifted his hips back and forth, so that their groins were tightly pressed to one another. Back and forth, Gohan tossed his head, gritting his teeth to stifle the moan. Pride filled Trunks, his blood pulsing hot in his temples. In the silence between them only the thudding of his rapid heartbeat sounded.

Was this another test, Trunks wondered. Did Gohan think he would lose his nerve so tightly pressed to him? He liked the feel of Gohan’s hips between his straddling legs, and simply shifted forwards a bit to immerse his hands in Gohan’s hair. Pressing the length of his own chest, he draped himself atop his mentor, feeling the urge to stare more closely into those intense eyes. He never figured Gohan would allow him to do such things, and was amazed at the sudden docile nature of his sensei laying there. His heart skipped beats, pumping something fiery through his veins, rushing to all parts of his body.

“I just want to know now, Trunks. I’m not exactly young anymore… and I’d be lying if I didn’t notice that in a few years you’ll be a heartbreaker,” Gohan answered.

“Shut up,” Trunks admonished him, slapping his chest lightly. “You’re NOT old. Are you going to give me some bullshit about being too old for me? Because I don’t care.”

“I should care, but I don’t,” Gohan murmured, leaning up to softly kiss Trunks cheek. “But you are still young…”

“So what? Gohan, this world is a crazy mess. The rules are different! I mean there are very few governments, rules that would stop or care. It’s not like they could arrest you for wanting to… for me wanting to be with you,” Trunks snapped, glaring angrily down at Gohan.

“No, that’s true,” Gohan answered. “I just want to be sure that you’re all right with this. I don’t want you to think you have to just because…”

“I don’t want anyone else. This isn’t a normal world. It’s not just because you protect me, and that you’re half Saiyan like me. I feel how I feel,” Trunks admonished him.

“All right, all right,” Gohan laughed gently. “You can’t blame me for wanting to know.”

“You always did ask too many stupid questions,” Trunks teased him.

“I’m the one who asks questions?” Gohan asked.

Cobalt irises dilated, staring at him from under the lavender fringe of hair. Gohan saw Trunks lips parted, and rumbled with delight when Trunks lay atop him, pressing their fronts together. Grasping the side of Gohan’s head Trunks angled his face to the side and brushed his lips over his mentor’s. To his delight, the kiss was answered with an opening mouth yielding to his questing tongue. As he had imagined doing for a while Trunks varied the slight movement of his head from side to side. Mapped the interior of Gohan’s delicious mouth, tasting the richness fully on his young palate while inhaling Gohan’s surging breaths. Softly Gohan moaned against his mouth, suddenly seizing Trunks lower lip between his teeth.

“Gohan, Trunks, are you still in there?” interrupted Chichi’s voice.

“Shit,” both chorused together.

Trunks flinched and Gohan cursed under his breath at the sudden pounding on the door. Whatever moment they had was suddenly shattered. Reluctantly Trunks shifted to the side and let Gohan sit up once more. Soberly they regarded one another.

“Mom, we’ll be done in a moment,” Gohan answered.

“Dinner will get cold,” Chichi’s voice echoed, partly muffled through the door.

Trunks was glad to see the disappointment and frustration wrinkling Gohan’s scarred face. Not saying another word to each other, they quickly washed their hands and faces for dinner before putting their shirts on once more.

Although Trunks felt the mutual frustration that crossed Gohan’s face, he knew from the gleam in his sensei’s dark eyes that there would be time for exploration later. Especially when he felt the solitary hand engulf his, squeezing gently. Shivering again with renewed delight, Trunks swiveled his head up to glance at Gohan once more. Only a small meaningful smile confirmed the volumes that the older Saiyan’s gaze conveyed.

Hands clasped, sensei and student strode down the hall towards the dinner table. No, Gohan reflected. Not sensei, but lover. Judging from the smile crossing Trunks young face, he knew the younger Saiyan shared his feelings. The future was theirs, and they only hoped there would be enough to explore what had been set afire between them.

Artist’s Notes: First fiction writing this pairing. It’s pretty much in the Future Gohan/Trunks timeline. It’s marked ‘shota’ because Future Trunks is 14 and Future Gohan is 23. I used Lord Truhan’s timeline for this.

*****

“I have to admit you did get me there, Trunks. Not bad,” Gohan relented, staring down at the hunched figure. Trunks really WAS in a great deal of pain, holding his shoulder and fighting back what gleamed in his blue eyes.

“I know it was dirty, but I couldn’t resist,” Trunks answered, drawing in great draughts of air to counteract the sharp crack of pain spreading like a wave from his right shoulder. He wondered if his arm would move for a day or more.

“True,” Gohan nodded. “I’d say it was worth a time out. We’re done for the day.”

Trunks nodded, a slight smile masking the still surging pain. This time when Gohan leaned forwards and extended a strong hand, trunks outstretched his own ivory fingers. He shivered as they touched the rough palm of Gohan’s hand, and marveled in the strength of the grip. Only a small snap of Gohan’s figure tugged both of them to their feet. More ribbons of sand fell from Trunks back and made their piles in the sand. Gohan resisted a chuckle feeling sand dropping from the back of his gi as well.

Glancing down he saw his fingers were still closed around Trunks hand. Neither questioned the contact, and he felt his role yet again shift. It was not mere protection, Gohan soberly realized as he saw the pride glowing from the youth’s face. He let go reluctantly, seeing Trunks questioning look, and pushed tendrils of the boy’s lavender hair from his face.

“I must smell pretty ripe,” Trunks joked.

“That makes two of us,” Gohan nodded, chuckling himself.

It seemed so natural to raise his hand to pat Trunks on the back, as Trunks stood closer to him. Instead of removing it after the friendly contact, Gohan’s arm rested around Trunks slender shoulders, and he felt Trunks leaning into his body as well. Around his waist, Gohan felt the curling of Trunks smaller arm and pulled the boy towards himself more tightly. The light pressure of Trunks side against his felt safe and reassuring, and necessary.

“Lunch now?” Trunks laughed, glancing up at him.

“Yes,” Gohan nodded, feeling his own stomach rumbling in unison.

That fact reminded him of their similarities, and he did not fight the warmth arising in his stomach and being. Similarly, he didn’t stop the smile twitching his angular cheeks into a grin. That same expression graced Trunks visage as well, and he realized what a relief it was to see him smiling. It was worth a few moments of self-deprecation and stupidity.

On the other hand, was it? If he didn’t push Trunks hard enough it would be his own damn fault if the boy died at the hands of the androids. Could he chance letting Trunks fight at his side when the boy wasn’t ready? Yet he had to be.

“Earth to Gohan! You call me a space cadet, remember?” Trunks nudged him, giving his hip a squeeze as they stood there in silence.

“True,” Gohan nodded.

“What’s with the one word answers? Are you pissed that tricked you?” Trunks asked, swinging out from Gohan’s arm to stand right before him. Lavender brows wrinkled in a frown and Gohan again mumbled a curse.

“No and yes. I’m more pissed at myself because I should have known better,” Gohan answered, his eyes narrowing into that stern look that caused Trunks to tense.

“Oh,” Trunks answered, not sure of what to say.

He fought the impulse to laugh and joke whenever Gohan’s face hovered between a serious frown and a reprimand. Still he tightened his grip on Trunks shoulder and said nothing as he pulled the younger man towards him. The urge to protect overpowered the urge to reprimand, and Trunks wound his arms around Gohan’s waist, sensing an automatic need for body contact.

Fingers stroking Trunks soft hair, Gohan allowed more thoughts to spin through his brain. Oddly, the words “safety word” came into his head, and Gohan frowned at himself for another dearth of such thoughts. Not because they were centered on a male object of affection, but because they were surfacing at a very inopportune time. If he showed such concern for Trunks during times such as these, how could he possibly hope to be ruthless enough to harden his training? How could a warrior balance his concern for his pupil and still be as adamant as steel?

Piccolo had done it easily enough. Yet in teaching Gohan years ago, he had learned the softness of love. It was not a weakness but strength. He could still remember cowering in fear as Piccolo had thrown himself in the path of a Saibaman’s ray. At that moment, Gohan knew that Piccolo had accepted what he had called a weakness. Love.

Love was not a weakness, Gohan reprimanded himself.

Yet why did he question it as he and Trunks glanced up at him expectantly, looking for more than just guidance at that moment? It was love that pushed Gohan to show the ruthlessness of Piccolo’s training all these days when he knew Bulma would be furious when she found out. Could he afford to be soft when any moment could be his last, and Trunks would be alone without a guide, without a mentor?

Without a loved one, Gohan mentally added as realization dawned.

By now Trunks had pressed his face into Gohan’s chest and his grip had tightened. Gohan leaned down again to pull Trunks face away and hold him at arm’s length. Held against the hard solid body of the older Half Saiyan, Trunks felt himself quivering from head to toe. He could hardly imagine what the other was now thinking, peering up at him with confidence and the surety that always preceded a training session.

Gohan’s eyes widened when he felt Trunks raise a hand of concern and touch the side of his cheek. Neither questioned what silence said. At that moment his sensei’s eyes held such pain and frustration that Trunks wished he could somehow ease it. In turn, the open look of trust and determination gleaming in those blue eyes called to Gohan. It was but a split second, but they both knew what the other was thinking.

At the same time Gohan’s fist tightened on Trunks shoulder, Trunks leaned up towards his mentor. There was something electric and tingling like ki in the moment, and he felt the darkness of concern on that troubled brow. He sought to brush his lips against Gohan’s cheek, but instead Gohan’s descending profile brushed past his. Firm lips found his soft ones, and Trunks relaxed against his mentor’s body as he was pressed to strong muscle clad in baggy gi. A slight brush of Trunks lips against his caused Gohan to shiver, and he swept his tongue lightly forward.

Yielding to the older half saiyan’s advances, Trunks parted his mouth and a surge of hot breath moved between them both. Minute cracklings of ki tingled over his body, and Gohan tasted what seemed like electric blue. He didn’t want to let go of the warmth he had found and protected through hard days of endless training. Yet he found himself angered that at some point he couldn’t have the power to keep his word.

Trunks would have to protect himself one of these days. Moreover, that realization made him drink all the more firmly from the soft moving lips tasting his for the first time. Gently Gohan boosted him up and felt the wrap of young slender arms around his muscled neck. Lips parting for breath, their foreheads pressed tightly and damp with sweat, pants fanning each other’s faces. As close as could be, cobalt blue eyes and ebony ones firmly locked, their determination shared.

“I won’t always be able to protect you,” Gohan found himself saying.

“Don’t be stupid. I don’t need protecting. We’ll both have each other’s backs, Gohan. I promise,” Trunks exhaled deeply, his gaze wide and full of wonder.

“I know,” Gohan began to mouth, but stifled his impulse to ruin the moment by moving his mouth again over Trunks.

Saying nothing, they basked and drank in the comfort that they could provide. Then reluctantly Gohan released him from the embrace, his mask of hard objectivity again arising. Licking his lips Trunks felt the awkwardness falling on them both.

“Gohan, are you all right?” Trunks asked.

“Food would be good. I don’t know about you, but my mom always cooks more than she can eat. And she’s closer,” Gohan answered, cutting off Trunks concerned question.

“Sounds good to me, but are you sure you’re okay?” Trunks answered, frowning slightly that Gohan had suddenly plastered on what seemed like a generic Son smile and tugged at his sleeve.

Artist’s Notes: First fiction writing this pairing. It’s pretty much in the Future Gohan/Trunks timeline. It’s marked ‘shota’ because Future Trunks is 14 and Future Gohan is 23. I used Lord Truhan’s timeline for this.

*****

Water was essential to life just as much as training is to mine, Son Gohan thought, fighting the urge to wipe sweat from his brow. His shadow glided with the movements of another, longer but at the same angle. Son Gohan’s dark brows furrowed in intense concentration, locking with those of his younger opponent. Oddly, the roles of years past were reversed with a lifetime of choreography entrusted to him by Piccolo. Now his pupil upraised hands at forty-five degree angles, hunching his shoulders with his head tipped back to compensate for being shorter then Son Gohan. Tendrils of lavender hair stuck to the sweat that blistered from his forehead.

“Think fast, and don’t hesitate!” Gohan barked, before he accelerated his entire body. Narrowed blue eyes stared shortly to track his movement, and Gohan arched around behind his student.

For miles around stretched spires of rock, jutting out of sand that had crumbled and eroded under years of weathering. Far from any of the ruined cities of the Androids, but closer to Gohan’s mountain home they continued to train. In the distance the extending bands of brown turning to dark green indicated the change in landscape that preceded a half hour flight to the Son residence. At times their training grounds changed, in order to keep one step ahead of possible ambush, Gohan reasoned.

Fortunately, this time as Gohan’s fist flashed out, he impacted Trunks slender upraised wrist. Tilting his torso back a slight bit, he avoided Trunks’ counterpunch. This time only inches from his nose the clenched hand passed, pleasing him. Indeed Trunks was getting closer to actually tagging him. So focused were the blue eyes on the attack, that Gohan then thrust his leg out, his thigh crashing into those of Trunks.

Knocked off balance Trunks quickly recovered, just in time for Gohan to pivot his body on one foot and lash out with a kick. Fumbling Trunks tucked his body inwards and raised one knee to block. His face clenched in pain with the near solid crack, but Gohan felt the resistance through his entire leg. Arching backwards, Trunks landed on his back, and then rolled over out of the way of Gohan’s downward facing elbow as he pounced. Sand flew up into his face, but Gohan ignored it, excited to see that Trunks speed had slowly increased.

Back of his capsule T-shirt and sweats coated with a layer of sand, Trunks rolled halfway on his back to regain his footing. This time he leaned back again to dodge the next two kicks and punches thrown by Gohan. This time Trunks spun and shot out with his own punches. Gohan felt the impact of the right fist on his forearm, but then felt the pressure of Trunks shoulder and other fist slamming into his gut. It was a bit sloppy, Gohan had to admit, but forceful enough because he found himself grunting from some of the wind knocked from his belly. It sent him back, but he snapped around once more for another try. This time Trunks dodged under his next punch, and his body blurred into navy blue, white, and lavender before Gohan’s eyes. However, Gohan automatically swept out his arm, feeling the solidness of Trunks belly yielding against his sharp elbow. He steeled himself against the frustrated grunt and sound of his student’s body thudding to the sand.

“Dammit,” Trunks gritted, his eyes squeezed shut. Hair fanned out to the side, and doubled up with knees pressed into his chest Trunks wrapped his arms around his injured midsection. At that moment, he seemed much smaller and younger, triggering a split second deluge of memories.

Two years ago a peculiarly nasty assault on North City as the deadly duo of Androids had smashed apart the central shopping complex. The local hospital of North city was far too ruined to accommodate all the disaster victims. Some of her employees had piloted a rescue craft to pick up whatever survivors there were. Then Bulma’s local Capsule plant there had set up dozens of palates for the refugees. Capsule more often than not function as a field hospital more than a technological factory. Bulma’s bots and medical teams had tried to set up as much machinery as possible. Not to mention enough pieces of equipment to keep the people alive long enough for their city to rebuild suitable shelters. Several hundred souls needed food and drink, and medical care. At times, like that he helped Bulma keep the water purification system or the hydroponic bots control units.

As always Trunks was right there helping wrap bandages or staunch heavy bleeding when there weren’t enough medical volunteers. By the time, they all had returned to Capsule, Bulma had offered them all places to sleep and recover. Gohan had taken the room down the hall from Trunks, and remembered tossing and turning in the borrowed bed only to hear that bloodcurdling scream. A soft cry of fear turned into outrage as Trunks had burst out of fitful sleep and hurled aside covers. Gohan had remembered the sheer force and anguish in that voice, and had found himself rushing from the place he had slept that night at capsule two years ago.

“Trunks, come on, I know I didn’t hit you that hard! Get up!” he couldn’t stop himself from shouting. Damn it he was getting too soft, all because he couldn’t help wincing from the pain he guessed Trunks must have been feeling. Despite his better impulse, he stepped forwards, leaning over the huddled lad. Slowly Trunks rolled over onto his back, teeth gritted and graceful lavender brow knitted in pain.

Gohan’s brows knit, confused and concerned because he was certain there was enough force in his punch not to cause so much damage. Surely, Trunks had taken more solid punches then this, so why was he shuddering so much without rolling again to his feet?

“Trunks?” Gohan lowered his voice, bending his knee more firmly. Yet two sky blue eyes popped wide open, and sand hissed with the sudden movement of the once curled body. A loud shout accompanied the forward thrust of two legs at Gohan. Pain erupted, and he drew his abdomen tight, seeing through the pain that was little in magnitude to many injuries, but struggling to process what he’d seen. He had just glimpsed Trunks pressing the flats of both hands planted in the sand behind him, then levering his entire body upwards and landed his feet in the pit of Gohan’s stomach. The clever smirk covering Trunks face at that moment infuriated and invigorated Gohan as he glided back, still curling in on his own body.

“Nasty trick, but not too bad,” Gohan wheezed. Piccolo’s voice ran in Gohan’s mind, reprimanding him for a moment of weakness. Yet Gohan couldn’t help hesitating a mere second to see the boy curled up on himself. It reminded Gohan of how vulnerable after Trunks was, after days of calmly sorting out the damaged bodies pouring in. In sleep, his mind processed the afterimages. More and more people each day would seek refuge inside the huge cracked done of their corporation, and fewer scientists remained alive to keep the company running smoothly. Trunks had seen progressively more death and destruction at close hand since that night, and Gohan knew exactly what the substance was that comprised his nightmares. For he had seen such horrors himself.

Author Notes: This story was written for the contest at Boxer and Rice. It was written with ideas given to me by Lord Truhan, to whom I owe many thanks for getting me started on this!

Chapter 7: Time Again for Victory

Rain was the last thing Gohan remembered before oblivion and hot lances of stinging fire. 17 and 18 had raised their hands and strafed him with thousands of bursts of energy. His last thoughts were of Trunks, willing his spirit to soar if his flesh was destroyed.

“I won’t die. There’s someone else who will live to carry out my wishes even if you destroy my flesh!” Gohan had vowed. At least that was what Gohan had planned in those last seconds of existence.

Now as the darkness yielded, he felt someone clutching him tightly, and he squeezed the warm body of Trunks tightly in his remaining arm. Black eyes met blue and the universe stopped. A quick snatching of transport pulled them out of one reality into another, dashing Gohan’s already sensation-dazed brain into overload. Among the wheezing of air in his heavy chest, and the thumping of his heart against that of his companion, he hardly wanted to open his eyes again.

Sounds and smells filled his nose, along with the impact of dozens of tiny wet droplets from above. The crashing peel of thunder filled his ears, and the soft sobs of Trunks burying his face into his chest. Never wanting to let go, Gohan hugged him tightly in a death grip, his own throat forming great lumps. His lips whispered, “Trunks, this must be a dream or I’m in heaven or hell…”

“It’s not a dream, it’s real,” Trunks answered, voice muffled into Gohan’s gi. Just to hold him again and be held in turn was worth every ounce of pain. Neither cared where they were at that moment, for the intensity of reunion was of greatest import. Burying his nose in the crest of Trunks silky hair Gohan inhaled deeply of the boy’s scent. Normally Trunks came to his mid chest, but the boy now was tall enough for Gohan to rest his chin comfortably on top of his lover’s head.

His lover, Gohan thought, without hesitation. The one who had called his name across the dimensions of death and snatched him back from a distant realm of sunlight and tournaments to rude painful reality. Where Namekians clustered and a great Dragon soared over them all in a darkened sky. Somehow, Trunks must have taken him to Namek and used the dragon balls there to bring him to life. At what cost had that poor foolish wonderful boy done such a thing?

“Trunks, what did you do,” Gohan asked seriously. He still imprisoned Trunks in the curve of his solitary arm, his dark eyes boring into the tear filled ones of his lover.

“I went to Namek and brought you back to life Gohan. Bulma wanted to build a time machine and have me go back and give your father Goku medicine… but…”

“Whoa, wait, slow down. I have been dead, remember! Please, I need to know what happened!”

“Are you angry I brought you back to life?” Trunks asked. Gohan tucked a long strand of hair behind Trunks ear.

“Damn your hair… it’s grown so long,” Gohan mumbled. “And you’ve grown too… how long…”

“Less then a year. Gohan, we should get out of the open…”

“This can’t be earth,” said a third voice, and Gohan tensed, pulling Trunks tighter to him as he glared down at their Namekian companion. Robes trailing the ground, the young Namekian wandered in ever-increasing circles through the ruined city.

Instantly Gohan tensed. Reluctantly he released Trunks from his embrace and stepped back. “We need to get the hell out of here. Now. There’s no telling what’s happened…”

“Right,” Trunks said. “Dende, follow us.”

“Dende? What the hell is he doing…?” Gohan stammered.

“No time, lead the way!” Dende agreed.

Reaching over Trunks grabbed Gohan’s hand, suggesting, “We should go back to capsule right away. I only hope Mom’s still all right…”

Not used to having Trunks take the lead, Gohan tensed yet wrapped his own body in energy. The three of them soon levitated upwards, and then blasted off at top speed after Trunks. Already the rain was beginning to clear, revealing the ruined cityscape beneath them. Gohan glumly recognized it as the very place 17 and 18 had killed him. Now he hardly wanted to think what could have happened during his death.

Soon the cracked dome of Capsule moved into view, and the trio sharply descended.

Through ruined tunnels, Trunks led the way, blinking in surprise to see no one there. “Mom…” he shouted. Gohan watched Trunks armor clad figure striding gracefully ahead of him, and admired the curve of his backside. Mentally he slapped himself for thinking such thoughts during what should be a time on guard. They needed to find Bulma, and get answers.

“Mom! I’m back!” Trunks shouted.

“Shh,” Gohan hissed, grabbing his arm. “I’m sensing a very weak life form… this way…”

“Mom!” Trunks gasped, and wrenched his arm from Gohan. Boots pounded the cracked floor as he raced through shattered doors and long tunnels to the underground facility. In rapid pursuit, Gohan and Dende rushed to catch up.

Draped over a desk was a blue haired figure, with a few streaks of grey in her hair. Trunks raced to her side, and Gohan frowned to see the shape of a tall contraption much like a spaceship towering over her. Patched and torn coveralls and a lab coat covered the limp form of Bulma Briefs, and Trunks quickly struggled to shake her.

“Mom! Answer me!” Trunks shouted.

“Trunks… she’s still alive,” Gohan said, helping to lift Bulma’s head and shoulders off the table. Bruises covered her face, and smudges of grease. Her body felt featherweight as Gohan and Trunks together lifted her and carried her between them.

“Maybe I can help,” Dende said. Both Saiyans mentally slapped themselves and motioned for Dende to follow them.

“Is she hurt… what happened to her?” Trunks said.

“She seems to have no broken bones,” Gohan muttered, helping to lay her down on the nearest bed once they exited the lab. “Dende…”

“Right,” the Namekian nodded. His hands moved within inches of Bulma, whose blue lashed eyes were shut fast. Her body seemed painfully thin, her wrists almost emaciated.

“It looks like she’s half starved, but I don’t see any evidence of any attacks,” Gohan glanced around. Trunks moved towards Dende, but Gohan stopped him.

“Don’t worry. Dende is a healer. He can help her. Just let him tend to her while we figure out what’s going on…” Gohan said.

“That thing in there is the time machine,” Trunks said. “But all the people who were here, are gone… she’s all alone!”

“Damn… I wonder…” Gohan mumbled. Closing his eyes, he expanded his perceptions to try to sense for any living things. Only faint flickers of life here and there gave him the answer.

“She’ll be all right,” Dende announced. “She’s just very hungry. Is there any food?”

“I’ll look for some. Thank you!” Trunks nodded, rushing off towards the lab. “But we need to secure this place in case we’re attacked…”

“Right,” Gohan nodded, rushing off in another direction. Dende sighed, glancing down at the wrinkled face of another friend who he never thought he would again see. Judging by the visibility of her cheekbones and her body, she had aged rapidly. Namekians had long life spans compared to many life forms, but he had never asked Gohan how long humans lived.

Together Trunks and Gohan secured the place. They found no evidence of Android attacks, merely the remains of people who had once sheltered there. As far as Gohan could surmise, they have long left for a safe haven, or else had been picked off one-by-one protecting Bulma as she built the time machine. Turning from the defense console, he punched in the code for any bots. He was glad to see power still flickering in the old generators. Cameras flickered from dozens of cracked and twisted places.

He felt the life force of Trunks returning from the direction of the kitchen, and then moving towards his mother’s bedroom where Dende’s ki remained. Walking through the lab, he stopped to peer up at the strange craft with prong like legs and a domed cockpit. After he moved over to examine the blueprints spread out on Bulma’s desktop, he realized they only looked half finished. Tools lay scattered and Gohan fingered his chin with his solitary hand as he poured over them. It had been a while since he bothered with physics and electronics, but he easily picked up the gist of the equations.

“A time machine. Bulma you have outdone yourself. However, you were working here all alone while Trunks was in space. What were you trying to do? Can you really cheat fate?” he mused.

Bulma would recover, for she was merely asleep. Gohan knew it would only be a matter of time before they would again face the Androids. In his heart, he knew once he saw the face thought he would behold in years that anything was possible. Above all, he knew that he and Trunks would be together to face it come what may. In their reunion they would succeed where alone, either had failed. Fate had blessed Gohan with a second chance through the force of their love. If love could transcend death, then victory was possible no matter what. For the last time he looked at the time machine, and wondered if, it was necessary after all. Yet it was their decision. Moreover, he and his lover would not be separated again by death, Gohan vowed.

***

The end or the beginning.

]]> http://gohanxtrunks.net/2011/04/01/dbz-yaoi-fanfic-gohanxtrunks-dragon-ball-z-kai-gay-second-chances-for-love-07/feed/ 1 http://gohanxtrunks.net/2011/04/01/dbz-yaoi-fanfic-gohanxtrunks-dragon-ball-z-kai-gay-second-chances-for-love-06/ http://gohanxtrunks.net/2011/04/01/dbz-yaoi-fanfic-gohanxtrunks-dragon-ball-z-kai-gay-second-chances-for-love-06/#comments Fri, 01 Apr 2011 07:05:05 +0000 starbearertm http://gohanxtrunks.net/?p=3755 Summary: What if instead of going to the past with the Time Machine, Future Trunks instead used a spaceship to go to New Namek? And when he arrives, will they even know who he is, and be willing to help? Can his wish even be granted?

Author Notes: This story was written for the contest at Boxer and Rice. It was written with ideas given to me by Lord Truhan, to whom I owe many thanks for getting me started on this!

Chapter 6: Three Wishes

His stomach trembled in anticipation as Trunks watched them place the Dragon Balls in a loose cluster nearby. With raised hands, Muuri chanted the namekian incantation. Trunks threw up his hand before his face to shield himself from the blast of wind and swoosh of energy that exploded from the heart of the balls. Powerful strokes of lightening split the once stagnant air, leaving a smell of ozone in his nostrils. Pea green skies blackened to the inky blackness of night, split by the flashes of lightening and the column of coruscating power shooting heavenwards.

Bulma had told bedtime stories of her quest with the dragon balls for as long as he could remember. Stories of how she met Uncle Yamcha and the other warriors, and the man she saw as a brother, Son Goku. A mile high the energy formed the shape of a dragon, hovering and staring over them with its tail stretching straight up.

“Porunga,” Dende intoned. In a rumble like thunder, the Dragon’s voice asked for the first wish.

Trunks did not need their prompting to utter, “I wish that Son Gohan be brought back to life!”

“Are you sure? For the soul of him will come to the place where he last lay…,” said Dende.

“Can you bring the soul of Son Gohan here with the first wish?” Trunks asked.

“That is within my power to grant,” the Dragon said.

“And tell Muuri to use the second to bring Gohan back to life,” said Trunks.

“But without a body to return to it is useless,” Porunga rumbled.

“Not a problem,” Trunks said, reaching for the capsule around his neck. Dende watched wide-eyed as Trunks pressed the plunger and tossed it to the side. Out of the smoke arose a cylindrical tube about three meters long and one meter wide. The top was translucent, revealing a strangely shaped object inside.

“Is that…’ Dende whispered.

“Well, what is your first wish?” the dragon growled impatiently. Muuri waited, his hands upheld as Trunks repeated himself, and Dende rushed over to peer inside the strange tube. His eyes widened to see the dark shape had a face and shoulders, and was in fact a person.

Muuri’s namekian wish echoed in the thunder. The dragon’s shout of “Granted!” echoed through the small village of rounded huts.

“Now, bring Son Gohan back to life!” Trunks shouted, his fist upraised as he stared up at Porunga. Not a second later, Muuri’s voice converted the wish to Namekian syllables, almost whipped away by a gust of wind.

Dende jumped back when a stroke of lightening crashed dangerously close to the cylinder. Licking across its surface the waves of ki surged. A radiance almost as blinding as the aura surrounding Porunga nearly seared Trunks eyes. He rushed up panting to the cylinder, his heart pounding in rapid strokes.

“Granted!” the Dragon boomed.

“Wait a minute,” Trunks panted, rubbing the shape of the cylinder with a gloved fist. His blue eyes narrowed in sudden anger to see no movement from within.

“Give it a moment,” Dende whispered his own eyes wide with shock to see an old friend with a scarred visage and spiky hair, eyes closed as if in slumber.

“Do you have another wish or what?” Porunga interrupted.

“Just a minute,” Trunks panted. “I have to know.”

“Gohan,” Whispered Dende., as Trunks urgently fumbled with the latches on the side of the container. Dende’s fingers automatically worked at the other, and he yelped as if in paint at the prickling cold sensation biting his green skin.

“It’s a cooler capsule,” Trunks gritted, and then slammed his fist into the side of the thing. Again, Porunga shouted, and Muuri called to them.

“Dammit,” Trunks mumbled, and ripped at the side of the container. Like paper, it ripped under his fingers, and he dug them in, tugging up the top half. Dende leapt back with a yelp as the lid shot off and over Trunks’ shoulder. Now he could more clearly see the occupant lying with his hands folded over his breast, and his dark lashed eyes squeezed shut. Familiar battered garments covered his muscular body, only a slight twitch indicating any life. Yet Dende could feel the flicking of ki like a candle flame.

“Gohan! Please… wake up,” Trunks urged, sliding his hand under the neck of the man who looked frighteningly similar to Goku, Dende reflected. Even the close cropped hair flared into an a array of curved spikes at the front, somewhat like Son Goku’s, and judging by the way Trunks leaned over him with his arms wrapped around the man’s torso, the nature of their concern was intriguing to the young Namekains.

Swirls of moisture distorted Trunks view as he moved his head to within inches of Gohan’s lifeless lips. A faint puff of something hit his cheeks and he felt his heart stopping as he saw the blue and red clad chest rise and fall. Numb lips formed the words, “Gohan…” as he gently shook the other half saiyan’s body.

“How much longer must I wait?” shouted the Dragon. “Do you have a third wish or not?”

However, Trunks barely heard the words of the booming Dragon for they were blurred by the faint groans emanating from the lips of someone thought dead. Against his arm, he felt the warmth returning to Gohan’s lifeless body, and felt the twitching of neck muscles as the head flinched to one side and he struggled to cradle it. Voice breaking Trunks cried, “Gohan, please wake up!”

Dark lashed eyes fluttered, the graceful brows arching over them knitting into a frown. His other hand grasping the front of Gohan’s half-torn gi Trunks choked back another sob. The burst of ki flooding his senses told him everything he needed to know. Especially when two dark eyes popped open wide in shock and Gohan’s entire body flinched. Trunks toppled backwards, as Gohan flung his arm wildly against him.

“Wha….” Gohan gurgled, blinking in the strange shapes that swirled around his scarred face. Inside his chest, his heart pounded, and he saw the strange figures bent over him, and the strokes of lightening in a dark sky.

“Where… what the hell… is going on?” Gohan shouted, head snapping back and forth. He swung his legs around out of whatever surface he lay in, and a second look to the side told him it was some sort of bed with raised sides.

“Gohan!” cried Dende, grasping at the strange figure Gohan saw climbing to his feet.

“Gohan, thank Kami,” cried a voice that he last recalled trailing off, pleading him to not leave him behind. Just before him bobbed two faces, one of an antennaed Namekian, and the other with long lavender hair. Tendrils of it partly obscured the intense blue eyes staring straight into his soul. Mind reeling Gohan quickly scanned the area and then arched his head backwards to take in the soaring figure of a great Dragon hovering over them all. Other blurs formed into the shapes of robed Namekians rininging seven glowing spheres, under a stormy sky slashed with strokes of lightening.

White gloved hands seized him as Gohan leapt to his feet and into a slightly defensive posture, spinning around in disbelief to take in his surroundings. The stump of his amputated left arm twitched as well, swinging its blue sleeve that flapped and blew in the wind. Just before him, those familiar blue eyes looked up and their owner spoke his name, “Gohan! It worked! You’re alive again!”

Long lavender hair hung over the eyes, the rest of it gathered at the back of his neck. Gohan stammered in shock, blinking in disbelief at the young man who suddenly wrapped strong muscular arms around his waist. Tightly they latched there as he felt someone squeezing his ribs and burying their face in his chest. All Gohan could stammer was, “Trunks… is that you… what in the hell just happened?”

“Gohan! I never thought I’d see you again!” another familiar voice declared and he swung his face around to see Dende, a bit taller but unmistakable.

“Trunks! Do you want to use that third wish now?” echoed another voice. Gohan’s already whirling brain took in the sight of Muuri with his arms upraised. Instinctively his arm tightened around the waist of whoever was squeezing him in a death hug. One quick glance down confirmed it must be Trunks due to the lavender hair.

“Send us all back to earth now!” Dende shouted to Muuri, as Gohan’s mouth opened in a question.

“Wait a minute, someone explain just what’s going on here!” Gohan demanded. Yet the syllables tumbling from Muuri’s lips indicated a wish was being translated to Namekian.

Lifting his head from Gohan’s chest Trunks said, “There’s no time to explain, Gohan! Not till we get home…”

Author Notes: This story was written for the contest at Boxer and Rice. It was written with ideas given to me by Lord Truhan, to whom I owe many thanks for getting me started on this!

Chapter 5: Out of the Silence

Through the mint green skies a white trailed comet streaked. Ever closer it grew in size, watched carefully by the assembled group of Namekains. Among them members of the warrior cast stood in waiting, their puffy collars around their necks denoting their rank, while their chests were left bare. Elders and healers stood well behind them, their rust colored robes trailing the ground. The wrinkled face of the new eldest Namek shaded his eyes with one hand and motioned for them to all be ready.

Near him, a younger Namekian strode up, excitedly blinking at the shape of the ship. It seemed strangely familiar to him, reading ciphers on the side of the descending sphere that was not a pod, but something that had black and white markings. Smoke and steam misted from its surface as it slowed and belched fire from its lower circle. Then it slowed, blasting aside concentric rings of flattened vegetation before the prong landing gear touched spider thin legs into the Namekian soil. Like a four-legged insect it perched, the rounded bulk obscuring the distant mountains. Tense eyes struggled to read the semi familiar lettering of a world long out of touch.

“It says Capsule… 4,” the younger aid to Muuri pointed excitedly.

“I haven’t heard that word in years. If he hadn’t said the name Gohan I wouldn’t have even permitted him to come this far,” Muuri mumbled. “I hope you’re right about this, Dende.”

“Gohan dead? It’s too horrible to conceive,” whispered Dende with a sad shake of his head. Antenna bobbed tensely when the wheezing groan of the landing ramp broke the silence. All in unison the Namek heads swiveled to track the descent of a strange blue and white armored figure quickly trotting down the ramp. White boots tipped in gold toecaps touched the spongy vegetation, and a pair of sapphire blue eyes regarded the dark ones of Dende.

“His eyes look just like Bulma’s,” Dende whispered, cupping his hand to the side of his mouth.

“Indeed,” Muuri nodded. Leaning on his staff, he drew himself up to his full height, staying behind the blocking bodies of two baggy panted warriors.

Clearing his throat the stranger uttered words in Namekian just as he had over the radio link. Slowly the namekians nodded to one another and waited for Muuri’s acknowledgement. Not much taller then Dende the Chikyuujin gave a low bow and stood still.

“You know our language and speak it well,” Muuri called from behind the wall of his two strongest warriors. “But what further words have you of your good will?”

“Only the greetings of my world, or what remains of it,” Trunks said somberly, lifting his torso out of the bow. “And the misery of losing someone we both care for. Gohan… is dead. All the people you knew who once fought to save Namek are gone. I’m the only warrior left…”

“Dead… Gohan dead? Then it’s true?” Dende breathed deeply, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You have the eyes of your parent Bulma, Trunks Briefs. You may approach, but beware that we don’t let the dragon balls be used for a frivolous purpose. Much has happened in the silence since Piccolo and Kami have lost touch. We presumed that some terrible tragedy had befallen your world. So you must understand why we are on our guard…” Muuri explained, still partly obscured.

“Please, he must be telling the truth,” Dende whispered back. Before Muuri could catch hold of his sleeve, the young Namekian rushed forwards. Only the sideways step of a Warrior Namekian blocked him.

“Stay there, Dende,” Cargo hissed. “The Elder hasn’t given you leave to pass.”

“Tell us why Earth has gone silent, Trunks Briefs. There is much we don’t know before we can trust your words fully,” said Muuri.

“Please, I’ve travelled so far! I implore you I need the Dragon balls. The longer we wait, the longer Gohan has less of a chance of coming back! I know that if a person is dead more then a year the Dragon Balls won’t work!” Trunks said, his voice rising in pitch. Knees twitched under the spandex, but the sharp looks of the warrior nameks bade him freeze in place.

“What happened to Gohan, Goku and the others who helped save our people, Trunks Briefs?” Muuri demanded dark eyes boring into Trunks.

“Two androids… they’re monsters… they’ve killed almost every human they’ve come across. Gohan was the last to fall… saving my life. All those before him died in the first fight… and only Gohan was able to survive. It all happened only months after I was born. For fifteen years, I have been struggling to survive. For fifteen years, my planet has been under a holocaust of those monsters. There’s no way to stop them…”

“What of Piccolo? Did he perish in the attack? Otherwise why would he be here, Elder Muuri! His story sounds true. Why do we wait?” Dende pleaded. “Please… what happened to Goku? Is he dead as well?”

“He died from a virus before the androids even emerged,” Trunks half growled. “We’re wasting valuable time! You must believe me! For Gohan’s sake… please!”

Tentatively Dende laid his hand on the arm of Cargo. “Please let me go to him… he sounds like he’s in terrible pain. Gohan must mean as much to him as he did to…”

“Your words are urgent, but we must have time to decide the truth of them,” Muuri shook his head.

“Muuri please, he sounds sincere. Can’t you see or feel the pain from him? Most of us are healers and can tell when our services are needed… and that includes psychic as well as physical trauma,” Dende explained, turning his head slightly to face his elder.

“I’ll do whatever you ask,” Trunks whispered, hanging his head. “Gohan means everything to me. Whatever it takes. I know there’s probably some sort of trial I have to face. However, I will face it gladly. Just give me a chance!”

Muuri tentatively nodded to Cargo and Nauta, who both stepped sideways. Still they kept a close watch as Dende marched up to the quaking figure in gleaming white armor and spandex. Reaching out his hand, he touched Trunks shoulder. A second later, he recoiled as if burned.

“His pain is very deep,” Dende whispered. “It’s so fresh and so horrible, Elder.”

“I see,” Muuri murmured, and then exchanged glances with the other Nameks assembled. They strode forwards, still flanked by their guards to stand within only a half meter of Trunks. Soothing violet energies pulsed from Dende’s fingertips, barely touching Trunks through the pores of his suit. Although it did little to ease the aching hole in his soul, it did bring some calmness to prevent his anger from exploding in frustration.

“Your energy is very strong,” Dende nodded.

“Far more powerful then anything we’ve sensed, except for Goku when he fought Freeza on our old world. These Androids must be truly terrifying if you don’t have the power to stop them, Trunks Briefs,” Muuri sighed, his palm flattened and facing Trunks.

“It like I said. Most of the world is dying. My mom was building a time machine to try to send me back to stop this from happening, but I decided to take a chance and come to Namek. It’s too late to revive the other warriors, but I had hoped I could bring Gohan back… to give us a fighting chance,” whispered Trunks.

“I see,” Muuri nodded. “You sound sincere. Very well, we will honor your request for the sake of those who saved us. Nevertheless, it is our fear that you may return to a world desolated and dead. Your world’s guardian must also have died long ago to let such things get out of balance. One warrior alone can’t bring your planet out of the brink of extinction.”

“Gohan and I can handle the androids together. That’s why I need the Dragon Balls now,” Trunks said. “What do I have to do to prove myself? Some sort of trial? Would I be allowed to use my Dragon radar to find them?”

He pulled the flat object out from under his armor, to the surprise of the Namekains. Various spheres pinged lightly and urgently on its round gridded screen. Trunks held it on the palm of one gloved hand towards Muuri and Dende.

“Not so fast,” Muuri’s antenna twitched.

“What?” Trunks asked, biting his lip in frustration.

“Your world lacks a guardian. A difficult decision must be made,” The elder continued, leaning on his tall staff.

“He means that if Piccolo is gone, then Kami is. One of us should go back with you to Chikyuu and become its guardian,” Dende said.

“I can’t ask you to risk anything else,” Trunks shook his head. “I only came to use the dragon balls to bring Gohan back.”

In response to this, Muri’s frown melted into a smile. “I see you are indeed worthy. You think even now of the welfare of those you seek help from. “

“Thank you,” Trunks nodded, only a slight smile twitching the corner of his lip.

“Dende, Cargo, go with Trunks Briefs and collect the Dragon Balls. We will let him make his wish. However, your world lacks a guardian. And a difficult decision must be made,” Muuri reflected.

***

Tension released itself like a snapping rubber band, unknotting Trunks gut so he could breathe again. Months of stagnation despite training left him restless and anxious for moving further then the limited radius of the ship. He felt giddy and lightheaded as he rose gracefully into the air after Cargo and the young Dende. Fate smiled upon him to encounter the very childhood friend of Gohan. Another link to the past brought the reality of reunion ever closer. Even if Gohan DID come back, would he be enough to help Trunks rid their world of the Android menace.

Muuri had sewed doubtful seeds with his speech hours ago. Even as Trunks led the way with the pings of his Dragon Radar, he wondered what good only two warriors who could never tire. Flesh and blood had its limitations, even when it comprised that of Half Saiyan. Two members of the same ‘tribe’ could do anything, but was that just the arrogance of youth talking?

What amazed him at first was the sheer size of the spheres as they retrieved each other. There were only so many each could carry at one time, looping their arms around the volleyball sized objects that drove the breath from Trunks mouth. When they found the very first, the five-star-ball, he could hardly work up the nerve to place his white gloved hand on it. Such trepidation rapidly vanished in the urgency of their mission. He saw two hours later why Muuri had sent two others with him, not only to help face whatever small travails or creatures, but also to help him carry the orbs from place to place. Still they were surprised when he pulled out a small storage capsule and used it to contain their balls already collected.

He could not help think how fiendishly easy this all seemed after years of hiding from imminent danger. Was the quest a dream from which he would awake, trembling in the prison of sweat soaked sheets next to Gohan’s warm body? Or worse yet would he thrust aside the blankets tangling his legs only to pat an empty space next to him that he grew used to being occupied by his lover? Ever since they had started training on that island and shared a first kiss, the two were rarely apart from each other. Like a lifeline, he had cleaved to Gohan, and in turn learned how he had saved the elder Saiyan’s life.

Two of a kind that understood each other, Trunks reasoned, wading hip deep into a shallow lake to collect the sixth dragon ball. Easily he bent at the waist and grabbed hold of the slick surface. Only to feel a pinch on one finger. Cursing he shook aside the small-clawed creature resembling a crab on earth. It plopped beneath the undulating green surface, further startling Trunks from his reverie. Once he pulled the dripping wet ball with waterweeds clinging to it, he levitated easily out of the water towards his two companions. Dende’s face shone with a smile as broad as his own did, Trunks reasoned.

“That makes six. One more and we’re almost done,” Trunks gave the thumbs up, tucking the four-star-ball under one arm. He stopped to glance down at it and remember what Gohan had said about the earth-sized version that had set fate in motion a lifetime ago. Cargo grunted and Dende himself held the dragon Radar so Trunks could click the button on his Dragon Ball capsule and add the newest sphere to their growing collection.

A half hour’s flight later brought them back to the tall tower where Muuri lived. Trunks shook his head with the irony as he strode inside, dragon radar in hand and saw what sat at the Namek’s feet. The One star ball gleamed in the light of the namekian sun that never set. Just like their original home world, there was no night on New Namek. Only an eternal soupy green intensity that reminded Trunks of pea soup. Not the fog, but the pasty porridge his mom sometimes cooked from their stock of rations. Gohan had once claimed it could double as wallpaper paste, and Trunks promptly had tried out the theory to Bulma’s consternation. It took the better part of a morning and hard work for Trunks to wipe the green stains off the kitchen wall.

“Why am I not surprised,” Trunks mumbled, rolling his eyes at Dende, who stood to his left. The namekian companion only gave him an enigmatic smile.

“I guess you figured it out,” Dende replied.

“And this whole thing was a part of the test. You knew where they were all the time, but I guessed I’d be the one to go get them,” Trunks sighed, clicking the dragon radar off. Muuri stood up from his chair and one of his attendants picked the ball up from the floor holding it in his clawed, t here fingered hands.

“Now you may make your wish. However, reconsider if it is the action that you truly wish to take. Only one person can be brought back to life. In addition, there are three wishes. Even if you do bring back the dead, their souls will return to the place where they died.”

“You mean that he won’t come back here?” asked Trunks, fingering the capsule.

“No. His soul will return to the last place he passed away,” said Muuri as Trunks gritted his teeth.

“Damn, all this way for nothing,” Trunks muttered. Then a second later, his head snapped up. “Would I be able to use a wish to return home to Earth?”

“If that is your desire,” Muuri said. “And there is one more.”

Author Notes: This story was written for the contest at Boxer and Rice. It was written with ideas given to me by Lord Truhan, to whom I owe many thanks for getting me started on this!

Chapter 4: Arrival

Far across a galaxy, the curved sphere hurtled, towards its destination. Slowly New Namek’s star pinged onto Trunks navicomputer, and he could peer at it hopefully through the round portholes on the craft’s side. Every few minutes he felt compelled to rush and see, or at least confirm that it was still there. Hours later, the star blew up to the size of a ten-zenni piece, then to a quarter-zenni coin. Its yellowish light soon transfigured when a reddish small companion star slid out from behind and joined its twin in Trunks vision.

“Two suns. I’m not surprised they picked this system… or the Dragon did,” Trunks muttered to himself, grunting as he caught sight of the new development in his latest sit-up. Shoulder length now, tendrils of hair obscured his vision and he swept them aside to tuck behind his ears with one hand. Something about the G sequence star joined by its small companion struck another chord in him. Both were necessary for light, but one would outlive the other. Fortunately, if one did expire, the other could absorb its stellar mass and continue to cast its light on the planets.

Narrowing angular sapphire eyes, he focused his thoughts on the system. On the deck below the computer pinged with digital displays indicating four planets in the system. Third out from the center was New Namek, and he felt the shifting of the craft indicating the computer was taking the coordinates and dropping the ship out of its main drive. Humming engines decreased their steady vibration of the deck, and Trunks pulled himself to stand. He easily walked in fifty earth G’s towards the flight deck. While he could have cranked the intensity to a full 100, he figured if his wish were granted, then there would be time on the journey home for such matters.

Rather then sit in the pilot’s chair, Trunks carefully remained standing and lightly brushed a button with one finger. Too great a pressure would crush the console under the weight of one hand. Hunched over the console slightly, his how broader shoulders struggled to not brace his other hand on the console. Rather he placed it on the wall next to it, feeling the wall give slightly with the force of his weight. Carefully he backed up, alerted to the fragile nature of his gravity-impressed world. He had tried such a trick before, and reached out his fingers inches from the buttons instead. Invisible sweeps of ki brushed out, nudging the right buttons enough so they were in no danger of destruction at the hands of their pilot.

Eyes tracked back and forth along the columns of ciphers bearing all the technical details. Not only had he improved his body, but also Trunks had continued to soak in vast amounts of knowledge through the computer databanks. Bulma’s insistence on continuing his education reminded him remotely of how Gohan’s mother had leaned heavily on Gohan for the same. Knowledge was power, especially when setting foot on an alien world.

Again, he nudged the comlink switch with his ki alone, opening his lips to utter words to anyone who would hear, “Calling Planet Namek… to anyone who will hear me… I need your permission to land… please acknowledge…”

Only static answered him. Trunks frowned, knitting lavender brows in confusion as to why he should even bother. Yet they might see him as an enemy, for contact had been lost for more then fifteen years. His fifteenth birthday had passed alone in space, and Bulma’s taped transmission had been quite a nice surprise. Especially with the presence of a mysterious wrapped present that he came across in the cargo hold.

His white gloved hand extended as Trunks again opened the link. Along his blue-sleeved arm, he noticed how well the one-sized fits all armor worked. Gohan had carefully preserved the armor given to him by Vegeta on Namek years ago. From it, his mother had gained the precious formula for making a suit his father wore, but had not taken the time to make many more. Sliding his hand up the garment, he checked the segmented straps that held the breastplate in place. It was far less cumbersome then those that Gohan and Krillin had worn.

It only seemed fitting that he should now wear it. While his mother had fashioned armor for Vegeta, the scarcity of materials on the android torn world had made it nearly impossible to waste supplies making many others. All raw plastics and polymers had to go towards fixing buildings and proofing shelters. The only intact suit that was ready in time was this one. Static met his ears, and Trunks gritted his teeth to try again.

“Planet Namek, this is Trunks Briefs… please respond! I’m a friend! “

His heart pounded when words formed out of the white noise, “Unidentified spacecraft, we’ve tracked you for the better part of a day. What is your business on Namek?”

“Thank the gods,” Trunks breathed. “Please, I’m from Chikyuu! I request permission to land. My mission is urgent!”

“That is highly impossible. We lost touch with Chikyuu long ago…”

“There was a disaster on my world,” Trunks tensely explained. “Please, I’m Trunks Briefs, son of Bulma Briefs from Capsule Corporation! I do need to use the dragon balls but I’ve got a good reason for them…”

“Many seek to use the dragon balls, but few are worthy. What proof do you have of your origin?” asked the unnamed voice on the other end.

“Please… I must speak to Muuri,” Trunks continued. “My name is Trunks Briefs! My mother Bulma sent me! I need help… for Gohan… and my world! Please don’t close the link…”

Silence met his next pleas. Bulma had not wanted to risk sending a message from earth, lest the Androids hear them. Heart pounding he wondered why the stranger on the end of the link had let it go dead. Perhaps he should just land anyway and take what he wanted. However, his gut feeling told him otherwise. Be patient.

“Did you say Gohan?” asked the voice hesitatingly.

“Please, I’m one of Gohan’s closest friends! He has been killed on Earth… my whole world is on the verge of destruction! I need your help desperately! Please don’t turn me away! I need to speak to Muuri or Dende!” Trunks implored, his eyes gleaming brightly at the green disk of the planet slowly increasing in size.

“You are permitted to land. But be warned, if you are to deceive us, the price could be high,” answered the Namekian. “I’m sending coordinates now.”

“Thank you,” Trunks whispered, wiping sweat from his face. As the unfamiliar namekian spoke the landing, coordinates Trunks entered them into the navigational unit. Within minutes, the retrorockets fired, shifting the ship so it veered towards a stable approach vector.

]]> http://gohanxtrunks.net/2011/03/31/dbz-yaoi-fanfic-gohanxtrunks-dragon-ball-z-kai-gay-second-chances-for-love-04/feed/ 0 http://gohanxtrunks.net/2011/03/31/dbz-yaoi-fanfic-gohanxtrunks-dragon-ball-z-kai-gay-second-chances-for-love-03/ http://gohanxtrunks.net/2011/03/31/dbz-yaoi-fanfic-gohanxtrunks-dragon-ball-z-kai-gay-second-chances-for-love-03/#comments Thu, 31 Mar 2011 07:05:23 +0000 starbearertm http://gohanxtrunks.net/?p=3752 Summary: What if instead of going to the past with the Time Machine, Future Trunks instead used a spaceship to go to New Namek? What dangers does he encounter along the way, and can he make it in time?

Author Notes: This story was written for the contest at Boxer and Rice. It was written with ideas given to me by Lord Truhan, to whom I owe many thanks for getting me started on this!

Chapter 3: Potential in Death

He could hear an incessant electronic beep grating at his ears. Creamy arms wrapped around his torso Trunks snapped his eyes open. In the glass of the mirror before him, he saw not only himself, but also see Gohan’s arm clutched overtop and feel the press of his chin into his shoulder. Yet that noise intruding on his recollecting caused Trunks to grit his teeth in impatience. It grew far louder, tugging him reluctantly from the comfort of his memories to rude reality.

He recognized the cadence of the beep accompanied by the flashing red of the cabin lights. Cursing under his breath Trunks spun from his reflection and dashed across the flight deck to the ladder leading down to the controls. He slid down the spiral banister, his feet contacting the metal almost denting it in his impatience. With each step, the capsule dangling on a chain around his neck thumped and Trunks barely reached the panels glistening with hundreds of lights like fireflies. Rather all around him he saw the cluster of searing hot sparks past the viewports. He slid into the chair and glided his fingers across the keys of the coordinate programmer setting it to manual.

“Damn it… out in this sector?” he wondered. A quick burst of the retro engines veered him out of the path of what seemed to be a rogue trail of debris. Adrenaline pounded in his system and he saw more pieces of flotsam and rock gliding past the ship. Just what had happened to cause this debris field to spontaneously pop out of nowhere. Not to mention, why?

Then as suddenly as the field of gleaming particles had appeared, open space pushed them aside to reveal glowing bands of shimmering space dust. Keys clicked and soon yielded the answer on the navigational screen. He followed the trail of text that spelled out, “Theliera sector.” A quick comparison to his mother’s old star charts punched in long ago confirmed something must have diverted him through a system when he should be careening through open space. Even though New Namek was light years away, it was closer to Namek’s original position then it was to Earth.

Yet it looked like a nebula. What was a nebula doing in the place of what would be a planetary system?

“How did I get HERE? I was supposed to bypass this system altogether!” he mumbled, and then checked the star maps. A quick tug on the astral scope to his eye and he blinked at the gleaming misty ring shimmering like a rainbow. Where there should be a G sequence star much like earth he instead saw a tiny white dwarf. More frantic glances through the scope clued him in on the structure of the rainbow nebula and the size of the gravity well.

“The star’s dead,” he whispered. Theleria Minor had cast off its outer layers and shed them after expanding to a red giant years ago. Now all he saw was the expanding layer of nebula drifting into space like a soap bubble blown out from a central location. Other calculations and observations told Trunks that only two of the planets out of five charted here remained.

On their way to Namek, his mother, Krillin and Gohan had added many star systems to the database of the Capsule computers. Even before they left Namek after being wished off by the Dragon Balls, Bulma had transmitted all her data by subspace frequency to Earth, so Goku’s capsule ship could reach Namek safely to help them. In addition, his mother had downloaded all logs of his father’s flight to find Goku into the banks as well, providing a thorough accounting of a vast array of planetary systems in the galaxy. When the Namekians had returned to their home world, telepathically Muuri had transmitted the location to Piccolo and Dende, so the coordinates were well known. Through the combination of weeks of number crunching, Capsule’s battered computers and Trunks own calculations had charted the best and shortest route.

All the data though was twenty or more years old, and things can happen even in the lives of stars. Through the whole expanse of time on earth that the Androids had existed, a star once like any other had died and retired from a red giant to a white dwarf and a beautiful ring nebula. Even in death, it shimmered and cast its silent radiance on whatever planets still existed.

“What else has changed in twenty years out h ere,” he wondered, fixing the gravity well calculations and steering the ship clear of the deviation. Although it had projected a much deeper dent in space-time, instead the ship encountered shallower one left by a system of a white dwarf, nebula, and two lifeless icy planets, as well as a ring of asteroids with which he had narrowly avoided collision.

Even in its death, the star would provide the basic building blocks for life, Trunks reflected, pressing his palm to the computer screen. Just what prompted him to think that he didn’t question, rather he took the small revelation and added it to the store of others he accumulated on the long voyage. Gohan had seen new star systems at a much different stage in its life. Not this one. However, someone else had. Trunks own father Vegeta, a person he knew precious little about and had asked Bulma many times for information. She had little to say, either out of the desire to protect him for disappointment or for her own personal reasons. Gohan was the source he most trusted for data, because they had fought together on Namek.

Now his eyes beheld all the sorts of wonders that his lover had years ago. To peer at a phenomenon like Gohan had for the first time in trepidation brought the reality that much closer. Still keeping his hand on the screen beside the image of the rainbow soap bubble ringing the white dwarf, he reached his other up to clench around the capsule dangling around his neck. Fingering it he hoped to reclaim the safety of his recollections and recapture that elusive moment where he swore he could see Gohan standing behind him in that mirror.

A moment’s concentration of looking at the Ring Nebula around its parent star opened the doors to his memories again. Freed from the urgency of the situation now corrected he slumped back into the chair again, running his other hand over the column of his abs to rest just above his waistband, before he diverted it to slide along his left leg. For a moment, he closed his eyes, remembering the rough yet wonderful pressure of Gohan’s fingers along his back loosening every tight knot that night. Calling to recollection the fresh scent of fabric softener on his own clothes and sheets that were peeled back and tangled around bronze legs. Better yet the salty tang of essence clinging to his tongue as he…

Blood flooded his cheeks and he let out a small chuckle. Each first that they had passed was a milestone that he wanted to last the rest of his life. Storing up a treasure trove of memories to last the rest of a lonely and long life of serving the needs of others was the goal of those days of youth. Gohan forged enough images of the feel of touch and proximity that was the ultimate expression of love to carry him through what he would face. Yet it wasn’t enough. Was it worth risking his own safety and the fate of his world on an elusive whim?

“You are worth it Gohan. You’ve given so much to the world, it’s our turn now. My turn now. You gave me that last sensu bean and the chance to live. It’s only fair that I return the compliment. Only fair that I bring you home…”

Wasn’t he only doing what Gohan had done before? Gathering the dragon balls on Namek to call up a hero that earth sorely needed. Why with all he had learned in the year since Gohan’s death alone, Trunks would fight at his side and not be a liability but an asset. The sudden prickling of hairs at the nape of his neck made him shiver, and he opened his eyes to stare at his own reflection in the computer screen. Superimposed over the nebula he could see his own angular features, and discern a familiar pair of eyes not too far from his own.

“Gohan,” he mouthed before the image was gone, and all he saw was himself. Was his mind playing tricks on him in his long isolation? His mother had the company of Krillin and Gohan, while he only had those of his memories. Extending one long slender finger, he punched the button on the entertainment console, bringing to life the stereo system of the ship and breaking the silence. The vibrating bass interweaving with the complex riffs of electronic music and traditional symphony filled the emptiness for a time and he gathered his emotional energy to face his daily routine.

Breakfast was followed by an intense workout. Plunged into red the world would accelerate to another 10 G’s, and push him to the limit. Just as Goku had done years ago, he used this opportunity to increase his own power in the vacuum of space. Two months without training was a long time, and he had gained too much ground to lose it by simply sitting around. That’s why he wrapped his hands behind his head and lay on the flight deck, curling his abdomen up into his thousandth sit up. Why his skin gleamed oily slick and his long tendrils of hair were plastered on his forehead though gathered in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His hair always grew fast, and he hadn’t bothered to cut it since Gohan’s death.