Dreaming of You
by Jari     More by this Writer
Mirai Trunks dreams about Gohan making him breakfast or isn’t he…

Author’s Notes: I already promised that this story won’t be continued under this title. It’s a one-shot! Still… I could be persuaded to write a companion fic… ^_~
***

The past. It just always seems to have this way of catching up with me, when I least expect it.

Even to this day, I have dreams. Gohan is alive and he’s making me breakfast. I know this, because as I sit here in bed, he calls out to me, asking how I’d like my eggs this morning. The sun is shining through the window, brightening my room and I can hear the birds sing.

Only, this isn’t right. Gohan never made me breakfast, at least, not here, not in my house. Still, I shrug it off… He’s here, right? That’s all that matters.

“Don’t get up, Love. I’ll come join you in a moment.”

At the sound of his voice again, my heart quickens. It’s him. It’s really him! Despite his wishes, I want to dart out of bed and go see him. Gohan, I picture him all buff wearing a pink apron–no, not a frilly girly-girl one (though that would be kinky, too) but one of a more masculine cut and blue trim.

At that last thought, my nose bleeds. I grab a Kleenex from the box on my nightstand, marveling at how real this dream is. As I wipe the blood away, I realize I can smell the bacon and eggs and my mouth begins to water.

I want to call out to him but I’m at a loss for words. What should I say? I can’t say, ‘You’re dead, how is this possible’. No, then he might disappear again for good. My voice catches in my throat as I fumble for something else to say, anything, Gohan.

“Trunks?” He hears me! “Stay put, Love. I’m almost done.” This is a dream, isn’t it?

Tears whelm up in my eyes and stream down my cheeks. I don’t understand, and I most certainly can’t stay here in bed much longer. My love, he’s in the next room!

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve as I listen to his gentle footsteps glide down the short hallway towards my room. I still don’t understand. Even in life, Gohan never knew of my love for him. I always kept it a secret, waiting until I was old enough and brave enough to land that first sweet kiss upon his innocent lips.

He fumbles with the door knob, trying to balance, I’m sure, the tray that holds our meal with just one arm, careful not to jostle the java, the juice, or the eggs, toast and bacon. I try to fix my hair with one hand, refastening the elastic that holds it back behind my head, but my fingers are fumbling, too, as my heart skips.

The door opens and I see his face for the first time in years. “Gohan?” He’s different. Not as bulky and his hair isn’t so close-cropped to his head. Also, no scars line his face and within his silken shirtsleeves he has both arms. This is not the Gohan who I grew up with.

He looks at me and grins a wide Son-style grin and instantly. I know him, Gohan. So the boy I met back in the past fulfilled his own version of my young adolescent dream and I make room for him to climb in next to me in my cozy one-sleeper bed.

He kisses me full on the lips without hesitation as he places the bed-and-breakfast tray over my tap. I try not to move too much, not wanting to knock over his labor of love but still. I manage to lose myself in the warm wetness of his mouth, his tongue tangling with mine as he strokes the back of my neck softly with the pads of his fingertips causing cool waves of pleasure to course up my spine. I lean deeper into the kiss as his other hand trails down my stomach slowly, tracing circles around my navel. My breath catches in my chest.

I’m not dreaming.

My body tingles with his touches.

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