Welcome to Boxer & Rice

"Damn…crowded today, ne?" I narrowly avoid a stampeding woman hell bent on the exit with a little fancy footwork. Goten shakes his head as he holds open the door for her royal rhinoceros.

"Don't tell me you're one of those people who gets all their shopping done disgustingly early, leaving the rest of us to fend like rabid dogs behind an Italian restaurant." I chuckle, sliding my hands back into my coat pockets as my companion ushers the third of our unlikely trio past a group of loitering teeny boppers. Tch, losers. Nothing better to do than hang out in a mall two days before Christmas…

"No…But Kagami and I don't buy gifts for each other anymore." I wait for them to catch up, stooping to glance at the mechanized toys in a window display. I straighten as they join me, sidling by an overweight janitor that's cursing his luck for getting stuck with the holiday rush. "After last year we realized that there really wasn't a way to avoid getting each other the same thing." Shrugging, I save our miniature accomplice from being swept away by swiftly snatching him by the collar and depositing him again at his father's side. "So now he buys the wine, I pick up the porn and we fuck like dogs in heat while everyone else's leaving cookies for Santa."

I can't believe I just said that. I almost never admit to our relationship, let alone in the dead center of a multi-media madhouse. At least the Son has the decency to blush, though his laughter brings us both attention and the crash of colliding bodies and gift bags is heard as rubber neckers to either side get a dose of their own. Serves 'em right, dammit. This is why the Briefs don't do Christmas.

"Sounds like a plan, Trunks-kun." Goten flashes me a lopsided grin as he's pulled into the brightly lit maw of an extravagant store, and it's only as I make my way through the maze of overturned plush and motion activated mechs that I realize the appeal.

"Otouchan! I wan this one, Otouchan!" The chibi points with all his will and childlike wonder at the latest and greatest commercialized thing put out by shameless people who believe showing children three and up that exploding small countries is ok as long as it's on television. My rosy-cheeked counterpart smiles indulgently as his arm is all but tugged out of his sleeve, crouching down to his son's level and inspecting the cheap plastic toy Nikko just can't leave without.

Smirking, I watch as the Son determination to come into a mall two days before Christmas to do this one thing is slowly eroded by his red-capped three year old's infatuation with something overpriced and overrated.

"Not this time, Nikko-chan…we've got to meet your Otousan for dinner, and you wanted to see Santa," Goten looks hopefully into water wielding eyes as dark and puppyish as the cute bastards that spawned him. Sighing, I roll my eyes. I don't know what's with me lately. Used to be kids didn't have this effect on me.

I think, like my father before me, I'm turning into a softy.

"Hey, Nikko," the kid perks up as I kneel beside him and his father, reaching up to pluck the last one off the rack. "Howzabout you and your Touchan wait outside while I pick up a last minute present for a certain somebody, ne?" There's a moment of incomprehension, of looking at the bubbled card, and then to me, before his eyes light up and he scrambles out of his parent's arms to kiss me smack on the cheek.

"Hai!" And then he's gone to hide behind the Hello Kitty swivel rack like I can't see the black spikes of his hair through the gypsy red and neon pink of another commercialized pop idol.

"You don't have to, Trunks-kun…" Goten stands and I'm left on the floor staring at the masked action figure through the clear flimsy cover. I think I have an epiphany, kneeling in the blue isle of a Today's Toys and blinking down at something I never thought to purchase.

"You ok…?" I nod hastily, shrugging off my friend's concern as I reach for the gold initialed billfold in my pocket--last year's gift that Tora and I got--and snagging off a few.

"Yeah…I'm fine, Goten." I show a little tooth and he seems to take it with a Son's trust, for which I'm grateful. I'm not ready for this kind of revelation.

"We'll meet you outside then, ne?" He turns as I nod, Nikko dashing out from behind the clumsily stacked pyramid of teddy bears to clasp at Goten's outstretched hand. He looks over his shoulder at me once as they leave and giggles as I stuff the thing inside my jacket and make a nonchalant swipe of hand through hair before winking at him knowingly.

Alright, so I admit it. The kid's cute. Blowing my disheveled hair from my eyes, I drop the toy on the counter and the bills flutter down to blanket it. Funny, I never would have thought the quiet little bundle I pulled from my best friend's belly three years ago this spring would have become such a weakness.

And I won't even go into the 'Ojisan' factor…

I melt. Like chocolate in a chibi's hand. It's disgusting.

But something I think I'm going to have to get used to…

After the predictable awkwardness of 'oh my god, you're Briefs Trunks!' I get my change and grab my item off the counter. I hate this holiday…

"This is the last year I go shopping with you, Goten," I threaten, standing with as much mustered intimidation as I'm able while the older chibi in question maneuvers the younger out of his bright blue snow coat.

"Aw, c'mon, Trunks-kun. I told you I'd buy you dinner after--" his word breaks as he finally manages to pass a fist through the cuff, "--ward."

"If that wasn't a shackle around your ankle, I'd demand more." Nikko claims his generation's right to be cute and peaks around his father's leg in an attempt to find the source of my criticism.

"Well--" Goten fights the good fight and finally vanquishes the coat from the kid, though, like negative polarities, they both go flying in opposing directions. Flat on his ass, he peers up at me through his dark and shaggy mop, and I can't help but snicker. He looks like such a chibi, like when we were kids, and I wait for the wail of 'Trunks-kuuuun'.

"Otousaaaaaan!" I trip off memory lane as Nikko imitates his elder and Go-chan scrambles over the two-foot distance to his miserable miniature.

"Oi, Nik-chan…s'ok, chibi…did you hit your head?" A soggy nod and an indignant sniff betray his two-finger age as my prostrate companion gathers the tyke to his chest.

"Hell, I think you hurt the fountain more than your head, ne, chibi?" Squatting, I scrutinize the hairline crack that jags upward from the floor, pearly beads of moisture beginning to stain the length.

The sniffles dissipate slowly as he twists around in his sire's arms to inspect it with me. Blinking back the black of his bangs, he wriggles free entirely, kneeling with his hands on his knees to give it the serious attention I seem to be.

"See there?" I point, finger finding the paper-thin fracture and following it down until it disappears beneath the fake palms and plastic ferns. "That's where you attacked it, ne? You gave it quite a scar, Nikko! That damn fountain's never gonna mess with the likes of you again!" Giggling like the toddler he is, the chibi nods firmly, headache forgotten completely as he folds his arms across his chest and proclaims a noisy victory to the non-committal granite.

Shaking my head, I brace my weight with one hand on the cool stone and move to stand, slanting my eyes in readiness for the look I'm sure Goten's going to be giving me when I get up.

Unfortunately, the god of gravity laughs in my face and my whole world spins spastically as I gain my footing, threatening to send me and my balance packing. Shit…I feel…

"Trunks-kun?" A hand on my shoulder that I barely register guides me to sit on the edge of the foundation. "You alright? You don't look so hot…"

I can't. Not yet. Gomen, Goten, but this self-deluding bastard's not ready yet.

"That's…" Deep breath coaxes the nausea to subside, but it's an uneasy treaty. "Because you're no longer partial to purple."

It catches him off-guard like it always does when I remind him of our teenage romance, and he blushes darkly as he tugs off the thick knit of his scarf. And it buys me some time.

"Stay close, Nik-chan…" Goten herds absently, the words rehearsed and reused a million and half times since that eventful day when Son Nikko learned to walk. I can hardly imagine how that'll change when he discovers flying…

"The two of you spoil that brat," I interrupt before he has the opportunity to turn the conversation back to my state of health. I'm an MD dammit, I think I can manage my own well-being.

In theory, anyway.

"Nikko's not spoiled," Goten retorts, and as an after thought, "And he's not a brat."

"Uh huh," I comment cockily, unfastening the top buttons of my coat to permit ventilation in this glorified ningen oven. "Though I'm not sure who Gohan-san spoils more," I grin fiendishly, "You or the kid."

"Oh, that's an easy one--"

"Because you suck his--"

"Trunks-kun!" Maybe I deserve the punch my half-eaten comment earns me. And maybe Goten has well earned the attack I'm about to bestow upon his unworthy ass.

Except that stagnation breeds crowds and when we finally look up at least twenty-five people have taken precious time out of their busy schedules to pay homage to my photogenic features. Hastily gathering our outerwear, we snag the tot and scram, my swerving technique doing a hard number on the unsuspecting monsters in this labyrinth of human commercialism.

Fucking so-called holidays…

"Gomen nasai, Trunks-kun…" Goten's trying to keep up, weighted by his distracted anchor and I slow, the strange nervousness in my gut subsiding to something more tolerable.

"Eh, don't worry about it, ne?" I shrug it off, though it's really not ok. The reasons I had agreed to voluntarily put myself through this red candy cane hell are not the ones I had half-heartedly given him. "I told you I had to pick some shit up anyway."

Yeah, like a bottle of Scotch and a dummy's reference guide to breaking bad news to yourself.

"I know, but--Nikko! Iie, Nik-chan, we can't get you a puppy now, chibi, put him down…" I can't help but chuckle as the potential playmate is pulled from determined fingers and returned to the vendor from whence it came. Now that would be a new one. I wonder what he'd do if I came home with a dog…

"Gomen, Trunks-kun," Goten sighs exhaustedly, a physical exaggeration to the charcoal smudging I noticed under his eyes and the worn out expression that's recently replaced his carefree collage. "It's just…"

"Christmas," I remind him, handing him my coat-hidden purchase and bending down to chibi level. "And stressful. And Gohan's new job keeps him late," winking at the miniature mirror of my best friend I jerk my head backward over my shoulder. "Somebody wants a piggy-back, I can smell it…" The demi-brat squeals, and before I can even attempt to brace myself, there's a half-pint on my back and grabbing fists at my collar.

I straighten with a grunt, hefting his weight more comfortably. "And you're trying to finish up your college classes. And your chest's been bothering you because of everything I've just said," I narrow my eyes and snort at his surprise. "Of course, I know, baka…I'm your friggin' doctor…" Lacing my fingers under Nikko's bottom, I head for the throng of people on the other side of the mall. "It's my job to know."

"Like I could hide anything from you, anyway…"

"I dunno, Go-chan," I throw a shitty look as best I can over one shoulder, choosing for the meantime to concentrate on something other than the vice grip around my neck. "I was as shocked as the mainstream when you told us you were boning your brother."

"Trunks-kun!"

"What? He heard worse from Trunks when he was being born, now suddenly you're censoring him?"

"Huh? No, I--"

"I hardly think that's fair, you know, considering his planet destroying heritage and all. He should at least be able to swear."

"Nande? Gohan--"

"Would have a fit, I'm sure. But at least you'd be able to tell off those alien bastards that threaten your family, right, Nikko?" The chibi claims my hearing as he yells his approval to words he's sure not to have understood and Goten slaps one hand to his forehead as he succumbs to my, heh, superior logic.

It's the small victories that make it worth while at the end of the day.

"Then you can explain to him why his son is suddenly using words he only references scientifically in crosswords."

"Bullshit," I state bluntly, two-stepping around a man with wrapped and ribboned boxes piled higher than his head. "Gohan's been known to swear."

"When the world was ending," Goten articulates pointedly, scurrying to catch up and nearly bumping us in the process. "Anything else is just fuzz on the wrong channel."

"Hn. Maybe. But I still think it's wrong of you to--"

"Ahhh!" Nikko exclaims, using my back for the ladder it apparently is and scrambling down at full speed. "Santa-san!!!" He's off like a super hero leaving his father and me in the dust of his wake. Smiling indulgently, Goten bends to retrieve the chibi's scarf, folding it over his arm with the rest of our oversized winter gear. His expression softens and subtly sighs as he glances down to the burden on his arm, smoothing it with tender fingertips. Rolling my eyes, I jerk my chin toward the menagerie of straining human patience. It's enough to make me sick. Honestly.

Or maybe Goten's love-distraught longing can't be blamed for my increasing desire to lose lunch.

"You're missing him, aren't you?" I ask quietly as we walk somewhat more leisurely to the snaking line of yawning mothers with excited toddlers.

"Nani?" The Son pulls dark eyes from his hyper boy to blink questioningly upward.

"That," I gesture loosely, "That's the look of missing Gohan." Turning to take our place in line behind a woman with pigtailed twins, I slip my hands in my pockets. "You get that a lot when he's not around."

The wistful gaze renews with a blush and he hitches his shoulders again. "I guess so…he's just been working a lot lately. It's gonna be nice to sit down and have dinner with him tonight with the two of you, you know?" He pitches me a knowing smirk that suddenly reminds me of Papa, and therefore unbalances me to the point of stumbling as we trudge with the line. "It's like double dating or something…"

Under normal circumstances I would have denied vehemently to every person standing there that I was involved with my fine future half.

But I don't have the energy for that game tonight, and it's my silence that convicts me this time.

"Trunks?" I hear the concern that saturates his voice when he realizes my lack of retort. Sighing defeatedly, I lean gratefully back against the makeshift fence that dictates the form of our line. I don't want the questions tonight, really. I don't even want to be here in this hot, crowded, pulsating crush of hurried shoppers and crying children bitching to Santa about the things their parents won't get them anyway. Shaking the hair from my eyes, I try to concentrate on anything but this unnatural heat that makes me want to strip naked and brazenly sit in the middle of that damn fountain. It's hard…to breathe…

"Trunks-kun, you look like shit," his cooler hand reaches out to steady as my balance proves fallible once more. "Holy shit, Trunks, you're burning up."

Iie. Not in public. I will not have those fucking busy bodies inserting their nose into my personal life.

I push his hand away, though I'm thankful for the temporary relief his moderate fingers bring to my searing forearm.

"I'm fine, Goten." I wave his furrowed brow and questioning stare away in a façade of nonchalance. "I'm just overworked and overtired."

But he hasn't been my best friend since chibihood and not learned a trick or two to tell when I'm lying. I know he's not buying it, and already my quick mind is picking through the myriad of excuses I've been giving people for the last month and a half. I'm just tired, it's something I ate, I sat up too quickly, I sparred with Papa yesterday, I lost a patient and I'm still coping, it's just my mother and the holidays…

I'm thinking the last one's my gateway to freedom and prepping the speech to follow when my companion's interrupted by an underpaid midget in a felt green costume who begins to question in a droning monotone 'I've been on my feet for the last eight hours, and it ain't over yet'. I guess Santa's skimping on the pay this season.

"You want pictures?"

"Hai!" Goten's piping is almost unreal and the guy takes a long look at him before requesting his name and address.

"Booster, Starter, or Deluxe?" Standing on his tiptoes, the preoccupied Son fires off his order, searching futilely for our smaller half.

"Uh…Starter, please…where in Dende's name did he disappear to now?" Stretching upward and rocking sideways on his toes, he looks through the mass of mothers and children in an attempt to find his own Houdini. "Trunks-kun, can you see him?"

Great. I feel like shit and the kid's taken this insanely timed moment to play hamster. Drawing a deep breath that reinvigorates me enough to stand straight, I scan over the shortening line ahead of us, over the primping mothers and pin-stripe fathers with their crying children and tugging toddlers.

"Yeah," I respond, spotting his excited form as it leans forward across the gumdrop barrier that separates the 'magic of Christmas' from the lowly line of mere mortals that wait for The Chance of a Lifetime! to sit with an overweight, underpaid, highly commercialized--

"Hey, aren't you that Briefs guy?"

Don't growl. They'll think you're rabid. Your mother'll kill you when she sees the paper in the morning--Briefs Trunks, a well-known cornerstone of our society, was suddenly struck with a hazardous case of 'Fuck All', attacking a middle-aged Rogaine-reject midget in the middle of West Capital Mall only a few short hours before Christmas Eve. Witnesses say they never saw it coming, only realizing that an incident had occurred when the person directly in front of them turned around to see the floor covered in cheap felt tatters, the remnants of his happy elven bells rolling amongst their feet to jingle no more…

"Hai," I acquiesce curtly, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, annoyed. Flickering eye contact, I hope against all the gods that are obviously against me--'five bucks says he has a nervous breakdown, ten says he blows something up'--and begin memorizing the serpentine twine of braided blonde set in quadruplicate just beyond him. Just go away. I don't need this shit. I don't need you and your questions and your autographs and your--

"I gotta bone to pick with you," he warms up to his topic as several people around us swivel their eyes to sneak a peak at the man that dares approach a Briefs in such a familiar manner.

I hate being a celebrity. Hate it. H-A-T-E it. More than removing the gum Nikko finds a way to catapult into my hair. More than picking olives off my pizza. More than waking up one morning and realizing that none of my clothes fit me anymore…

"I got this here capsule," to my utter and absolute grief he fishes his thick fingers into the depths of his vest and pulls out an old beat to shit model 74 and holds it in front of his face as though a jeweler inspecting a diamond for flaws.

"But it don't work like it's suppos'd ta. Now the guy that sold it to me said that it never worked right, always popping out funny, leaving the tires teeny 'n whatnot, and that the steering wheel had a tendency to lock when he made a left--though never did do it when he made the right. Said he had to go in circles just to get across the block--"

"Trunks-kun…it's ok, Trunks-kun…" Cool. Like water. Like ice. His fingers feel nice…solid. Calming.

"--and there was this one time I went to see my sister and it just pop! went back to being small in the middle of Interstate 29 and I was left sitting in the road on nothing but this here capsule. Almost got hit by some punk on an air bike…"

One. Two. Three. It takes three strands to make a braid. Woven with a mother's patient hand. Have to look perfect. These pictures are going to your grandmother. Your uncles. Aunts. I have to show you off. Dress you the same. Rob you of your sense of identity. Not that it matters; you think alike anyway. Dress alike on your own. Wear the same suit in different colours. Buy the same lunch at different places. Have the same job. Feel the same way about children…

"Um…" Goten tries valiantly to hand over his filled-out form, but the man pays him no mind. He's feeding off the energy of the crowd he's gathered and they're all waiting for me to respond.

I blink. He blinks back, dark, rheumy eyes betraying his age, his alcoholic hobby. He's certain in his conviction until my silence corrodes his determination and he finally wonders if he's overstepped his humble allowance. When I step forward, I see him jerk, as though preparing for the verbal abrasion he's been training the length of his life to overcome.

All his life he's been overlooked, ignored, ridiculed. The only people that hire him forgo any talent he may have acquired. He's here because of his height, something he didn't even plan, let alone attend 4 years at a college he's still paying off to perfect something that will never be called upon.

My eyes narrow. His confidence falters further.

He expects me to berate him, is goading me into it. The slant of his hip, the puff of his chest, the beady desire to raise himself higher than the rest of us. To finally stand on the legs he should have been born with instead of exiled to a life of dick sucking dead end jobs and shoe-polishing shortcomings.

"Trunks-kun…?" My uneasy companion, much like the rest of the line, is waiting for me to speak. Finding solace in the analytical pretext of my work, I relax my features and watch him do the same.

"The item you're holding in your hand is called a model 74, one of the first cars manufactured by Capsule Corporation before air vehicles where even conceived. May I?" I hold out my hand for the item, which he drops, somewhat hesitantly, though still standing on the platform he has erected for himself.

Pretending to scrutinize it, I nod officially, pulling melodramatic Freudian oh's and ahh's out of my ass until he demands to know what the fuss is all about, reaching on tiptoe to see into my cupped palm as though I've just performed alchemy and changed his battered junk heap into a lump of solid gold.

"You see this?" I point to a tiny circle with an uppercase T in the center. "That's my grandfather's coding for prototype." His eyes widen in shock and it's suddenly forgotten that we're huddled in the midst of a growing mass of hot bodies and whispers.

"You mean--"

"Hai." I hand the item back to its dumbfounded owner. "It keeps fucking up--" there are several feminine gasps of displeasure at my blatant speech, "--because it was never meant for daily use. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the man that sold it to you was my grandfather. Hell, even we have yard sales." This earns me a few laughs. It always does. He's not the first poor bastard to--

Shit.

I need…to sit down…

"Trunks-kun?" Warm. Like sunshine. Like the spot Kagami leaves in the bed beside me when he gets up to go to the bathroom at 3am…

Goten weeds me through the throng and helps me into an uncomfortable metal bench on the outskirts. I try to take deep breaths. I'm a doctor, dammit, I know what I'm supposed to be doing--

I sound pathetic. I'm wheezing for air. It's too hot. Stifling. Torrid. Incinerating.

"H-hai, Nik-chan! Go ahead! 'Touchan's right here, chibi! Go tell Santa-san everything you want for Christmas. The nice men in green're gonna take your pictures so we can give 'em to your Otousan."

I have to smile, though I may never again touch seafood having been made privy to the boiling process from a very intimate perspective.

"Trunks-kun…" timidly, soulful eyes in my peripheral. "…are you having a hot flash?" My heart jumps a beat and I blink sideways, evaluating my counterpart from between the strands of my paler hair. How did he…?

Baka. Bakayaro. How do you think?

"I always underestimate you," I sigh, running my sweaty hands down the khaki fabric of my pants.

"Then you're--"

"Iie." It feels like an acme anvil has mistaken my head for a cartoon character, but I manage to gain my footing. "I can't." I bend to gather the coat that had fallen in my momentary distraction.

"Trunks." He grabs my forearm, looks at me with those big black eyes I've always known I could trust. But it's not you, Goten, don't you understand? I just…can't admit it to myself…

"I…can't…" I jerk my arm free, a hint of desperation sighing a solo note in my denial. "I don't know what you're talking about--it's not what you think, not what you think at all, really." I step backward. "I'm just overworked. Overtired. Stressed, you know how it is, ne?" I smile weakly. Unconvincingly. Such so that Goten shakes his head decidedly, an almost offended look wrinkling his brow.

"Bullshit, Trunks-kun. That's bullshit." We're suddenly eye to eye. I'm not that much taller than he is. Just pretend. It's all pretend. Playing house. With plastic forks and easy bake ovens. With bears and…dolls…not…

"You can only say you're alright for so long, Trunks-kun. You're nauseous, getting dizzy, having hot flashes--"

I turn my head to the side indignantly. "I never said I was nauseous."

"Oh, come on, Trunks. When you turn the colour of my mother's mashed peas I know something's not right." Damn. Voluntary mentioning of his mother. Must be desperate.

"That's not true," I mutter, planting my arms Papa-like across my chest. I don't want to hear it. I know I'm being stubborn, but that's so much better than being honest with myself.

"And you've been less…" he pauses, thinks, and sighs. "Playful, I guess." His eyes meet mine pleadingly before crinkling with a soothing Son smile. "You just haven't been you. That's why I brought you out here tonight. If I'd have any idea it was because you were--"

"I'm not! I'm nothing! Not a damn thing, Goten. There's nothing wrong with me, alright?" We're starting to draw attention, but I don't give a shit. How dare he presume--

"And you've been losing your temper," he states firmly, as though I've just proven his hypothesis correct.

"I want to help you, Trunks-kun." Cool again, like glass. His voice softens. "Like you helped me." The hand drops, as do the eyes that command it. "If it hadn't been for you and Trunks-san Gohan…" his voice catches, and it withers my resolve, massacres my anger into little shards of ice that melt in his sincerity. "…I wouldn't have been able to watch Nikko grow up, or Gohan get the job he wanted…or gotten on some kind of ground with Otousan…

"You, Trunks-kun. You gave me that." He sniffles. I echo. I curse the hormones currently being mass-produced in my system, the future of sad moments and girlie films that are sure to follow. How could he possibly want me like that…?

"But…I wouldn't want me…want me…" I gesture failingly, collapsing back onto the iron seat. "…you know…"

"You're not the same person, Trunks-kun." He sits beside me. My bark of ironic laughter causes him to roll his eyes. "You can give me all the scientific BS you want," ah, back to the politically correct Gohan-friendly cursing of the ever-so-effective acronym, "But I see differences--in the way you work, the way you talk and walk, the way you interact with your patients." His tone increases in excitement and for a moment, just one, I almost believe him.

"You don't even look the same, Trunks." Ok, now that's pushing it…

"Goten--"

"No, really! Listen to me!" He's sitting on the edge of his seat now, like when we were younger playing video games he never won. I wonder if he considers me, or my insecurity, the bad guy he needs to be shooting. "Your hair is darker, your eyes lighter…you're shorter…"

"I'm shorter," I echo incredulously not because it's something I didn't know, but because my emotions are whispering demonic suggestions to my subconscious. I feel like I'm about to cry, for Dende's sake. "You think I'm too short?"

But apparently this was the sign in the clouds he was looking for. Reclining heavily, we stare at each other solidly for at least thirty seconds before breaking into laughter.

"I just said that…fuck me…"

"Yup. There's no denying it now, Trunks-kun. You've just booked yourself a one-way pass on the emotional roll coaster from hell." I snort and he looks a little more relaxed. A little less ready to put on his shiny red pajamas and save my ass like a super hero.

"Remember how bad I got? I got so insecure about whether or not Oniichan still found me attractive that Trunks-san finally told me he'd of screwed me if he could have fit it into his schedule." Deep scarlet draws a line across his nose and he picks at the fraying end of the chibi's discarded scarf. He suddenly looks up, absolutely mortified.

"We never did! I swear! He was just trying--"

I can't help it. I start laughing. The kind of laugh that leaves you aching and breathless. The expression on his face--

We startle a few straggling shoppers who collide like a runaway train when they rotate their heads to get a glance. What, I can't have fun? Serves 'em right!

I take a deep breath, brushing back the flyaways. It felt good to laugh, good to get it out. Of sorts. And Goten's right. We are different. Maybe he'll be alright with it. Maybe he'll even want it.

Maybe I'm just the world's best bullshitter.

"You haven't told him, huh?"

"…no." It's my turn to find preoccupation in my lap, adjusting the watch around my wrist distractedly. Goten sighs quietly, tucking his feet in the dark shadows underneath the bench.

"You afraid?" I don't even have the casual fire to take offense. Papa would be so disappointed.

"…hai." There's a bobbing of black and he bites his lip, no doubt worried for me.

Then quiet between us, the bustling sound of shoppers around us, the crinkling of their bags and a cheerful, anxious tension that I haven't been able to indulge this season. Every time I even consider telling him I feel like shaking hands with the floor.

"I don't think it'll be as bad as you think, Trunks-kun. He loves you, ne?" This time it's a colouring in my cheeks and I glance over to the omnipresent line of Santa seekers.

"Goten…"

"Hai, Trunks-kun," he chuckles jovially, punching my arm lightly for good measure. "I just said the 'L' word. Love. As in he does, Trunks. In the only way you can, prince-chan." Laughter. "With pizza and beer and porn." Feels good to laugh. "And messy firsts and sloppy seconds and hurried sex in your best friend's bathroom during a dinner party…" He arches his brow as though to say 'thought I didn't know that, ne?' and I cough politely, suppressing a shitty smile.

"Well it should teach you to keep your sex toys in the medicine cabinet."

"But it's the only place Nikko won't get in to!" He slaps his forehead and looks over to the object of his concern.

Nikko's made himself rather comfortable sitting cross-legged on the floor next to a certain elf who's telling anyone who'll listen about his infamously rare model 74. The enrapture on his face makes me smile, the honest and uncritical Son ebony smiling widely every time he re-enacts the moment that changed his life.

And then, as though the barrier keeping my lips from tasting a word that I was sure to find disgusting breaks, I find myself swallowing the idea with less reluctance than before.

"But how do I tell him I'm pregnant?"

Goten opens his mouth to speak, but never quite makes it past the 'uh' as Nikko suddenly stands upright from his post, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, and darts in our direction.

"Nani, Nik-chan?" He calls, holding out both arms to catch his wayward missile. "Is something the mat--"

"OTOUSAN!!!" The kid's sneakers squeak painfully as he streaks past us, a ribbon of burgundy and black. There's a grunt, a muted chuckle, and the sound of boxes and bags falling haphazardly as Gohan is surely bombarded by his terrible two-year-old.

But I don't turn around to partake of this country-cottage family get-together because my heart's doing jumping jacks and Goten's gone about as pale as a sheet. His mouth closes as he swallows, dark eyes with that unmistakable look of 'shit, Trunks-kun, you better make a run for it' flitting in my direction.

"I don't think you're gonna have to worry about that, Trunks-kun…"

Oh. Fuck. He's right behind me, isn't he?

I don't need to say it. Goten nods gravely and I feel like someone's just died. But it's not someone, it's something, and that something's called my confidence.

I'm shaking as I stand, burying my hands in the thick cloth of my overcoat. I don't know what I'm feeling, but it's not good. It's making me feel like a jarred bug held in the hand of a twisted toddler, shaken, not stirred, please.

"'Tousan, whass pregnet?"

"Nani?"

"Thas what jichan said he was."

"Nik-chan, I don't think now's…"

"'Tousan, am I pregnet?"

"Iie, chibi! Now shhhh, I think we should just be quiet for a bit…"

"But why?"

"My god." Spoken so soft, in that tone that kills me. Lays me out on an altar, exposes me, explores me. That voice so imprinted, so defined, so set in my memory as to demand recognition. I can feel his heat. I can taste his scent. It's magnetic; my core responds to his presence before my conscious mind has a single contrary thought.

We shouldn't be together--the same matter cannot exist in the same place at the same time. Physics says so. Society says so. High school textbooks say so. Important men in suits and ties say so.

I don't care. These men have never been confronted with their mirror image. These intellects have never spent speechless nights in their own arms, thankful that words aren't necessary, that pretenses aren't needed, that all that is, is. That all that isn't, isn't.

To be.

Basic.

Base.

'I' becomes unwarranted. Needless. Excessive. There is only Briefs Trunks, doctor. Briefs Trunks, physician.

Realization as cold as the blue in his eyes, my eyes, our eyes. That's what I'm afraid of.

I'm pregnant. Not him, not us, not we. Me. It makes me different.

I don't want to be exceptional, outstanding, or individual.

"I-I'm sor--" I start to apologize. For fucking it up, for defining myself.

I don't want am.

I want are.

"Good…gods…is it mine?" I blink, uncomprehending, feeling the fool, mimicking the jester.

"Huh?"

"I mean…" he walks toward me, though I don't see the motion, I see his eyes, my eyes, our eyes. I look for hatred, disgust, betrayal--we had a great thing and you fucked it up!--but…

I can't cry, so I fall on my father's weapon of choice. Sarcasm.

"No, I've secretly been fucking Gohan in my free time." There's a laugh, a gasp, and a cascading crash as my verbal victim reacts, but I don't dare break contact.

"You're…"

"What, suddenly you're not capable of finishing a sentence?" I bite back, hurt, scared, already rejected and awaiting my judgment. My arms find their way across my chest and I glare tauntingly.

"Sugei…" He pauses, looks down thoughtfully and my heart bleeds at the loss of his--our--becoming blue.

I don't have time to react beyond that--his scent is cloying, comforting, casual in my nose and his arms, strong, sturdy, and sensual are wrapped so tightly around me I bid goodbye to breathing and I'm lifted, lifted like Nikko in his Otousan's arms playing airplane and he's spinning me, spinning me around and laughing…laughing…

"A kid…we're going to have a kid…" he chants and laughs and I swear I haven't seen him this happy since we delivered Nikko--

Wait. We?

Lips on my lips, my cheeks, my lids, his hands wide, splayed and cradling against my back as my coat falls forgotten to the floor and I just can't believe…

But he doesn't let me speak. He probably knows everything I've been feeling and he lays it to rest like a bad dream by switching on the light of his laughter. He's smiling and I'm laughing so hard I could burst, my arms around his neck in utter adoration and I kiss him, breathlessly relieved…

…but the chastity of our kiss lasts only as long the camera flash for our Kodak moment. He tastes like coffee and cold and as he exhales, I breathe him in deep and down my throat and his tongue is like a wet moving personification of his--

"Uh…Trunks-kun…?"

"Anou…Trunks-san…"

We break the bond of our kiss, teething nipping and fighting for dominance of the other's lips and look toward the source of our interruption.

Shit.

We're standing the middle of a mall in the largest city in the eastern world two days before Christmas making out like horny teenagers at a B movie. I can't even begin to count the number of people that surround us, many of them wiping their glasses on their shirts and asking anyone within distance if the duality before them is real.

But Kagami doesn't seem to care. He tightens his grip and grins that shit-eating smirk I've come to cherish, the maniacal glitter in his eyes flashing brilliant in savvy cerulean.

"Fuck off, minna! We're having a kid!"

And then his lips find mine again and we're so far above the world even cloud nine can't handle us.

I can just imagine the headlines on the front page of tomorrow's paper: Rumour of Capsule Corporation cloning confirmed! Last night Briefs Trunks was seen devouring himself in the middle of West Capital mall around 9pm. It appears that certain 'experiments' that the well-respected establishment has been conducting have gone seriously wrong, and it was only with great difficulty that they were removed from the facility…

Mama's gonna be pissed.

But at least she'll finally get her grandkids…right?