Author:††††††††††† Kiarene

Pairings:††††††††††† Vegeta/Mirai

Disclaimer:††††††††††† Donít own DBZ

Published: ††††††††††† 12 October 2003

Archive? ††††††††††† Please ask first

 

 

Sons

 

3st Scrawling

 

Chibi Trunksí POV

 

 

I slam against the floor, carelessly caught by a stray blast. For a moment, I didnít want to move. My body couldnít move, Iím sure; I ache all over, my back hurt and burns and Iím sure itís a weeping, bloody mess and oh dammit I just want to pass out so fucking badly.

 

Then that moment passes and the sting subsides. My reflexes kicks in and I roll away, wincing as my back hits the floor, but Iíve been well-trained. Squinting through sweat-laced lashes, I ready myself in a defensive crouch, feeling as if I simply cannot take another attack, but knowing that I must and I can and that I wonít have a choice in battle.

 

Weíve been moving, sparring for hours it seems. I donít know Ė thereís no clock in the training room and anyway, itís useless to think about the time. But I hurt all over and it feels like an eternity, it always does. Itís like all sensations have been compressed so each second feels heavy and aching and intense and so gloriously real. I want to collapse and yet I feel like I can sprint on; itís like Iím on freaking drugs.

 

ďThatís enough for today.Ē

 

Startled, I stare at my father, my hands still held defensively in front of me. Once, when I was very much younger, I had been caught off-guard. Only once though, and since then, Iím always wary. But Dadís already walking towards the gravity console and I relax with a wheezing sigh.

 

That seemed like a relatively short session, I muse to myself as I stretch upwards, easing the tension in cramped muscles. Perhaps I am getting better, so much so that it doesnít seem as torturously long now.

 

As the gravity winds down, I walk towards Dad, coming to a stop behind him. Already he is talking, giving me his usual analysis of our training session, usually what I did wrong, often what he wants me to focus on in subsequent sessions, and rarely, what I did right. Those grudging words of hard-earned praise, I savour like the sweetest wine.

 

Endrophins are coursing through my body and Iím still feeling high. Dad is still facing the console, his meticulous attention on the replay of our spar. Greatly daring, I lean in, closer, nearer.

 

I periodically nod, making sounds of agreement or abashment. My attention is only half on the generous-sized screen and my fatherís words; instead, I was focused on him. My father.

 

His deep voice washes over me, smoky and rich and exotic, with just the slightly hint of a foreign lilt. He speaks with the clear ennunciation of the educated, the smooth cadence of the cultured and the slighty sneering drawl of the elite. It just drips confidence and power, nothing at all like the squeaky, excited voices of the other sensei that often drop by Capsule Corps.

 

My eyes rove boldly, memorising the bulge of still-pumped muscles through the soaked navy fabric. There is a dangerous leaness about him, all steel sinew and whipcord. My father never struck me as just a fighter like the rest of the sensei; thereís a dark, bridled bloodthirstiness to him. A killer, a predator. Controlled, but never tamed. Iíve heard rumors and snide gossip, but they only served to intrigue me. While never malicious in training me, he can be ruthless, and I like that. Powerful, deadly, and so very, very erotic.

 

And most of all, his scent. Itís ambrosial and heady, and it softens my knees and hardens my cock. Right now, it smells like the salt-lashed gales of a stormy sea; sweaty and powerful, the singed air around him still thrumming with the sharp ozone from the energy we had thrown around. Dad explained it me once, how Saiyajins have heightened senses as compared to the Ningens. Iím not sure whether to be envious or thankful that Iím only half-Saiyajin; I would dearly love to experience the world as a full-Saiyajin, to know what Dad really smells like, but I donít think I can function otherwise.

 

My stomach gives a loud growl and my father stops in mid-sentence. Mortified, I mumble an apology but he brushes it off. ďIt was time to eat anyway.Ē We Saiyajins donít really say that itís Ďtime for lunchí, not when thereís lunch-part-one and lunch-part-two and then just-a-bite-to-tide-us-over-till-tea.

 

Dad seems pleased as he turns off the gravity console, almost approving at my growing appetite. No, not just growing; it was as if my appetite had exploded after I hit puberty and even now, at fourteen, Iím easily eating five times as much as other Ningens boys my age, though I still canít handle the amount Dad can eat. Mom is alternately amused and exasperated. I canít beat Goten though; must be the Ďthird-class Kakarrotí genes.††

 

As we step out of the room, my eye catches the clock and I almost stop in surprise. Weíve only been in there for two hours! Normally we take at least twice as long. Immediately, my good mood vanishes. Iíve learned that there are very few reasons for Dadís willingness to end a training session with me early, and coupled with Dadís almost pleasant demenour the whole day, there can only be one reason.

 

HE is coming.

 

Mirai Trunks, myself from the future, an alternate time-line. He doesnít come by often, maybe once every month or two, and only for a couple of days each time, but everyone looks forward to his visits. Particularly Dad, even though he doesnít show it openly.

 

But I canít stand him.

 

Trying to conceal the undercurrent of irritation and envy in my voice, I asked casually if Mirai is coming to visit.

 

ďYes.Ē Dad shoots me a sharp look. He is always puzzled by the unease I have towards Mirai, though Iíve tried hard to conceal just the depth of that animosity. The adults laugh it off as Ďsibling rivalryí and Mirai had tried hard to win me over. Occasionally, Dad would want us to spar together and that, I could and would. I can barely manage to hold a civil conversation with him, but to fight, to have a chance to punch and hit him, that is easy.

 

I was initially curious and fascinated by him, of course, but that positive feeling quicky turned to resentment when I realized that he was taking Dadís attention away from me. Still, itís hard to resent somebody who doesnít have a father in his own time-line, somebody who doesnít have the luxuries of life that I do, somebody who practically lives in a war-zone, somebody so pathetic.

 

Then when I was about six, I found out that Mirai wasnít so damn pathetic after all; he had something I donít.

 

A special kind of attention from my father, the kind Iíve seen between couples like Dad and Mom, or Gohan and Videl. But it wasnít exactly the same; while Mom and Dad are fond of each other, what Mirai had with Dad seemed deeper, as if they had something that Mom and Dad lacked. It wasnít as goosebumpily-mushy as the disgusting puppy-love between Gohan and Videl either; it was a kind of secret, quiet affection.

 

I had been shocked and angry and so horribly envious, and yet I had also been desperately curious.

 

I know what it is now, of course. Nobody knows about them except me, Iím sure. And the thought of telling anyone has never seriously crossed my mind even though I know that it was wrong, that it would be the fastest, easiest way to get Mirai away from my father.

 

Because I wanted it too. Because I wanted Dad too.

 

ďHow long is he staying this time?Ē

 

ďTwo, three days.Ē He looks at me, dark eyes searching, as if he wanted to say something.

 

An awkward pause. Everytime, I would ask the same question, and it was almost always the same answer. I try to remember; was Mom away on a business trip again? Somehow Ė I donít know how Ė Mirai seems to time many of the trips to coincide when Momís away. Dadís cheating on Mom but I know I should be angry Ė any normal boy who loves both his parents would Ė but I donít. Heartless? Hn. I donít care. Iím my fatherís son.

 

Thankfully, Dad remains silent. That another thing I like about him; while Momís always trying to force me and Mirai to get along better and everyoneís giving me those nauseating cheery grins and reproachful looks, Dad will just ignore this coldness between us. He doesnít think everything has to be sunshine and peaches, and I have a laughing suspicion that he thinks the situation between us is like the rivalry between him and Kakarrot, and thatís fine. Power rivalries between Saiyajin males is normal and healthy, I heard him tell Mom once.

 

We sit down at the kitchen table, finding platters of food already prepared and wrapped. Dad pops them into the microwave while I get cold water from the fridge. And then we get down to the important business of eating and the subject is pushed away again.

 

~

 

Iím obssessed about my father. Iíve always been -- since young Iíve worshipped him, always hanging around him. Heís so different from the rest, an engima Iíve taken upon myself to solve. Mom told me that from the first time I saw him when I was a baby, I was fascinated with him. Despite his attempts to ignore me, I clung to him like a bad virus and eventually, he accepted and warmed up towards me, especially after the battle with Buu.

 

I know he isnít the Ningensí idea of an ideal father Ė Iíve no idea about Saiyajins Ė but he has always been perfect in my eyes. I love him, and somewhere along the way, Iíve realized that that love somehow became something more than a sonís normal love for his father.

 

Should I have been shocked? Aghast? I wasnít.

 

Did I try to repress it? Forget about it? No. Why should I?

 

Iím sure thereíre lots of logical reasons, ethical issues and moral dilemmas and what-not, but frankly, I donít care.

 

I sit on the branch of a large tree, and from my vantage point, I can see into my fatherís room. Miraiís in there with Dad and the two are talking, kissing, touching. Jealousy gnaws me from inside out but I canít look away.

 

If I can see them, they most assuredly can see me Ė but Iím feeling reckless today, swinging my legs as I stare pointedly into the room, almost daring one of them to look up and discover me. Over the years, spying on them was first a curiosity and later a habit, and Iíve gotten rather adept at it.

 

But nothing happens Ė they are too engrossed with each other Ė and I wonder morbidly what would happen if they did look up. Would Dad get angry? I can almost guarantee it; Dadís temper is well-known. Would he try to pretend that nothingís happening between them? Or would he see it as nothing wrong?

 

My fingers dig into the bark angrily. What does he have, that I donít? We look the same, except that heís older, but soon, Iíll be old enough too. And scruffier. His clothes are always frayed and patched, and he always has this dusty, dirty look to him. Suddenly, I feel uncertain, my right hand going up to run through my neatly-trimmed short hair as I look intently at his hair. Sometimes he looks better groomed but today, it is long, falling past his shoulders, and ragged.

 

Perhaps Dad likes this rugged look? I mean, Saiyajins are a warrior race; so maybe this rough-hewn, just-got-out-of-a-war-zone look appeals to him? I know I look a bit of a pouf with my limp, purple hair and my branded clothes. But I canít help being rich! Maybe if I look more like himÖ

 

The lights turn off and I can just make out the shadowy figures as they tumble into bed. My overactive imagination fills in the rest and I sit there for a very long time into the night.

 

Thinking, wondering, dreaming as I lean back against the broad trunk of the tree, fingers fumbling with the ties on my pants.

 

Hissing as the night air cools my overheated cock; scowling, whimpering as I stroke myself, pleasuring myself physically, torturing myself mentally.

 

Wanting.

 

Vowing that one dayÖ. My hips cant up at that thought, that promise, and I find temporary relief with a quiet groan.

 

Once I thought him pathetic, but really, the only one here who is pathetic is me.

 

~*~

 

 

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