Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Seven Years ❯ Explosions ( Chapter 6 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: ShiningMoon 
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Psychological / Drama | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 12.13.2010 | Pages: 2 | Words: 3.4K | Visits: 389 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Psychological / Drama | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 12.13.2010 | Pages: 2 | Words: 3.4K | Visits: 389 | Status: Completed
"D-Dad," Trunks whined as he failed once again to dodge his father's ki blast, and it hit him squarely in the chest. He stumbled backward.
"Do you know what today is, Trunks?" Vegeta lowered his palm and assumed a stance that towered over the boy both physically and psychologically. He shivered a little.
"N-nuh-uh," he finally admitted.
Vegeta breathed deeply, eyes darting to the side for a moment before the continued. "It's been exactly four years since I started bringing you in here," he growled, and strode over to the console. "And you haven't improved nearly as much as I expect of any son of mine." Trunks felt the yank of suddenly higher gravity, and his chin fell forward onto the pristine tile with force. He struggled to pull himself back into a sitting position. "You're going to have to work harder if you want to keep training with me."
Trunks opened his mouth to speak, but his father's glare seemed to force it closed even against the higher gravity, and he merely nodded as he stood.
"Let's resume. Try to keep up with me this time."
But whatever his father had been holding back before, he was not holding back now, and Trunks felt blow after blow knock him backwards. Sweat began dripping down his forehead and into his eyes, but if he reached up to wipe it out, he missed a chance to block. When Vegeta grabbed Trunks by the shoulders, his heart leapt inexplicably, but then he was kneed in the stomach and left to soar across the room. Vegeta caught him on the other side with a fist, and Trunks tumbled to the ground, unable to muster the strength to land on his feet, or at least break his fall. "Dad," he spoke through clenched teeth, "I can't." When silence followed, Trunks dreaded seeing the expression his father wore—but was forced to when Vegeta's foot flipped him onto his back, directly beneath the man's gaze.
"Words not befitting of a Saiyajin prince," Vegeta's voice was dangerously quiet.
At this, Trunks was compelled to pull himself halfway into a sitting position. "I'm not you, Dad," his voice shook. "And I don't think I'm ever gonna be like..." he hung his head. "I dunno why..." and how his hands cupped over the back of his head, "why you think I can do this..."
"Because I know you can," he growled, fists tightening in his gloves.
"How?"
"I just do," he spat, voice raising back to the loud, harsh yell Trunks was used to. It comforted him, somehow, but he kept his eyes on his shoes. "Boy," Vegeta barked, and Trunks' eyes snapped to his father's out of habit. As he caught sight of the rage on Vegeta's face, he regretted looking. "Don't take me for a fool," the man warned. "And don't mock me."
"I'm not—"
"You think I'm crazy," he breathed slowly, nostrils flaring. "That I'm delusional." Vegeta's lips pulled back over his teeth, as Trunks stood slowly, leaning against the wall, the man had to blink back flickers of images, of his rival superimposed on his son, of—had he been seeing this way all day today? He rubbed his eyes before returning their gaze to Trunks. "Maybe I am," he tried to maintain the slow breaths. "But I know that you are stronger than this...that you can be stronger than this," he amended.
"Dad, I—"
"Shut up, boy. You're far too soft, and it shows. What would you do if—if something important was taken away from you? Would you bawl like a child and wait for it to come back?"
"Im-important...?" he bit his lip. "Like..."
"You would act as you do when you lose a toy—cry and wait for another one to appear beside your bed the next morning."
"No!" he crossed his arms indignantly, shaking his head.
"You would be too busy whimpering in the corner to fight for it—to—fight—to..."
Trunks braced himself for the inevitable repercussions of his words as he opened his mouth. "Dad, I'm not losing anything important, okay? And—and I can't just fight like you do—I'm only five, even Mom says it!"
"Only five," it seemed to come from his throat without leaving his mouth. Trunks heard his father's toes curl within his boots, and prepared for the man to leap at him with the perfect counter-argument and another well-aimed punch. He watched Vegeta carefully for a sign, and saw his stomach ripple upward, saw him swallow something back, saw his eyes widen and then close tightly as he slammed his fist against the wall with the kind of force that Trunks was sure would have crushed him. While his father seemed distracted, eyes still squeezed shut and muscles up and down his chest and stomach convulsing, Trunks dashed across the room, punching in the code as if it was his fingers that remembered it like a lifeline, and not his father's. The door slid open and then shut again behind him, and he paused to breathe before sprinting down the hallway to the main entry area. His mother was off working on something important, and she wouldn't understand, anyway—and—it would just get his father in trouble—his breath hitched, and he wasn't sure what he was thinking anymore, couldn't make sense of words or thoughts but only of his body as it pushed him forward.
Before he could register where he was going, Trunks' feet were pounding through the dried spines of pine trees, dodging tree trunks, dodging branches, dodging bears and birds and he could wonder only if he had ever moved so fast, and if it was only desperation that had brought him this far, and if he was setting the forest on fire with the flames that seemed to lick over his body. Finally, he collapsed, succumbing to his aching legs and scraped-up knees that begged him to stop. The flames gradually died down, and as they settled back into his skin they seemed to return his young mind to him, and he could think again.
On his fifth birthday, several weeks ago, his father had seemed on-edge, and he wasn't the only one who had noticed it. His mother had, too, and he had seen her take him aside to talk in hushed tones in the next room as his candles burned down closer to the cake, wax dribbling down onto the red-brown frosting. It was his favorite color, that red, and it reminded him of the rusty door-hinges at Goten's house and of the time his father had wrapped a deep leg wound of his and the blood came through the first few layers of bandages. It was like the admission passes to the amusement park, last year when his mother and his father both took him there for his fourth birthday.
When they had returned, Bulma's face was somber and Vegeta was quiet and impatient. He tried to ask about it later, but neither of them would say a thing. Vegeta's mood hadn't changed, much, since—until today, when the quiet was broken for a lecture and the impatience was broken for rage. He had a feeling that whatever it was, it didn't really have to do with it having been four years since he started training. He couldn't even remember most of that time, only knew that the scent of the gravity room was etched into his mind, and that he didn't feel so great about the way it made him nauseous.
Whatever burst of power had brought him here, he hoped, a little, that he would never see it again. He'd felt like his mind was gone, and everything in his eyes had been a little red. His head and ears had pounded as if full of explosions and fireworks, like his insides were pushing away the pieces of him that kept him from running faster, the thoughts and the fatigue. The forest wasn't ablaze, and he wondered why. Somehow, he had been able to do more than he should have been able to—he wondered if, for just that small window of time, he was as strong as his father wanted him to be.
Taking in his surroundings, he realized that his feet had carried him more than halfway to Goten's house. It would be a good idea to go there, he decided—for Goten's house was less confusing, and Goten didn't have a father. Trunks mused on that his mother had once mentioned that Goten used to have a father, but she had made Trunks promise not to tell Goten about it. Something about her expression made him believe that it was very important he keep that particular promise.
Glancing up to the sun to get his bearings, Trunks walked through the forest carefully, calming his breathing and taking each step as if a spring off the wrong patch of ground would make him burst back into that mindless state, and if he made it to Goten's feeling like that, well, he might accidentally run through their house with his shoes on, or break the wall. Goten's mother had a particular problem with breaking walls that his own mother did not seem to have; Bulma sighed and rolled her eyes and punched a button. Sometimes Chi-Chi screamed and sometimes she cried and she usually sloshed out a bucket and what seemed to Trunks to be a bag of rocks. It was odd.
He couldn't see the house yet, but he knew he was near; trees here and there had been cut down, and the paths that Goten took when he wandered the woods with his big brother were becoming more and more visible. Trunks knew this part of the woods, and even smelled breakfast cooking in the Son household as he drew nearer. His father always made him train early; he was up even before Goten. He was surprised not to feel hungry—felt right now like his stomach was full of stones, clanking around inside him like he should get a good rest before doing anything else, or at least sit down for a while. As he neared the house, he snuck around to the back and scurried up the side to rap on Goten's window. "Hey," he whispered in, and smirked a little to see his friend only now stirring from his sleep.
"Whaddaya..." Goten started, yawning, and shortly after cracking one eye open to look at Trunks, he snapped awake. "What h-happened?"
"Huh?"
"Your hair's got sticks," Goten pointed, "and stuff."
"Damn," the young boy swore as he reached up to feel his hair, and his friend slapped his palms over his ears at hearing the word.
"Don't do that! Mommy says—"
Trunks shook his head a little, and leaned in closer, as if he was considering climbing in.
"Why're you here?"
He was suddenly somber. "Dad was...weird..." he murmured.
"Oh," Goten nodded, and Trunks was fairly certain Goten had no idea what he was talking about. After all, he didn't have a father; how could he know what it was like, when dads act weird?
He opened his mouth as if to elaborate, but nearly lost his grip on the windowsill at the sound of crackling and a boom in the distance. "I think that's him," he whispered, and paused to listen again. Another explosion. Another. At least, he was pretty sure that was what that sound was. He had heard it a few times before, but couldn't quite remember where. "Yeah," Trunks turned back to Goten, "I gotta leave," he murmured. "I think something's wrong with Dad."
"O...okay," Goten nodded vigorously, and as Trunks dropped from his position at the window to sprint toward the source of the noise, Goten rolled over to pretend that he was asleep, just before Chi-Chi opened the door.
It didn't take long for Trunks to reach the area where the explosions had been, but he realized as he arrived that that didn't necessarily mean his father was nearby. He skirted around the craters as his eyes focused on the sky, still dim as the sun grudgingly held its light back for as long as it could before it had to blossom over the horizon. Trunks had half a mind to call out to his father, but wondered if it might be better to see what he was doing first, and decide then if it would be better to turn around and leave.
He didn't have a choice—the quiet tapping of boots against the crusted clay that was the ground beneath him was familiar. He shivered, and hung his head rather than turning around. Trunks didn't need his eyes to tell that rage was bubbling off his father. He was suddenly lightheaded, though he could still feel the rocks bumping around in his stomach. Vaguely, he wondered if his neck would disconnect from his body and float away. When he opened his mouth to say something—anything—to his father, he felt like he was sick. It reminded him of chicken broth and blankets. Maybe he was sick. This was the wrong place to be...
"Trunks," came a short growl. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard explosions," he wondered how he managed it, and clenched at his stomach. Maybe his father was sick, too, and that was why he'd been cringing and swallowing something back down his throat earlier. "I thought it was you 'cause you're the only one who can make things blow up like that." He paused. "Maybe Goten's brother. But he was at breakfast—"
"Stop!" Vegeta barked. Trunks wondered what had gotten into him, talking so much all of a sudden. Maybe he wasn't sick, maybe the words were just trying to come up too fast.
"You're acting funny," he blurted, and after momentary consideration, crossed his arms. "I don't like it. It's not the training thing, either. Right?"
"And your mother says only five," he breathed out.
"Dad. The thing, at my birthday, when Mom made you go away and talk to her."
The man spat at the ground. "What of it?"
"What was it? Are you still mad? You're still mad. Why are you blowing things up?" He thought of his head, the explosions, the fireworks, the fire, and thought of saying something—but now wasn't the right time, and he wondered if it was an accident. If he said it, he might do it again, and what then? His mind would go away and he'd say something stupid and his father would never tell him what the big deal was. "You should tell me, 'cause, otherwise I'm gonna think you're a wimp for not wanting to say it," he challenged.
"Fine," he growled, massaging his forehead. "Your mother won't like it."
"Like how she wouldn't like if I told Goten about how he used to have a dad?"
"A bit," Trunks saw the man's other hand—the one that wasn't on his forehead—wrap around his stomach for a moment before falling to his side. "You know that I'm not from Earth," he started.
"Oh," Trunks nodded, wondering if he should come closer, if he should sit like he did when his mother read him stories. This seemed like it would be a story. "Okay. I guess I kind of knew that."
Vegeta's throat rumbled a little bit. "You know because you know that I am a Saiyajin, and you have part of that in you—" he glanced up, and Trunks was paying rapt attention. "You know that I am a prince. And since Kakarrot is dead, the only full-blooded Saiyajin left."
"Kakarrot...is Goten's dad, right?"
"Yes." He saw the boy sit and, at a loss for how to respond, took a seat as well, resting one arm over his raised leg as he avoided eye contact with the boy. "All the other Saiyajin died."
"How come?"
"Our planet was blown up," his fists clenched, and Trunks shied away, afraid that they might explode from their position toward whatever was nearest. "I was young." Trunks felt the rocks stir, and his throat tighten, and it was fairly certain it was all because of the way that the words came from his father's throat, all strained. "I was your age." When Trunks was silent, suddenly dizzier than he had been when he had been running through the woods, Vegeta continued. "Years later, when I met Kakarrot, he stripped me of my pride." He breathed deeply. "What's more, he became a Super Saiyajin before I did—"
"Super?" Trunks mustered, clutching at the rock beneath him. Vegeta seemed so angry at Goten's dad—his eyes glimmering in a scary way that they sometimes did when his own sparring sessions with his father got intense, as had happened earlier this morning.
"Like this," Vegeta muttered, and closed his eyes. His hair lightened and when he opened his eyes again, they were bright teal. Trunks leaned in close, breathing slowly in awe as he felt the power radiate from his father. He thought to mention what had happened to him—had it been the same thing? His hair might have changed color without him noticing, since he was in such a hurry, and somehow the way the air crackled around him was familiar—but maybe he shouldn't say anything. It had made his father mad, right, that someone else had gotten there too? And besides, he wasn't even sure. He reached out to touch the bright tufts of hair, bristly as ever.
"Your planet exploded," Trunks murmured. "So this is a thing that only Saiyajin can do? This super thing?"
"Yes."
Trunks smirked a little bit, and let his hand fall from his father's hair. Hesitantly, he allowed himself to lean against the man a little. "Cool," he wasn't sure what else to say. Vegeta did not react as Trunks' head pressed against his shoulder, and the boy took some solace in the solid, stony feel of his father even as the blonde filtered out of his hair and the power faded away. "Dad, not that many people have dads who are really strong alien princes."
"I suppose not," he agreed quietly.
"Also, you're really mean sometimes. I mean really mean."
He was silent until Trunks nudged him. "Yes."
"It's okay, I guess. I kind of like being part Saiyajin. I guess you can be mean sometimes if your whole planet blew up."
His fingers twitched as if he might reach up and ruffle the boy's hair, but he seemed to think better of it.
"Can you be less mean to me, though?" As Vegeta closed his eyes and did not speak, Trunks added, "I'll try extra hard to be strong. I think I can be really strong, Dad." He leaned in close and lowered his voice, "Sometimes Goten and I spar, in secret. You know, I can almost beat him except that he can jump up trees and stuff, and I'm not so good at it."
Vegeta stood abruptly, and Trunks wondered if he'd said something wrong. Was he supposed to be good at jumping up trees, too? But there weren't nearly as many trees where he lived as there were where Goten lived. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Vegeta spoke before he could.
"Listen carefully, boy. I'm going to teach you how to fly and I'm only explaining it once."
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"Do you know what today is, Trunks?" Vegeta lowered his palm and assumed a stance that towered over the boy both physically and psychologically. He shivered a little.
"N-nuh-uh," he finally admitted.
Vegeta breathed deeply, eyes darting to the side for a moment before the continued. "It's been exactly four years since I started bringing you in here," he growled, and strode over to the console. "And you haven't improved nearly as much as I expect of any son of mine." Trunks felt the yank of suddenly higher gravity, and his chin fell forward onto the pristine tile with force. He struggled to pull himself back into a sitting position. "You're going to have to work harder if you want to keep training with me."
Trunks opened his mouth to speak, but his father's glare seemed to force it closed even against the higher gravity, and he merely nodded as he stood.
"Let's resume. Try to keep up with me this time."
But whatever his father had been holding back before, he was not holding back now, and Trunks felt blow after blow knock him backwards. Sweat began dripping down his forehead and into his eyes, but if he reached up to wipe it out, he missed a chance to block. When Vegeta grabbed Trunks by the shoulders, his heart leapt inexplicably, but then he was kneed in the stomach and left to soar across the room. Vegeta caught him on the other side with a fist, and Trunks tumbled to the ground, unable to muster the strength to land on his feet, or at least break his fall. "Dad," he spoke through clenched teeth, "I can't." When silence followed, Trunks dreaded seeing the expression his father wore—but was forced to when Vegeta's foot flipped him onto his back, directly beneath the man's gaze.
"Words not befitting of a Saiyajin prince," Vegeta's voice was dangerously quiet.
At this, Trunks was compelled to pull himself halfway into a sitting position. "I'm not you, Dad," his voice shook. "And I don't think I'm ever gonna be like..." he hung his head. "I dunno why..." and how his hands cupped over the back of his head, "why you think I can do this..."
"Because I know you can," he growled, fists tightening in his gloves.
"How?"
"I just do," he spat, voice raising back to the loud, harsh yell Trunks was used to. It comforted him, somehow, but he kept his eyes on his shoes. "Boy," Vegeta barked, and Trunks' eyes snapped to his father's out of habit. As he caught sight of the rage on Vegeta's face, he regretted looking. "Don't take me for a fool," the man warned. "And don't mock me."
"I'm not—"
"You think I'm crazy," he breathed slowly, nostrils flaring. "That I'm delusional." Vegeta's lips pulled back over his teeth, as Trunks stood slowly, leaning against the wall, the man had to blink back flickers of images, of his rival superimposed on his son, of—had he been seeing this way all day today? He rubbed his eyes before returning their gaze to Trunks. "Maybe I am," he tried to maintain the slow breaths. "But I know that you are stronger than this...that you can be stronger than this," he amended.
"Dad, I—"
"Shut up, boy. You're far too soft, and it shows. What would you do if—if something important was taken away from you? Would you bawl like a child and wait for it to come back?"
"Im-important...?" he bit his lip. "Like..."
"You would act as you do when you lose a toy—cry and wait for another one to appear beside your bed the next morning."
"No!" he crossed his arms indignantly, shaking his head.
"You would be too busy whimpering in the corner to fight for it—to—fight—to..."
Trunks braced himself for the inevitable repercussions of his words as he opened his mouth. "Dad, I'm not losing anything important, okay? And—and I can't just fight like you do—I'm only five, even Mom says it!"
"Only five," it seemed to come from his throat without leaving his mouth. Trunks heard his father's toes curl within his boots, and prepared for the man to leap at him with the perfect counter-argument and another well-aimed punch. He watched Vegeta carefully for a sign, and saw his stomach ripple upward, saw him swallow something back, saw his eyes widen and then close tightly as he slammed his fist against the wall with the kind of force that Trunks was sure would have crushed him. While his father seemed distracted, eyes still squeezed shut and muscles up and down his chest and stomach convulsing, Trunks dashed across the room, punching in the code as if it was his fingers that remembered it like a lifeline, and not his father's. The door slid open and then shut again behind him, and he paused to breathe before sprinting down the hallway to the main entry area. His mother was off working on something important, and she wouldn't understand, anyway—and—it would just get his father in trouble—his breath hitched, and he wasn't sure what he was thinking anymore, couldn't make sense of words or thoughts but only of his body as it pushed him forward.
Before he could register where he was going, Trunks' feet were pounding through the dried spines of pine trees, dodging tree trunks, dodging branches, dodging bears and birds and he could wonder only if he had ever moved so fast, and if it was only desperation that had brought him this far, and if he was setting the forest on fire with the flames that seemed to lick over his body. Finally, he collapsed, succumbing to his aching legs and scraped-up knees that begged him to stop. The flames gradually died down, and as they settled back into his skin they seemed to return his young mind to him, and he could think again.
On his fifth birthday, several weeks ago, his father had seemed on-edge, and he wasn't the only one who had noticed it. His mother had, too, and he had seen her take him aside to talk in hushed tones in the next room as his candles burned down closer to the cake, wax dribbling down onto the red-brown frosting. It was his favorite color, that red, and it reminded him of the rusty door-hinges at Goten's house and of the time his father had wrapped a deep leg wound of his and the blood came through the first few layers of bandages. It was like the admission passes to the amusement park, last year when his mother and his father both took him there for his fourth birthday.
When they had returned, Bulma's face was somber and Vegeta was quiet and impatient. He tried to ask about it later, but neither of them would say a thing. Vegeta's mood hadn't changed, much, since—until today, when the quiet was broken for a lecture and the impatience was broken for rage. He had a feeling that whatever it was, it didn't really have to do with it having been four years since he started training. He couldn't even remember most of that time, only knew that the scent of the gravity room was etched into his mind, and that he didn't feel so great about the way it made him nauseous.
Whatever burst of power had brought him here, he hoped, a little, that he would never see it again. He'd felt like his mind was gone, and everything in his eyes had been a little red. His head and ears had pounded as if full of explosions and fireworks, like his insides were pushing away the pieces of him that kept him from running faster, the thoughts and the fatigue. The forest wasn't ablaze, and he wondered why. Somehow, he had been able to do more than he should have been able to—he wondered if, for just that small window of time, he was as strong as his father wanted him to be.
Taking in his surroundings, he realized that his feet had carried him more than halfway to Goten's house. It would be a good idea to go there, he decided—for Goten's house was less confusing, and Goten didn't have a father. Trunks mused on that his mother had once mentioned that Goten used to have a father, but she had made Trunks promise not to tell Goten about it. Something about her expression made him believe that it was very important he keep that particular promise.
Glancing up to the sun to get his bearings, Trunks walked through the forest carefully, calming his breathing and taking each step as if a spring off the wrong patch of ground would make him burst back into that mindless state, and if he made it to Goten's feeling like that, well, he might accidentally run through their house with his shoes on, or break the wall. Goten's mother had a particular problem with breaking walls that his own mother did not seem to have; Bulma sighed and rolled her eyes and punched a button. Sometimes Chi-Chi screamed and sometimes she cried and she usually sloshed out a bucket and what seemed to Trunks to be a bag of rocks. It was odd.
He couldn't see the house yet, but he knew he was near; trees here and there had been cut down, and the paths that Goten took when he wandered the woods with his big brother were becoming more and more visible. Trunks knew this part of the woods, and even smelled breakfast cooking in the Son household as he drew nearer. His father always made him train early; he was up even before Goten. He was surprised not to feel hungry—felt right now like his stomach was full of stones, clanking around inside him like he should get a good rest before doing anything else, or at least sit down for a while. As he neared the house, he snuck around to the back and scurried up the side to rap on Goten's window. "Hey," he whispered in, and smirked a little to see his friend only now stirring from his sleep.
"Whaddaya..." Goten started, yawning, and shortly after cracking one eye open to look at Trunks, he snapped awake. "What h-happened?"
"Huh?"
"Your hair's got sticks," Goten pointed, "and stuff."
"Damn," the young boy swore as he reached up to feel his hair, and his friend slapped his palms over his ears at hearing the word.
"Don't do that! Mommy says—"
Trunks shook his head a little, and leaned in closer, as if he was considering climbing in.
"Why're you here?"
He was suddenly somber. "Dad was...weird..." he murmured.
"Oh," Goten nodded, and Trunks was fairly certain Goten had no idea what he was talking about. After all, he didn't have a father; how could he know what it was like, when dads act weird?
He opened his mouth as if to elaborate, but nearly lost his grip on the windowsill at the sound of crackling and a boom in the distance. "I think that's him," he whispered, and paused to listen again. Another explosion. Another. At least, he was pretty sure that was what that sound was. He had heard it a few times before, but couldn't quite remember where. "Yeah," Trunks turned back to Goten, "I gotta leave," he murmured. "I think something's wrong with Dad."
"O...okay," Goten nodded vigorously, and as Trunks dropped from his position at the window to sprint toward the source of the noise, Goten rolled over to pretend that he was asleep, just before Chi-Chi opened the door.
It didn't take long for Trunks to reach the area where the explosions had been, but he realized as he arrived that that didn't necessarily mean his father was nearby. He skirted around the craters as his eyes focused on the sky, still dim as the sun grudgingly held its light back for as long as it could before it had to blossom over the horizon. Trunks had half a mind to call out to his father, but wondered if it might be better to see what he was doing first, and decide then if it would be better to turn around and leave.
He didn't have a choice—the quiet tapping of boots against the crusted clay that was the ground beneath him was familiar. He shivered, and hung his head rather than turning around. Trunks didn't need his eyes to tell that rage was bubbling off his father. He was suddenly lightheaded, though he could still feel the rocks bumping around in his stomach. Vaguely, he wondered if his neck would disconnect from his body and float away. When he opened his mouth to say something—anything—to his father, he felt like he was sick. It reminded him of chicken broth and blankets. Maybe he was sick. This was the wrong place to be...
"Trunks," came a short growl. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard explosions," he wondered how he managed it, and clenched at his stomach. Maybe his father was sick, too, and that was why he'd been cringing and swallowing something back down his throat earlier. "I thought it was you 'cause you're the only one who can make things blow up like that." He paused. "Maybe Goten's brother. But he was at breakfast—"
"Stop!" Vegeta barked. Trunks wondered what had gotten into him, talking so much all of a sudden. Maybe he wasn't sick, maybe the words were just trying to come up too fast.
"You're acting funny," he blurted, and after momentary consideration, crossed his arms. "I don't like it. It's not the training thing, either. Right?"
"And your mother says only five," he breathed out.
"Dad. The thing, at my birthday, when Mom made you go away and talk to her."
The man spat at the ground. "What of it?"
"What was it? Are you still mad? You're still mad. Why are you blowing things up?" He thought of his head, the explosions, the fireworks, the fire, and thought of saying something—but now wasn't the right time, and he wondered if it was an accident. If he said it, he might do it again, and what then? His mind would go away and he'd say something stupid and his father would never tell him what the big deal was. "You should tell me, 'cause, otherwise I'm gonna think you're a wimp for not wanting to say it," he challenged.
"Fine," he growled, massaging his forehead. "Your mother won't like it."
"Like how she wouldn't like if I told Goten about how he used to have a dad?"
"A bit," Trunks saw the man's other hand—the one that wasn't on his forehead—wrap around his stomach for a moment before falling to his side. "You know that I'm not from Earth," he started.
"Oh," Trunks nodded, wondering if he should come closer, if he should sit like he did when his mother read him stories. This seemed like it would be a story. "Okay. I guess I kind of knew that."
Vegeta's throat rumbled a little bit. "You know because you know that I am a Saiyajin, and you have part of that in you—" he glanced up, and Trunks was paying rapt attention. "You know that I am a prince. And since Kakarrot is dead, the only full-blooded Saiyajin left."
"Kakarrot...is Goten's dad, right?"
"Yes." He saw the boy sit and, at a loss for how to respond, took a seat as well, resting one arm over his raised leg as he avoided eye contact with the boy. "All the other Saiyajin died."
"How come?"
"Our planet was blown up," his fists clenched, and Trunks shied away, afraid that they might explode from their position toward whatever was nearest. "I was young." Trunks felt the rocks stir, and his throat tighten, and it was fairly certain it was all because of the way that the words came from his father's throat, all strained. "I was your age." When Trunks was silent, suddenly dizzier than he had been when he had been running through the woods, Vegeta continued. "Years later, when I met Kakarrot, he stripped me of my pride." He breathed deeply. "What's more, he became a Super Saiyajin before I did—"
"Super?" Trunks mustered, clutching at the rock beneath him. Vegeta seemed so angry at Goten's dad—his eyes glimmering in a scary way that they sometimes did when his own sparring sessions with his father got intense, as had happened earlier this morning.
"Like this," Vegeta muttered, and closed his eyes. His hair lightened and when he opened his eyes again, they were bright teal. Trunks leaned in close, breathing slowly in awe as he felt the power radiate from his father. He thought to mention what had happened to him—had it been the same thing? His hair might have changed color without him noticing, since he was in such a hurry, and somehow the way the air crackled around him was familiar—but maybe he shouldn't say anything. It had made his father mad, right, that someone else had gotten there too? And besides, he wasn't even sure. He reached out to touch the bright tufts of hair, bristly as ever.
"Your planet exploded," Trunks murmured. "So this is a thing that only Saiyajin can do? This super thing?"
"Yes."
Trunks smirked a little bit, and let his hand fall from his father's hair. Hesitantly, he allowed himself to lean against the man a little. "Cool," he wasn't sure what else to say. Vegeta did not react as Trunks' head pressed against his shoulder, and the boy took some solace in the solid, stony feel of his father even as the blonde filtered out of his hair and the power faded away. "Dad, not that many people have dads who are really strong alien princes."
"I suppose not," he agreed quietly.
"Also, you're really mean sometimes. I mean really mean."
He was silent until Trunks nudged him. "Yes."
"It's okay, I guess. I kind of like being part Saiyajin. I guess you can be mean sometimes if your whole planet blew up."
His fingers twitched as if he might reach up and ruffle the boy's hair, but he seemed to think better of it.
"Can you be less mean to me, though?" As Vegeta closed his eyes and did not speak, Trunks added, "I'll try extra hard to be strong. I think I can be really strong, Dad." He leaned in close and lowered his voice, "Sometimes Goten and I spar, in secret. You know, I can almost beat him except that he can jump up trees and stuff, and I'm not so good at it."
Vegeta stood abruptly, and Trunks wondered if he'd said something wrong. Was he supposed to be good at jumping up trees, too? But there weren't nearly as many trees where he lived as there were where Goten lived. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Vegeta spoke before he could.
"Listen carefully, boy. I'm going to teach you how to fly and I'm only explaining it once."
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