Thinking Over


Warnings: Yaoi, shonen-ai, angst, lime

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Driving Shotgun

I was awake the first time you touched me.

You were driving me home, like you sometimes do when we donít feel like flying, me dozing in the backseat while you sport the rebel motif and take the engine to the limit. It was funny the first time you got pulled over though.

I felt when you stopped, and knew were home, well, where I sleep when Iím not at Capsule Corp anyway. I didnít get up though, because I knew you would look in the rear view mirror at me for a few seconds like you always do, sigh, then come around and open my door for me. Sometimes youíd carry me inside, other times youíd wake me up and make me walk.

I know you drove a long way for me. I know youíre nearly as tired as I am, from these late night parties we flit and fly to. But I still like making you work the extra mile, still like the extra bit of attention and affection you give to me and only me. And only you do that for me. Gohan is too busy now.

Youíve opened the door now, and I know youíre debating whether to shake me awake and yell in that voice I swear is Vegeta telling me to get me free loading ass off his couch, or swear at me in those Saiyan curses you picked up from him and pick me up and carry me inside.

I thought that was what you were doing anyway. But you werenít.

I sortíve floated on consciousness, like a volley ball on a heated pool on the gray upholstery that smelled like your aftershave.

And waited for you to make up your mind.

Make up my destiny, the way you always do. To be, or not to be. To pour soda down the girlís shirts or to let the lab mice into the cafeteria, because the food sucks anyway. Decide what happens to us Trunks.

You took your time.

I was awake when your fingers touched my skin, Trunks. And I mean touched. Not just that our flesh came in contact, like during sparring or school or just fooling around.

I mean you touched me. Like you meant something.

I could feel it, in the meticulousness, the tenderness. The way you lightly brushed back my bangs and curved your finger pads slowly, deliberately, over my cheek. Stopping just before you reached my mouth.

I felt your hand snap away.

I couldnít see it, but I could feel it in the brief yet drastic drop in temperature and ki your body fluxed, in the slight intake of your breath. In how cold my skin felt afterwards.

You stared at me for a while after that, not moving from your vigil and punishment beside the car door.

I can hear you breathing faster, then a snort and mutter as you grip my shoulders roughly and haul me out, throwing me into the air and in your arms before I hit the ground. Sometimes you still treat me like a chibi.

Iím to be carried, then?

Make your decision Trunks.

And make my destiny.

Driving Drunk

Iím siding with my father. I hate all Sons. You especially. And, like my father, I only want to be with you.

Sometimes I wonder if Iím anything more than a good time to you. Sure weíve been friends since foreverÖbut it could have been just about anybody else. I could have been anybody else, and youíd have been Ďbest friendsí with him just like you are to me. Anybody else could have given you what I have. Anybody else would have.

Iím not questioning our friendship. I-IímÖsorry. I didnít mean for it to sound like that. What Iím questioning isÖme, I guess. And you. And-well, still you and me, I guess.

I forget sometimes about those things, the way they are.

Itís sort of like how I can never remember those mall pictures you goggle over so much, the ones that change every time you look at it. Itís a woman if you look at the black and a dog if you look at the white and some kind of ugly bird if you look at the red. And yet itís just a swirl of colors if you look at it all together.

Sometimes I look at us in the red, and itís different than the white friendship we had. Have. Yeah.

Well, anyway, weíre here. Goten? Weíre at your hou-Oh. You fell asleep. Again.

You _always_ fall asleep. I swear, eat, sleep, and laugh; those are your basic functions. Youíre just like at cat, youíre so lazy. Just like a cat, stretched yet curled on the backseat, on hand cradling your head while the other arm hangs over the edge at the wrist, showing the pale, almost luminescent quality of your arms and long strengthy fingers of your family.

My father never really quit regretting that my hair came out so flat, and your ebony spikes catch what little porch light there is and suck it inside itself, throwing jagged shadows over the unnatural paleness and gentle yet sculpted contours of your face. Father says Saiyans never had such pale skin; itís some kind of defect or abnormality in Goku-sanís blood. He says things like that all the time about Goku though.

It doesnít change a thing for you. It doesnít look like a defect on you. You look soÖso you, I guess. The way you always look. You know.

I canít see your legs or even most of your body, but I really donít need to. I know what they look like. Iíve looked at them enough.

I get out and around to where you were, yanked open the door and almost yanked you out too, but I didnít. I could have yelled at you too, or poked you until you woke up, I didnít do that either.

I could see your face better from this angle, and Iím suddenly overcome with the violent, rushing urge to smash your face flat, to pull you out and slap you over and over again, until you put your hands on me and touch me to push me away or hit me back, so I could grab and hold you so close and so tight so you couldnít hit me and you couldnít get away and I could keep you and look at you and touch you whenever I wanted.

I want to touch you. Right now. And the urge is so strong that my normal control is left in the dust.

Right now.

My fingers brush your hair, and I think briefly to father and my own hair and Iím listening super-close to your respiration and heartbeat. Except that I canít hear anything over my own heartbeat, so I watch the rise and fall of your chest and shoulders instead. Your hair is a lot coarser than mine, more than any human girlís, but itís really light, clear. Clean. No gel, no mousse. Just natural, and organic. Just real. My fingers almost follow my gaze to your chest, but then they touch your skin and I completely forget about it.

Your skin is burning, not painful or alarming, but so warm itís a shock, a beacon in the brisk fall night. Or I was cold, anyway. I traced my fingers over your skin, and I canít even describe it right. I can barely remember it right. I do remember it wasnít all smooth. Some parts yielded more easily to my fingers than other. Some parts were just meat, other was just bone.

I guess,Ömaybe it really wasnít that remarkable. I mean, itís not like I havenít touched you before. I usually do at least once a day. Sometimes I even notice when I havenít, and then I want to and I have to find you to do it and feel better. But this time it was different. You didnít know right then, it was a secret. It was my secret. ItÖwasnít so much what you felt like. The big deal was what I felt inside. In my mouth, the top of my throat, the center of my chest. ItÖit was weird. It was really weird. It hurtÖbut I kind of liked it too.

I almost touched your lips.

I almost did, but I didnít, so thatís whatís important.


I knew theyíd be dry. Dry, and not exactly smooth, but not rough, and very firm and full.

I almost touched them.

But I--

That doesnít matter. It doesnít, Iím just, Iím being,Östupid I guess, and that isnít really my role, Go-chan, thatís yours. Just kidding, just kidding, geez, relax man, I didnít really mean it. If you were awake, Iím pretty sure you wouldíve hit me already or pouted or stuck your tongue out or something but youíre asleep so you didnít and I didnít so itís OK really, so letís get you inside before your mom kills me right? Right. Ok. Right.

I grab your shoulder and pull you out, working on autopilot and not really paying attention to you but trying to concentrate on what your mom is going to say and what Iím going to say and how to close the door with my foot without putting a dent in it.

And not, I repeat not, thinking of how you feel in my arms. Or how your head feels against my chest.

And then weíre at the door.

I donít even have time to knock.

Ohayo, Chi-Chi-san, how- No, heís not- We tried to call earli- Big project for biolo- No, Goten doesnít even _ like_ part- Gomen-nasai, Miss, we- Thatís alright, thatís alright, we- Or I could just takehimupnow??

I have to spit out the last line to get anything in.

Domo- Yeah. I guess he does look kinda cute when he sleeps.

And you do. But sheís looking at me funny, and visions of cast iron frying pans are parading through my future.

I mean, inna sort of sleepy, kittenish, you know, kiddish way, that, um

Sheís still looking at me funny, so I just grin and shrug and bow my head a bit then Iím sliding cautiously to the stairs before dashing up to your room.

My feet perform an immaculate mine sweep for lost clothes, dishes, picture frames and other unknowns on the floor of your darkened room on the way to your bed. I know by heart where it is, I even know what it feels like and what it smells like.

I lay you down roughly with your feet on the pillow then leave the without looking back or touching or even closing the door, said a brief and insincere good-bye to your mom and drove off at 30 before accelerating to 90.

My body is sending various signals and commands to my brain but I block them all out with something of a struggle, grudgingly thanking my dad for whatever self-control he taught me.

I yank the car to a halt, registering and secretly delighting in the scream and pain of the brakes while the car fish tails in the middle of the road, kept in loose check with little bumpers of ki.

When all movement stops, Iím still trembling.

When did I start trembling?

I wrap my arms around the wheel and lean my head against it, being careful not to press down on the horn.

And I wait until the tremors pass.

I almost touched your lips, Goten.

I almost but I didnít.

I could have though, I could have, and you wouldnít have to know about it. Nobody would ever have to know about it.

Remember when I said I wanted to hit you? Remember when I said I hated you, that my father was right?

Well, itís right.

Itís still true. I want to hurt you. I want to hurt you because you hurt me. And I want this hurt to go away, and youíre causing it, so if I get rid of you I get rid of the pain right? Right? Makes sense.

I canít see the white anymore Goten. Even when I squint my eyes and clench my teeth and try really hard I canít see it anymore. It hurts my eyes.

I hate you with everything Iíve got, and I only want to be with you.

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