Warnings:  Angst abound.  Much, much musing.  Frolic much, yes?

I had lots and lots of fun putting this chapter together.  My finest combination of angst and humor yet.  I think, anyway.  It was so easy.  And it came out so nice.  The fresh grass really is the best, no matter what they say.  I've never really analyzed how Vegeta would feel about Gohan.  I've got the Gohan feelings pretty well done, but Vegeta is something of a mystery.  Hm.  Here's one in the start of unraveling the mystery. 

Font size and type is very important here.  This chapter is heavily dependent on the font coming up right.  There are size changes, as well as type changes (Times New Roman mixed with Arial mixed with Verdana and so on…), underlining, italics, bold later on and if they don't come out right, the chapter might sound a little funny.  Thereby be warned, yes?

Gohan is now in the Artic.  Vegeta is still in whatever country DBZ is based on (probably Japan).  That's pretty much all the important stuff you need to know.  You can arrange the time and days in however you want; it's not a real big deal.

Vegeta's thoughts

|| Vegeta's other thoughts||

// gohan's thoughts always lower-cased//

~~~~~~~

Journal Style

4-8-03

Putting My Thoughts On Paper to Sort Them Out:

Permanent. 

Permanent as in forever permanent?  With him?  I don't have anything in common with him, we don't along real well, but we don't clash like him and 'tousan either.  The closest we've ever really been, to me at least, was when he was crushing my face under his foot on Namek. 

Not exactly the firmest cornerstone to build a real affable relationship on.

I know…after Dad…he tried…but that time it was me who screwed it up.  It was…so, so much.  Too much.  I know it wasn't the first time he'd…left here, like that…but I wasn't aware the first time until right before he came back to us, and this time I knew it was permanent. 

This time I understood what had happened.  What it all meant.  He couldn't come back.  That's what I thought, what I was so afraid of.  This time…it was really all my fault.  That time, I mean.

An endless waltz when he stomped on my foot.

I'm just starting my life, with a mind like mine I can be anything, do anything; I can go back into space, not to fight but to learn.  To grow, to help humanity, to do something that I could put my name on it and say "I did that."  I wouldn't have to hide this achievement, and everyone would know, and I would have finally done something that meant something.  Not like everything else, this one would really count.  I could do something that was a little selfish and feel good about it.  If I wanted to, I mean. 

And…nobody could tell me I was wrong.

I could build a ship with Bulma, build a better ship than Bulma's, and let the world and my family know there's more than one genius on the planet.  I'm more than just a mass of muscles that blushes damn it, I want to show them.  Not even Mom knows.  Nobody believes. 

Permanent.  I could do anything.  Forever.  With him.  I close my eyes and swallow hard. 

No.

I deserve more than this.  I worked hard for what I have in my head; I want what's mine.  Is it so wrong to want that?  To prove what I know I can do?  To get the renowned I've earned, the reward that is my right?

…Damn.  Now I sound like him.

I always hated how he was arrogant.  So outspoken and brash.

Really.  It doesn't sound real sincere, but I'm not just saying that, I resented him for it at times.  I'm not real passionate about it, since I really don't think he would change if he even could, and showing annoyance would only encourage him and target myself.

There was no point then. 

There's, really, not any point in getting angry about it now, but I notice it sharper now.  Or I think about it now more.  Notice…him…something. 

Something like that.  Yeah.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Drugged Up Style

Ack.

Ergh.

Save me save me save me save me

He laughs out loud, staring blearily at the wet ceiling. 

Is it raining inside or is it raining inside on the outside?  Is it raining!  IS IT RAINING!!!!

rain rain rain blain blot shmook zary vary in the rain main jane

He grins manically, and wiggles his foot.

His head doesn't hurt anymore, it's rolling around somewhere on the leaves. 

He'll look for it later. 

Later later later mate matey sonny sunny jim jimboy ya-eee!

Sometimes, early in the morning, you need those extra bits of information.  This side up.  This side up.  Vegeta.  This side up.  Bastard.  Come back.  Early in the morning.  I hate you.  Early in the morni-

Come back to me,

~~~~~~~~~~~

Advanced Journal Style

;p   ^_^    L      ;)                     0_0  L  *_*   

:p  J                            0_0   

//////////////\\\\      0_0              L                                   x___x

                               x___x                                              ////

My fingers are hard like tree bark and cold, rough all over.

It hurts when I move them and It hurts when their touched. 

He's all I can think about. 

He told me to go.  He told me to go.  He was going to kill me if I didn't.

He didn't say I'd die when I did.  I don't want to endure more.

I've endured so much.  It hurts.  Like never.  I don't want it.  Not this.  Different.

Everything hurts.  Stupendous.

He looked at me before I left.  Not when I left but when I left him

He looked at me and he wouldn't change his mind.  Wouldn't change his mind.

Damn it my dad may have been the one that dies and comes back, one of the walking dead but he acts like…not even the dead. 

He's a monster.  I wish he were dead.

~~~~~~

Narrative Interlude Style

He screamed.

It was high, bleeding, raw sound, full of frustration and refutation and pain and rage and pain and anger and pain and hunger.

A hunger so ravenous and constant that the very sky seemed to shrink away from him, as if it feared being devoured or sucked into the void he harbored.

In rhythm to the tremble and volume of his voice, the ground trembles and darts away from him like a ton of sandy rabbits bursting from their burrows, ears laid back in fear.  The air ripples and vortexes like water in a hurricane, twisting and forming fish scales of calm and chaos with the debris and clear air.

Phenomenally, painfully, inconceivably, his voice goes higher, reaching and passing the level of steel on steel, of radio static, reaching the level where humans can here nothing but the ping inside their own heads and vibrating eardrums and he goes no further. 

There is a 'whoosh' sound as air swims back to fill in the vacuum left by his energy.  He breathes in once before he stops hovering in the air and falls regretfully to the ground.

He lays still, his face slightly buried in the ground, and pulls in a casual, relieved breaths, until his respiration evens out. 

He opens his eyes, but does not move.  He eyes the destruction almost absently, deadpan, and closes his eyes slowly and tightly.

"He doesn't-"

Then he begins to cry.  It's nothing dramatic or particularly painful or even vaguely sincere.  It's actually rather casual, in fact, just moisture running down his face from his eyes, his face worn and silent.

Very quiet, all in all.

But it's there. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Narrative Interspersed with POV Style

Wicked, wicked child.  Sentences?  What for???

Hn.  Tired. 

Hit him with a table because he wouldn't stand still.  Wouldn't stand still.  Moving.

Everything's changing.  Everything. 

Where are you?  Why can't I see?

He was going insane, his head and eyes turning to every twitch and shadow cast by the couch and the lamp. 

The lamp was swinging but only because he hit it.  Hurt it.  Kill the lamp.  Kill the light.

So he did and now his skin was leaking.  He'd been scoured by molecule slicing shrapnel and scalding daggers of light and ki without a scratch. 

His skin was leaking. 

He was getting weaker.

He moved like a wolf.  He stalked everywhere, not strutted or stupid just a measured controlled pace a little smoother and faster and silent than usual that could turn into a sprint.

He was always hunting, even if it was just Saturday.  He studied prey not people, studied rivals not equals.

"which one am i?  why can't I see you?  why can't i hear you?  where are you, stay with me…"

Hurts.

My throat hurts.  Am I sick?  My face is burning.  My head's too big my fingers too small why is the floor so bright there's light coming out of the floor.  It's too bright.  It hurts my eyes, hurts my mind, it's too bright it's nagging nag at my brain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Id vs Ego Style

The woman was getting suspicious. 

The boy, his offspring, was becoming worried.

The baka bastard had already spoken to him. 

That was a temporary fix.

God knew how long that would last.

…The boy's scent was fading. 

But it was still just as clear.

*

||Why are you fighting?||

That's what I do.

||How long can you fight?||

As long as I have life.

||You could always take him…||

No

||Why not him?||

He's afraid.  He doesn't deserve me.  He wouldn't know what to do.  He's afraid of me, and he really didn't choose me.  He doesn't have the courage.  He's weak. 

||He did claim you though.  Strong enough.||

A fluke.  And…anything…I did…would be refused.  Rejected. 

||Is that all?||

No…I really just don't like him.

||Why? ||

…Envy.  His power.  His innocence.  His home.  His family.

||Yet Kakkarott-||

Is not innocent.  Not dark, yet not pure.  If it were him, who had tried to claim me…he wouldn't have left.  He wouldn't have listened. 

||Rape? ||

…Perhaps.  Perhaps not, he doesn't have the stomach for it.  The bastard is Saiyan yet; the brat is not.

||They boy left.  He'll do what you want. ||

He's weak.  He's a child.  He's ningen bastard sired by an idiot on a backwater planet without pride or real strength.  His power is an absolute fluke, a mistake of nature.  The boy's a freak.  He's too weak to be worth anything to me.

||…Is he weak?  Or is he simply…loyal? ||

Loyal?

||Yes.  Loyal. ||

To what?  He doesn't acknowledge me-

||You've never asked.  Not really.  The father, yes, but not the boy.  He'll do what you want, even if he doesn't want to do it.  He did do what you wanted.  Even if it means him being hurt.  ||

Fear…

||Is it really? ||

…Yes.  It has to be.  No one's loyal.  Not to me.  Never to me.  They all worship Kakkarott, including the brat.

||…Yet he didn't tell his father.  He told you. ||

He was ashamed.  He was afraid.  He was stupid.

||Maybe he was just trusting. ||

Exactly.  He was stupid.  He is stupid.

||His faith and loyalty are strong to those he gives it to.  Unbreakable.  What if he were to give it to you? ||

I would hurt him.  I hurt everybody.  It's what I do.

||He is strong. ||

Not in his mind.  Not where I would attack.  Not where I would kill.

||He is your mate. ||

No, he isn't.

||He is.  Can you truly harm him?  Even if you wanted to?  Can you truly make him cry?||  

|| It goes against your culture.  It goes against your heritage. || 

Mates are chosen openly!  Not in the dark!  Not unwillingly!

||…True…||

||…Were you really unwilling? ||

…I-

"Vegeta!  Vegeta are you alright?!  What are you doing on the floor, omigod!  You're shivering, you need a doctor right now!  What the hell is wrong with you, you idiot, why didn't you say you were sick!  Trunks!  Call a doctor right now, we've got to hurry--"

…I don't remember.  I don't know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Second Speaker Point of View

Imagine lying in bed at night. 

It's sometime after midnight, you're going to wake up in about two hours, and you haven't gone to sleep yet.

Imagine staring at the ceiling, white except now it's gray because there's so little light, not even street or traffic or moonlight. 

Its just unanimously shadowy dark. 

Imagine lying with your arm across your stomach, where the coiled muscles and skittish organs are being burned by the hot blood in your arm. 

Your arm is burning. 

Your body…is burning.

Almost like with a fever, because your head feels like it's being hammered with iron on the sides, above and in front of your ears, that relatively thin layer of skull bone. 

The hatchet-hammer pounds an irregular ditty, not even letting you predict and prepare for the next blow.  Your fingers pulse in tune to your heartbeat, your mortality, your blood, like a drunken Edgar A. Poe fantasy with writhing shadows and smirking, invisible demons.

Imagine grimacing at the feeling. 

It's far too introspective for your taste. 

The way you think, things inside you should stay that way.  Things inside other people, however, can come out if they're idiots or piss you off.  It amounts to the same thing.

Imagine lying there, feeling sick, feeling introspective, but above all furious because feeling any of those things is not what you do.  Feeling those weak emotions is something other people do. 

Not you. 

You were made, molded, and born stronger than that.  And the humility of being sick needles you like iron fragments on your hands and legs.  And further more, you just don't like being sick. 

Period.

Imagine lying there, thinking that.

Imagine lying there, pissed for a considerably long time, yet not doing anything about it.

Imagine of all the reasons, you might do that to yourself.

Imagine the shock, when nothing comes up.

Imagine next, something does.

You close your eyes again and fight.  You're going to have to; it's not your problem, well, it wasn't your stupid fucking problem, but you're the only one really able to fight.

The other's too weak.

But you knew that already.

You knew you couldn't count on him.

You know you can only count on yourself.

You can never count on anything else, because everything else changes.

But you knew that already.

Imagine considering ending it.

Ending him.

The idea has merit, and you're not really shocked by it.

On one hand you have embarrassment, pain, and growing sickness that makes you fight down vomiting after every meal and keeps you awake at night.  Every night.  Later it will cause you to pass out.  And much later after that, it will consume you.  Totally.  They'll have to beat you up, drug you up, and lock you up to keep control of you, because you won't have control of yourself.

You know these facts, but still you fight. 

You're not…certain of all the facts yet, but you're not introspective.  And damned if you will be.

On the other hand you have his death.  A huge gap in defenses.  Further alienation of the natives, if that's still possible.  The wrath of his father.  Which might kill you.  The wrath of his mother.  Which will annoy you.  The wrath of the Namek.  That you'll win against. 

And then having to see him.  Having to touch him.  Having to be within visible, telepathic, audible, tactile, olfactory distance of him. 

And then having to kill him.

This stuns you longer than the others.

Imagine lying there, some stupid game going on inside your head and your brains being splattered over the walls, unable to ignore that, unable to ignore the flame in your spine, the cold sweat just behind your ears and shoulders that tickles and teases and not even having the strength to wipe it off. 

You who committed genocide.  You who destroyed planets.  You whose name was whispered among spaceports in fear and disbelief.

And you can't even wipe off sweat.

He's made you weak.

It hurts to move your body and you haven't done anything!

He's made you hurt.

He's made you weak.

You hate him.

You have reason.

The potential screams, pleads, cries for you and you can't turn away.  The power dances and flirts, and you can't turn away. You've hunted your whole life for something like this.  Someone like this.  The power rages like magic, like a demon; fierce, wild, irrational and uncontrollable. 

It's beautiful. 

It's everything you wanted. 

It's everything you deserve. 

The fear, the reverence, the mysterious godlike ability that should have been yours, that by birth and rank and blood should have been yours

You could have, you can—do anything with power like that.  Even now, the desire still courses through you, beckoning. 

And he doesn't even understand it.

He's afraid of it.

He's afraid of it.

He's afraid of it.

You can't believe it. 

You want it.

You need it.

With power like that no one could touch you.  No one could stand against you.  The boy was stronger than his father, could be stronger than his father easily again, and with that power you could destroy him.  Your rival.  You could make him kneel down and lick your boots just like you always wanted him to.  And you could kill him.  Defeat him.  Humiliate him completely.  And it would be you.  World's strongest. 

Universal fighter.

Lord.

Messiah.

Ouji.

Ou.

Ultimate.

It would be you.

With power like that.

He doesn't have the drive for it; his life has been relatively peaceful, even with all the aliens who come crashing down from time to time.  He never lost family.  He never lost a home.  Everything he ever lost could be put back with a wish. 

Yours can't.  You have the drive.

You have the desire.

You have the base need and blatant ambition.

You're not afraid. 

You apologized to him.

Your first.

Your only.

Just him.

Of the baka.  Of the mudball.  Of the flaring hellfire power. 

It calls to you.

But you've never answered back. 

You've got your pride. 

You've always had your pride.

You may have lost your strength, you may have lost your home, you may have lost your people, you may have lost your life and you've even lost your name. 

You lost your name.  What it was.  What it meant.  Who you were.  What you were.

You lost it.

You've lost it all.

You've always had your pride.

You've compromised a lot, but in the end it isn't who was the strongest or the smartest or the fastest or just the best that wins.  That isn't the way the universe works.  It isn't fair.  In the end it's the one left standing that wins.  Even if they never fought.  Even if they were cowards.  It's the one left standing who wins, because there's no one else to talk.  There's no one else breathing.

This isn't about fighting.

This isn't about winning.

This isn't about being the best.

This is about surviving.

They wouldn't know anything about that.

Nothing.

None of them.

Nothing.

But you would.

You would know so much, if only they asked you.

And in the darkness, in the pain, you cringe.

You don't like to remember.

You don't want the darkness back.

You hate being introspective.

You aren't sympathetic because what the other guy wants is your death.  It's that simple.  That's all that matters.  That's all that's ever mattered.  The others wouldn't understand.  It's just you alone.  It's…always…just you alone.

Alone.

There.

And there, in that single moment of shame and vulnerability, that one single small insignificant second where your walls thin down to paper width…you feel his life pulse.

He's broken through.

He's here.

And you wince again.

The headache returns en force.

A tsunami of blood is wrecked inside your skin, inside your veins, and your fingers and thighs pulse and prick.

Silver on black, moonlight on skin, soft sanctuary shadow coolness in his skin and on his mouth and further down where the shadows hide.  Where the blood burns.

You hate him.

You hate him.

You hate him.

It sounds hollow, even inside the darkness behind your eyes.

You know he's been there.  He's been watching you.  He's been following you, smelling you, tasting you.  But he's never touched you.  He's never let you see him.  He's gotten good at hiding, good at hunting.  He didn't use to be.  He's gotten good, now that he's free. 

He's always been good, but he's always hid it.  And now he isn't.  He's kept his ki down.  No big trick.  He showered before he came, so his scent is faint.  Light.  Barely noticeable.  Smart of him, it's how a hunter should be thinking.

But you don't need any of those things to know where he is.

This pounding in your head tells you perfectly.

You always know where he is.

You're trying hard not to.

He's obsessed with you. 

Right now he's outside your window.

It's odd and infantile and perverse and assaulting.  It's humiliating.

You can't stop thinking about it.  You can't stop reacting to it. 

You feel exposed. 

You wonder how he tastes.

You try hard not to.  You fight against it.  You fight against him.  You fight against the pounding of your blood.

You know you're going to lose.  In the end.  You usually do.

But that doesn't stop you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N:  I really liked this chapter.  I fell in love with it, even.  Expect a few more excerpts like this, but not many.  I think it's kind of hard to follow, but I still like doing them. 

You live and learn, and then get Luvs.