Author's Note: This is separate. Not a part of my series. Completely, absolutely canon, for the first time in my life, if rather dark.
Goten lived in a world of shadows. They covered the floor. There was no where to stand. Whatever he did, someone else had done it better, a different way, or just. . . had done it before him.
Super saiyan at seven. Unnoticed. Trunks had only been a few months older, and stronger. Goten had yet to win a sparring match when he fought the violet-haired demi-saiyan.
Powerful. Well, not so much. In comparison to the others. He was the weakest of those with saiyan blood, offered the least. Hardly mattered.
Goten daydreamed in school. He slept through tests. His grades were poor. Gohan had never received anything but perfect scores. Had ascended before he hit puberty, but didn't like to fight. His view on battle wasn't right, for a warrior. A saiyan. So powerful, yet loathed the thought of blood. Human. Their mother had never called Gohan a monster. A demon. Not perfect, HUMAN Gohan. His brother gave shade. Covered all of their house, the woods. Goten spent more time at Capsule Corp. after he started kindergarten. He told his mother it was so Trunks could help him study.
His fighting technique was unpolished and imperfect. Goten had been informed that his father's style was flawless. No mistakes, no useless movement. He couldn't verify the stories. His father had died before he had been born. He brought the most darkness.
They looked so much alike. The pictures had proved that much at least. The same hair. The same laugh. The same eyes. Except. . . his father was bigger, stronger. And. . . there WERE differences. Goten had one bang that fell over his eyes, not two. He preferred the blues, not the orange shades, though his mother insisted he wear a replica of his father's old gi when she trained him.
She didn't like that he favored his legs, insisted he learn to punch properly. "Your father had the most perfect hand technique." He reverted back to kicks whenever he sparred with Trunks. Goten knew that he fought better that way.
He didn't like rice balls, had to remind his mother when she served them. She was always surprised, even slightly hurt. But no matter how many times Goten told her, the rice balls were always there. They had been there on his birthday. No sushi, though Goten loved the seaweed-wrapped rice and fish with a passion, had it whenever he spent the night at Trunks'. Gohan had once told him that sushi had been one of their father's least favorite dishes.
The rice balls stared back at Goten. It had taken him several moments to catch the encouraging looks of Gohan, but he did see. He thanked his mother for the meal, told her it looked wonderful. She had been happy. If he had spoken rather more quietly than usual, she hadn't noticed. He tried to eat around them.
"What's wrong, Goten? You haven't touched the rice balls." A weak smile. He spat the rice on the floor when she wasn't looking.
Goten liked to draw. He had confided in Trunks, once. The elder demi-saiyan was scornful. "What kind of warrior draws little birdies and flowers? No REAL warrior." Goten hid the notebook. When later asked, he told his best friend that he had thrown it away.
Once he had trained with Vegeta in the gravity room. The saiyan prince had derided his power. "Kakarrot would have never let such a weak blast get through his defenses. The only thing you seem to have inherited from your third-class father is his inclination towards idiocy." That was the kindest of the insults.
Gohan told him stories. About the power, the strength, the kindness. The mercy their father showed towards his enemies. His smile. His laugh. "You are so much like him. If I didn't know better. . ." And Gohan would look at Goten, his eyes seeing something. Something that, Goten knew, wasn't him. Then his brother would collect himself, his pupils focusing. Gohan would ruffle his hair, laugh. "Wow, for a second there, I thought. . . it doesn't matter. Sleep well, little brother."
It was during those times, after his brother left, that the shadows would darken. It was hard to see. Hard to breath. Late at night, when he heard his mother weeping through the thin walls of their home, sobbing for one seven years gone, Goten was blind.
He had once attempted to comfort her. Goten hated it when his mother was sad. He soon ascertained it was far worse to go to her than it was to listen in the darkness. She wouldn't see him. She would envision a shadow, sob louder, scream at the specter for tormenting her. For letting her glimpse a pale, false reflection. Goten learned to suffocate in silence.
One time, Goten skipped school with Trunks. They had gone to the park, skipped rocks across the lake. Trunks laughed, teased his friend. Goten had been happy. This was something his father couldn't touch. Goku had never had a friend such as Trunks, so confident and strong and so unknowing of the dark. Then Trunks had started comparing them, as was his tendency to do.
"I wished I looked as much like my dad as you look like yours." Trunks scowled at his reflection in the lake, tossed a stone rather viciously at a group of ducks. "Stupid hair. No real saiyan prince ever had hair like this." Goten couldn't imagine anyone ever wanting to resemble their father as he did.
"You're Trunks. Why do want to be like someone you're not?" Trunks gave him a strange look.
" 'cause my dad's cool, duh!" He examined the younger demi-saiyan closely. "What, don't you like looking like your dad? He may have been a lame third-class, but even so, dad says he was pretty powerful."
"It's not that. It's just that. . . I would kind of like it better if I looked more like me and less like my daddy." So his mother would stop crying when she saw him. So he could wear blue. So he could want sushi on his birthday and not be ashamed.
"Whatever." Trunks again glanced down at his wavering likeness. "I still think I'd look better if my hair stood up straight. Maybe we can steal some of Grandma's hair gel next time you're over."
When Goten got home, his mother had lectured him on his delinquency, his tardiness, how worried he had made her, did he want to grow up like his father. . . she fled the room, but Goten could see the unusual brightness of her eyes. The one thing he could see, when he was blind.
Goten felt slightly guilty about hiding his sketchbook from his family, but after Trunks' reaction, he couldn't deal with any other people knowing about it. It wasn't so much fear of a negative reaction, it was just Goten didn't feel he could deal with it if he found out that his father, too, drew animals, and flowers, and trees. Goten wanted the book to be his own little shadow, his own mark, even if no one else knew about it. Even if it was just pretend.
Goten needed his book, his pencils, during the darkest times, when he forgot how to breath. The shadows encompassing him, overwhelming his senses. When he drew the bunny, the dandelion, he could see, just a little. It became lighter out, less shadows. Less darkness. He hid his art supplies under a loose floorboard in his room.
"Gohan's what's this?" Goten, while mildly irritated that someone was interrupting his time with Mr. Lizard, soon forgot his annoyance when he saw his brother. Gohan wasn't around much, anymore. But all emotions were paralyzed when he saw what his brother was holding.
"What are you doing with my book?"
"I found it under the floor when I was looking in your room for paper. You know Goten," at this, Gohan flipped open the pages, "Some of the sketches are pretty good. . ."
"DON'T TOUCH IT!" The teenage demi-saiyan blinked, startled at the uncharacteristic vehemence in his younger brother's voice.
"Goten, I didn't. . ."
"You had NO right, Gohan. That's MINE!"
"I know it's your book, Goten. . ."
"No, I mean. . ." Goten looked down, his anger fading. "I didn't want anyone to see it. I didn't want anyone else having it."
"I won't tell anyone, Goten. Though. . ." and Gohan again flipped through the pages, "Dad would've loved this, Goten. He enjoyed nature so much. . ."
Gohan kept his word. He told no one. But later, the book didn't drive away the shadows as much as it used to.
Once, Goten forgot about it. He was sketching a deer family half a mile from home, when he heard his mother yelling that dinner was ready. He left the book, thinking he'd finish after dinner. But then there was a bath, and Gohan read him a bedtime story, and by the time the storm rolled around, Goten was fast asleep.
He remembered the next morning, but already the book was ruined. "Goten, I'm so sorry about your sketches."
"Don't worry about it Gohan. The book was no good anymore, anyway." The darkness had tainted it. But not so much that Goten didn't wish for his book, his pencil, the next time there was no where to stand. Everywhere he went, he couldn't see.
When Goten met his father at the World Martial Arts Tournament, he had long since taught himself how not to breath. When his mother served rice balls at his next birthday, he didn't spit them out when her back was turned. He had forgotten the light. Goten couldn't remember how to resent the darkness.
When Goten was ten, Gohan gave him something on his birthday. Their parents were asleep when Gohan woke his younger brother up. "What is it, Gohan?"
"Here." He was handed a book, a pencil. Goten stared at them blankly. "I remembered that you liked to draw when you were younger, but your sketchbook was ruined by the rain. Now that I'm moving out and all, I thought that maybe you'd like to start up an old hobby."
Goten continued to stare at the book long after Gohan had left. It was stupid. But for some reason, when the next day he saw the maple leaves falling off the tree, he just HAD to get it down on paper, immortalize it. The tree would be barren in days, and it was just so pretty. . . for some reason, Goten's lungs felt clearer that night. And the next day, Goten wore blue. No reason not to. He wasn't his father's clone, after all.