No matter how many times I called his name, he wouldn't answer. No matter how many insults I screamed at him, he'd never reply with one of his own. No matter how hard I hit him, he'd never hit me back. No matter how hard I cried, he'd never wipe my tears away.
It was no use. I had killed my brother, my partner, my only friend.
Looking up, I abruptly leaped to my feet, my breath caught in my throat. Trunks was standing at the edge of the crater, having climbed out without my notice.
He was staring, wide-eyed, much like 17 had just moments before.
It was his sword buried deep in 17's side. But he hadn't put it there.
We were standing a short distance apart, eyes locked. My shoulders were square and tight; I don't think I could have moved if I had wanted to. Trunks was covered in cuts and bruises, his hair was matted with blood, his jacket torn and his sword's sheath still strapped to his back. His eyes left me to take in 17's body. Neither of us spoke. The air seemed thick with disbelief. It became harder to breathe with each second we stood there.
Eventually, Trunks moved forward, kneeling down to grasp the hilt of his sword. With a quick jerk of his hand, the blade was pulled free, and he straightened, sheathing it once more. My hands tightened at my sides.
I expected him to say something, to tell me I deserved what I'd gotten. I expected him to attack me. I wanted him to say something, I wanted him to attack me. But he merely looked at me for a moment longer, then closed his eyes.
One step, two, three, four, and Trunks was starting to walk away from me. He didn't glance back, keeping a slow, steady pace as he made his way down the dark sidewalk. Street lights flickered on, illuminating the abandoned shops and restaurants that lined the road. Everything was silent save for Trunks' footsteps. They echoed through my head and seemed to vibrate in my chest.
After some time, I was able to bring myself to plant myself at 17's side, gently moving him so I could wrap my arms around him, his head resting limply against my shoulder as I cradled him, protecting him against the darkness of the night. I brushed my fingers against his cold cheek, stroking his hair and rocking softly back and forth. Smoothing his orange scarf, I held him to me, finally giving in to the tears.
It was no use. I had killed my brother, my partner, my only friend.
Looking up, I abruptly leaped to my feet, my breath caught in my throat. Trunks was standing at the edge of the crater, having climbed out without my notice.
He was staring, wide-eyed, much like 17 had just moments before.
It was his sword buried deep in 17's side. But he hadn't put it there.
We were standing a short distance apart, eyes locked. My shoulders were square and tight; I don't think I could have moved if I had wanted to. Trunks was covered in cuts and bruises, his hair was matted with blood, his jacket torn and his sword's sheath still strapped to his back. His eyes left me to take in 17's body. Neither of us spoke. The air seemed thick with disbelief. It became harder to breathe with each second we stood there.
Eventually, Trunks moved forward, kneeling down to grasp the hilt of his sword. With a quick jerk of his hand, the blade was pulled free, and he straightened, sheathing it once more. My hands tightened at my sides.
I expected him to say something, to tell me I deserved what I'd gotten. I expected him to attack me. I wanted him to say something, I wanted him to attack me. But he merely looked at me for a moment longer, then closed his eyes.
One step, two, three, four, and Trunks was starting to walk away from me. He didn't glance back, keeping a slow, steady pace as he made his way down the dark sidewalk. Street lights flickered on, illuminating the abandoned shops and restaurants that lined the road. Everything was silent save for Trunks' footsteps. They echoed through my head and seemed to vibrate in my chest.
After some time, I was able to bring myself to plant myself at 17's side, gently moving him so I could wrap my arms around him, his head resting limply against my shoulder as I cradled him, protecting him against the darkness of the night. I brushed my fingers against his cold cheek, stroking his hair and rocking softly back and forth. Smoothing his orange scarf, I held him to me, finally giving in to the tears.