Chapter Four: The Timelines Converge

As he adjusted the controls in the gravity chamber, the adult Trunks felt his muscles straining and sweat beginning to bead on his skin. That was what he loved about training under the pressure of increased gravity—every minute was a workout on his body, even when he wasn't moving. He smirked, still unsure of how healthy it was to train in an environment in which your every breath was labored, in which standing still was painful but moving was even more painful. But despite the questionable validity of this kind of training, Trunks liked it. He'd missed it.

He probably got it from his father. Vegeta had always been so obsessed with surpassing the low-born but undeniably effortlessly stronger Goku that he had intensified his rigid physical regimen, not caring how it hurt. Trunks had no rival, but he still had the burning in his blood to push himself to his limits and become the strongest he could possibly be through whatever means necessary.

He shifted his gaze toward the equipment, assessing the helpful tools coolly. Which one should he use first? The punching bag was simple and juvenile, but it seemed appealing to him. It would serve his purposes. Without warning, he launched his body at the firm punching bag and slammed his fist hard enough in its surface to leave a dent.

Goten's face.

Trunks's eyes widened and he found himself breathing heavily, more heavily than the exercise warranted. The memories swam before him despite himself. He had imagined punching Goten's face, and— He gravely surveyed the damage he had done to the bag. The chain affixing it to the ceiling was strained and damaged, and there was a clear mark of Trunks's strike that was nearly a puncture. If Trunks had really leveled that kind of force at Goten, it would have fractured his skull or smashed his nose in. It very well could have killed him.

Remembering the wide-eyed seven-year-old Goten of this time, Trunks found himself shaking. He wasn't sure why.

The little face, full of concern and love for his big brother who'd been impaled, seemed to morph into an older, thinner face with darker circles under its eyes and a crueler glint to the eyes.

"But we're still best friends, aren't we?"

Goten rubbed his chin, giving a perfect impression of thinking over the question Trunks had asked him. But Trunks knew Goten well enough to know when he'd already made up his mind. This toying with people, this use of sarcasm, was most unlike the Goten he knew. It was frightening.

"Were we ever?" Goten's reply was soft. Never outright accusing, he was too sleek, too debonair for that. His voice wound around Trunks like suffocating silk.

Trunks shook his head to clear it. He had always secretly—or not so secretly—prided himself on being smarter than his friend, but now he suspected that Goten was playing mind games with him. And Trunks was flailing helplessly in the sea of deception, not knowing the rules. Before, Goten would have thrown him a life preserver. Now, no mercy seemed forthcoming. Now, for the first time, Trunks knew what it was like to be on his own.

"Of course we're friends! You know that!" he returned fiercely. That was something he could cling to, at least. That, if nothing else.

"There are so few things we can trust in this world," Goten murmured, seemingly to himself. He trailed his fingers lightly against the railing as he descended the stairs to where Trunks stood, perplexed. "I trusted my brother wasn't a murderer. I trusted that my dad loved this family. Wrong on both accounts." He chuckled, a humorless sound. Trunks shivered.

"Well, that's why I came—"

"Because you got caught in your lies? Because you want to rush to gain my forgiveness now that you've been found out?" Goten openly glared at Trunks for the first time. Trunks took a step back. He'd never seen such loathing in those coal-black eyes, such complete, intense hatred—aimed at him. Aimed at him!

Trunks held up two hands as if in defense against blows. "Now, listen, man—"

"That's all I ever do, isn't it? Listen. Listen to those who won't bother to listen to me," Goten spat. "You expect me to just let you walk all over me again. Forgive you without a second thought because that's all poor, stupid Goten knows how to do, right? Why wouldn't anyone just tell me the truth? Even you, Trunks. Even the people I was supposed to trust the most. I was the baby? I just couldn't handle it?"

Overwhelmed, Trunks couldn't find his voice for a long moment. Where had this bitterness come from? How long had it been building? In his shock, he couldn't process every barb Goten had thrown, but they had all hit the mark with painful accuracy. Knowing it was insufficient, he managed to stutter, "I—we—we just didn't want to hurt you."

A thick silence overtook the room. Goten finished descending the stairs, each footfall noiseless, never taking his eyes off of Trunks for a second.

Very deliberately, and almost pleasantly, Goten said, to break the silence, "If you don't turn around and walk out that door right now, I'm going to kill you."

Trunks jolted himself back into the present—past? This time traveling thing was so confusing sometimes. Anyway, he couldn't afford to think about his past, and everyone else's hopefully preventable future. He had to keep a strong body and a steady head. His father had told him so.

Right on cue, the door slid open and Trunks turned his head to see his father entering the chamber. It was still a shock to see him without the scar on his face that Gohan had given him. It was lucky he'd escaped that fight at all, and with only one scar to show for it.

"May I join you?" Vegeta asked gruffly, not looking his son in the eye.

Trunks sighed inwardly, sure that this was a ploy for a questioning session, but he simply gave a curt nod and turned his attention back to the punching bag.

"You did quite a number on that thing," Vegeta commented. His tone didn't give away whether he was aggravated or impressed. Trunks chose to ignore it.

This seemed to suit Vegeta fine. While Trunks hammered away at the hapless punching back, Vegeta made a beeline for the weights. For some time, there was no communication in the room, just the shared camaraderie of grunts and the repetitive thuds and clangs from their respective training tools of choice.

Finally, Trunks could contain himself no longer, looking over at his father who was still benchpressing mammoth amounts of weight, adding a bit more at a time. "It's not all about strength, you know."

Vegeta grunted, but didn't slow down his workout. He gave no sign of having heard Trunks, and Trunks was ready to turn back to what he was doing when Vegeta finally responded, "It's not all about fear either, boy."

"Fear?" Trunks turned to gape at his father, utterly offended. Did he exude vibes of fear, he, who had survived the person he trusted most in the world turning against him with murderous vengeance? He, who had ventured back in time alone with so many fates on his shoulders? He, the rightful crown prince of the Saiyan race?

"Why the nonstop training if not out of worry for the future? Why the aversion to speaking to the people you used to love? Fear you'll lose them? Fear you'll fail them?" Vegeta smirked. "The fear of failure is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Your overpreparation will run you into the ground. Confidence is the only way to win a battle. Or didn't you know that? That's why I focus on strength. My mindset is optimal for winning. I just need my body to match it."

This philosophy—it was different from the one the Vegeta of his own time held. But he didn't mention that. Instead, he simply replied, "Strategy's important too."

"And you think hitting that unmoving, unresponsive dummy will help you form a strategy applicable to the real world? Give me a break. I would've thought my own son would know better," Vegeta taunted.

Trunks stared at the nearly-spent punching bag. Maybe he needed to hit something unresponsive. Something that wasn't Goten. And maybe…maybe this was necessary preparation. For if he'd have to hit someone so hard they stopped moving. Altogether.

He said nothing and walked over to the mats to do some push-ups and sit-ups. Vegeta didn't bother him anymore. Trunks liked it that way. He wasn't sure what to think about the words that were so opposite to his father's words in another time, in another place.

He wasn't sure what to think about the fact that this version of his father, who barely knew him and knew little about his situation, seemed to know him inside and out. And seemed to be exactly right.

All he saw was a flash of black, orange, and blue before he felt a thud of a tiny body colliding with his. "Hey, Goten," Trunks said breathlessly, knowing at once who it was before even being able to see him. He smiled and laid his hand on the smaller boy's head.

Bulla snickered, amused. "It's like Goten's a linebacker and you're the football."

"I was so bored, Trunks! I'm glad you're here. Krillin came over, and I thought that'd be fun, but I think he and Mom are having adult talk, and Gohan won't come out of the bathroom, and Dad hasn't even come out of his room yet!" The words spilled out of Goten's mouth with little rhyme or reason, but Trunks had no trouble following the chatter. Or seeing the subtext that he knew Goten was unaware of. So they still hadn't told him about Goku, huh?

Bulla's eyebrows rose. She opened her mouth, but Trunks clapped his hand over it quickly. Bulla glared, and Trunks shook his head frantically, trying to make her see that breaking the news like this would be a bad idea. Goten would be hurt that both Bulla and Trunks knew, but that his mother and brother had both lied to him about it. Besides, there was a probably a reason for the secrecy. It wasn't really their place to interfere with the Sons' affairs, Trunks reasoned to himself. He still felt a sick, uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

Bulla licked Trunks's hand, and Trunks yanked his hand from her mouth with an exclamation of disgust, wiping his wet hand on his trousers. She grinned at him with her missing front teeth, but said nothing. Thankfully.

Goten looked from one to the other. "What was that about?"

"Nothing," Trunks said quickly, averting his eyes from Goten's. A thought occurred to him. "You said your brother was in the bathroom?"

Goten nodded. "Mm hm! I don't know what he's doing in there. Maybe something he ate made him sick."

"Maybe that sword in his stomach made him sick," Trunks muttered without thinking. Then, seeing Goten's blanching face, he realized how insensitive that was. He started to apologize, then thought better of it. He crossed his arms like he saw his father do sometimes. "Well, what are you looking like that for? You can handle the truth, can't you? Don't be such a wuss."

Bulla put her hands on her hips. "That's right, Goten. If your brother's fine now, there's no need to give so much weight to the past."

Goten shuffled his feet. "I was really worried about Gohan."

"You guys keep each other company," Trunks said brusquely. "I need to go in and talk with Gohan for a minute, okay?"

Bulla and Goten both looked at him in surprise.

"But…" Goten began.

"You hate Gohan," Bulla interrupted promptly, eyeing Trunks with her shrewd gaze.

Trunks squirmed. "That's a strong word." And, honestly, it had never been apt. Trunks had found Gohan annoying, a bit of a nerd, irresponsible when it came to balancing his relationship with his daughter and girlfriend and his relationship with his parents and brother…they'd had their issues, but in his heart of hearts, Trunks didn't hate the guy. He wasn't sure he could still say that after last night. How did he feel about the Gohan who had taken Goten's father away from him and then lied about it, the Gohan who had tried to coerce him, Trunks, into performing the dirty deed and had forced him to be a witness and remain silent about his knowledge to his best friend? Trunks was between a rock and a hard place—tell Goten the truth and break his heart, or lie to his face and break his trust?

It wasn't a situation Trunks could figure out on his own. At the very least, he had to confront Gohan about it. He wasn't quite sure what he would say. He had to trust that the words would come as they were needed.

Leaving Bulla and Goten to converse in the yard, he went inside the Son house. Low murmurs were coming from the living room area, and Trunks began to turn there, but he stopped when he recognized that though there were two ki signatures, neither of them belonged to Gohan.

Krillin and Chi-Chi, he realized. Weird. They seemed to be in deep conversation, though, and he'd leave them to it. His business was with the other person in the house. He took a deep breath and started the climb up the stairs. Now that he was focused, he could sense the elder Son's presence, like the prize at the end of the finish line. The prize...or the punishment. Every step took him closer to the uncertainty, and he was both eager for the suspense to be over and dreading what he'd find at the top of the staircase.

He finally ascended and peeked into Gohan's room, where he'd slept last night. The scene of the crime. He shuddered, not able to help his mind from drifting there.

Gohan's back was rimrod straight. He was sitting on the edge of his bed with his back to the door. Trunks noticed that he was fully dressed, but beyond that he couldn't discern anything. He was just about to lose his nerve and retreat when Gohan, without turning, said, "Come in."

Trunks found that he was helpless to do anything but obey. He stepped inside the dark room, which had somehow had a lighter atmosphere in the pitch black of night when they had all squeezed into the bed together—Gohan, Goku, Goten, and him. Good friends could banish any darkness.

Gohan turned to look at him at last. Trunks was surprised to see some stubble on his chin. He was usually perfectly clean-shaven whenever Trunks saw him, so it was easy to forget that Gohan even grew facial hair.

"I suppose you want to talk about last night." Gohan's voice was heavy, like his eyelids. He didn't look or sound like himself.

Trunks shifted. Not really. Not if I can help it. "Shouldn't you talk with Goten about it first?"

Gohan looked surprised, but the expression was a fleeting one. "Direct. I always admired that about you, Trunks."

Even though he was being complimented, the comment seemed wrong. Everything about this seemed wrong. Trunks suddenly felt that coming here alone to speak to Gohan had been a terrible mistake. He didn't want to admit that he was afraid, even to himself, but—he'd never seen anyone kill before. The last person he ever would have expected to change that had been Gohan.

"I went to the Lookout. Just got back, actually," Gohan continued conversationally. If he noticed Trunks's discomfort, he said nothing about it. "I was seeking Dende's advice about the Namekian Dragon Balls."

Trunks started. The Dragon Balls? "To wish your dad back?" he asked, confused. Then why had Gohan killed him in the first place?

Gohan nodded in confirmation. "But they were used. Just last night." Gohan clenched his fists. "All three wishes—and I only needed one of them. I might have been able to use them if I hadn't given in to my fatigue last night. There are some things more important than sleep." Gohan looked utterly disgusted with himself.

"So you won't be able to bring him back after all?" Trunks ventured carefully.

"Not for a Namekian year. Four months, our time," Gohan said. His eyes slid over to study Trunks. "I thought I was getting Dad back in a matter of days. Now to find out that he'll be gone for months instead—it shouldn't make a difference. But it's like I've lost him all over again."

Unexpectedly, Trunks felt a strong pang of pity for the man—boy? He really was just a boy. He looked so harried and helpless and lost. He was trying to figure things out, and he had no one to help him. His mother was furious at him, and his brother was young and ignorant of all this…

"Maybe you should talk to Videl about it?" Trunks suggested.

Gohan seemed amused. He shook his head. "Us making a mistake once when I was at the lowest point of my life doesn't mean she wants to be involved with every crisis I get myself into."

Trunks bristled. "Pan isn't a mistake."

Gohan sobered. "No, she isn't. She's the one good thing that came out of our mistake."

This pacified Trunks. He sighed. "What'd the Namekian Dragon Balls get used for last night, anyway?"

Gohan scoffed. "Mr. Popo used them. Gave the Lookout a Jacuzzi, a swimming pool, and a golf course." He listed the features with difficulty. "Because it's peacetime, and he figured we weren't using them and they shouldn't go to waste. Figures something like this would happen…Serves us right for being too—" He paused, and then in a strangled voice that almost sounded like a bitter laugh, he completed his sentence, "—complacent."

Trunks thought that the new and improved Lookout sounded like it would be a fun place to play. He immediately felt guilty for the thought. "Well, if it's going to be four months instead of a few days, don't you think you ought to tell Goten?"

Gohan shook his head vehemently. An actual expression took root in his face. He was afraid. "I can't! Let's just…let's just keep him in the dark a while longer."

"But—"

"Please, Trunks. I couldn't bear it." He closed his eyes against the pain, but forced the rest out. "I couldn't bear it if he hated me, too."

Trunks bit his lip. "What are you going to tell him when he asks where his dad is?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Please, Trunks," Gohan said again.

Trunks sighed. He knew he was going to regret this. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was unfair. He knew he was being a bad and untrustworthy friend. But looking into Gohan's haunted eyes, all he could say was, "Okay."