Author's Note: One more update. I seriously need some ideas for this, folks. Hope you like it though. There's also a cover art in my LiveJournal for this that my friend Erica drew. Cheick it out, and please enjoy and review.

Part 3

Blueberry Breakfast

He thought he understood things. Better than anyone else his age, anyway. Trunks never felt the need to downplay his intelligence or be humble about it. His mother taught him to value more than just physical strength, but his father taught him pride, and he had always been fiercely proud of everything that was his own: family, friends, power, intellect. At the moment it was the lack of understanding that was driving the boy crazy.

His mother, brushing unshed tears from the corners of her eyes, crossed the kitchen in just a few long strides and wrapped her arms around the young man standing to his right. She held tightly him for several long moments then moved back, her hands still resting on his shoulders, to look him in the eyes. The youth looked slightly embraced, but otherwise not bothered by the display of emotion. Like it was something he was almost expecting.

“Your father told me everything,” Bulma said, cupping the young man's face in her hands. “I'm so sorry, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” he bowed his head, lavender tresses obscuring his face from Trunks' view. “But I... I don't want you to worry. It doesn't say anything about... it doesn't mean anything for you.”

Instantly the look on her face slipped from concern and sympathy to anger and hurt. She withdrew her hands and gave the young man a sharp look Trunks was well familiar with. He felt a lecture coming on and would have felt sorry for their visitor if he was not so confused.

“I don't care where you're from,” his mother said, hands on hips. “You should know me better than that. I'm worried about you, nothing else. Understand?”

“Yes,” the youth murmured. “I'm sorry.”

And just like that, she was back to sweet and motherly. She patted his cheek. “It's alright, baby. I know you've been through a lot.”

“Give the boy room, woman,” his father's gruff voice sounded from the other side of the table. “Contrary to your belief, he does not need to be coddled constantly.”

Trunks had had enough. Fed up with going unnoticed, he levitated a good foot off the floor and floated between his mother and the stranger to whom he was starting to feel a stronger and stronger connection. Glancing questioningly between them, brows drawn in a perfect imitation of his father, the boy glowered.

“Yeah, this is all very touching, Mom,” his tone did not match his words, “but can someone tell me who this guy is?”

Bulma pulled her nine-year-old son from mid air and settled back on the barstool with him in her lap. He squirmed a little. Trunks' initial instinct was to push away – he was not a baby anymore, after all – but the disruption of his daily life just when it had returned to normal was enough to keep him still. The youth took a seat next to Vegeta, head still slightly bowed. His mother brushed the lavender strands from his forehead, a pointless but oddly comforting gesture.

“Mom, it's okay. You can tell me,” he promised. “Even if he's like my long-lost brother or something.”

From the corner of his eye, Trunks saw the youth make an attempt to pull back an ill-concealed smile. His father rose a brow, not bothering to hide his amusement at all. Vegeta's classic smirk usually meant trouble for whoever it was aimed at, and Trunks was fairly certain he was the target this time. His mother laughed a little as well.

“I suppose that's one way you can think of him,” she said. “He is mine and your father's son and came to us before you were born. He left when you were still a baby, so it's no wonder you don't remember him.”

Trunks glanced at the young man. He thought he would feel better having his theory confirmed, but now that it seemingly had been, something still didn't sit quite right with him. “Isn't he a little too old?” he frowned. “Unless you and Dad knew each other way before and didn't tell anyone.” That would be cool.

“No, we didn't. This might be kind of hard to understand.”

His mother was wrong. The story she told was not at all hard to follow. It was fantastic, full of adventure and exciting battles and sacrifice and all the good stuff he'd come to expect. Trunks read enough sci-fi and fantasy to know the plot well enough. He just never dreamed it could also apply to real life. He stared wide-eyed at the young man across the table who look back at him with eyes the shape of his father's, coloring his mother's, and a perfect match to his own.

It's true, a voice in his head whispered, though Trunks was unsure if it was his own. You know it's true.

“But...” he wracked his brain to found an excuse to deny the facts. “But your mother died. You said so!”

The youth, obviously wondering where he heard that, looked confused and somewhat sad. Vegeta, more familiar with Trunks' behavior, was quicker on the uptake. The boy clamped his hands over his mouth when his father fixed him with a venomous glare. Bulma, who must not have realized his method of obtaining the information was less than proper, was the one to reply.

“In his world,” she explained. “But your father and I are no less his parents than we are yours. That's why he's here, with his family where he belongs.”

She smiled at the youth, who returned it, though not without a little reservation.

“Only if everyone will have me,” it was more of a question, a request for permission, and Trunks had the distinct impression it was mainly directed to him. He was not ready to give up so easily and opened his mouth to say so, but his mother beat him to it.

“Don't be silly. I wish the reason why you came was less painful for you, but now that you're here, we wouldn't have you anywhere else. Right, kiddo? You've always wanted a brother or sister,” she kissed Trunks' temple without waiting for an answer and let him slide back to the floor as she rose as well. “Now, I know you,” she pointed to the elder Trunks, “haven't eaten anything yet, and Dende only knows what you had when you raided the fridge,” she looked down at the nine-year-old. “So how about some real breakfast? I'll make pancakes. Just tell me what kind you want.”

“Blueberry,” they said in unison, though to Trunks' dismay, his elder counterpart added 'please' at the end of his request.

His mother found it a lot more amusing than he did. Bulma laughed and began to remove bowls and ingredients from the cupboards. “I hope I have enough mix,” she said thoughtfully. “Feeding three Saiyans is like feeding a small army.” Bulma stopped and turned back, frowning. “Wasn't Goten here, too?”

His father rolled his eyes and glanced over at the young man. “I assume you've met Kakarrot's latest spawn?”

The elder Trunks smiled. “He seems like a nice boy.”

“Only when those two are not physically attached,” the wooden stirring spoon in his mother's hand was pointed in his direction, but the corner of her mouth also rose.

“That's a rare miracle, when it does happen,” Vegeta added.

He knew it all was meant in good fun, even on his father's part, and usually Trunks would have added his own witty remark, but he was feeling more defensive than jubilant. His face twisted into a mixture of a grimace and a pout. An idea suddenly came to him, and instead of getting visibly angry, Trunks jumped up on the stool his mother vacated and turned a perfectly innocent look onto his parents before answering his mother's earlier question about the younger demi-Saiyan's whereabouts.

“You might want to double that order, Mom. Goten left to get Gohan.”

As predicted, Vegeta's ever-present scowl deepened. The boy could tell exactly what he was thinking without his father having to verbalize it. Why was yet another one of 'Kakarrot's' brood invading their house this morning? Trunks pointed at his elder counterpart.

“He asked him too.”

Vegeta gritted his teeth and said nothing, returning his attention to his drink. The lavender-haired young men looked at his parents apologetically. “I'm sorry for not asking first. I'll help you with those pancakes, Mom. I just wanted to see how he was. Gohan in my time...”

“Don't you dare apologize,” Bulma chastised, and Trunks inwardly pouted that the revilation did not evoke much disapproval from his parents. He was at least counting on his father for it, but Vegeta did not seem terribly interested one way or another. “Anyway, I think it'd do you good to see someone your age. He is about your age now.”

“I know,” the youth from the future smiled. “It'll be great to see him again. To see everyone and catch up. Anything exciting happen in the last... wow, I still can't believe it's eight years for you.”

“Eight years,” Bulma agreed, beginning to mix the first batch of batter, “and relatively quiet ones, if you don't count Majin Buu.”

“Majin what?” a lavender brow rose over the youth's blue eyes.

“You've never fought Majin Buu?” Trunks smirked. “Too bad. You missed out on some awesome action. Bet there's nothing nearly is tough where you come from.”

He should have known that the youth would not take the bait. If he really was anything like him, he'd be too smart for it. “I don't know,” he admired, “but what matters is that everyone is still here, right?”

There was an unspoken 'so how tough could he have possibly been' that hung after the question, but he had not directly said it and ended up looking the better man for it. Trunks clenched his fists in his lap. What was wrong with this guy? Making him look bad in front of his parents. There was no way he was going to let him get away with it, but there was nothing he could do at the moment.

“We put the Dragon Balls to good use a few times during that one,” his mother admitted, “but you don't need all the gory details right now. Maybe someone can fill you in later. I'm just glad you didn't pick that time to arrive in. Not that I can promise something else won't come up in the future.”

“We're Saiyans,” Vegeta inputed proudly, a conversation about fighting obviously more to his liking. “There are always battles to be fought and won.” He gave the young man a glance-over. “Have you been training?”

The elder Trunks nodded. “With every thing's that happened, I'm a little too paranoid not to.”

“Sensible,” Vegeta agreed, “but be prepared, not fearful. If you are strong and prepared for any challenge, you'll have nothing to fear. Have you learned anything new?”

“No one to learn from,” the youth sounded sad again. “I've been only able to get so far on my own.”

“Do you remember where the Gravity Room is?”

As if anyone could miss it, Trunks thought.

“Yes.”

“I expect you to be there first thing tomorrow morning. Consider this your first and last day of vacation, boy.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Kiss-up! Trunks shouted in his mind.

“Of course,” Bulma put in dryly. “Who needs hugs and warm words when you can turn your sons to bleeding pieces of meat?”

When the first batch of pancakes was placed on the table in front of him, Trunks found he was not very hungry. His mother's words held more than a little truth, though not in the way she meant. Vegeta's training regimental was tough, no one could argue with that, but it was also the only one-on-one time he spent with his father. Now this person – still a virtual stranger – was intruding on every part of his life, even what precious little time he had with Vegeta. Trunks had known this guy for less than a few hours, but he was already missing being an only child.

Author's End Note: The idea that young Trunks actually wanted siblings came from the DBZ movie with Tapion, so I assume this takes place after that. It might be an appropriate thing to work with anyway because everyone's been saying how much the sword Tapion gave him is like the sword M. Trunks has.