"Is this the way life is supposed to be?"

He felt his own hot tears hit his clenched knuckles. He felt neither the awareness nor the feeling to notice. They'd arrived mere moments before, one silent, the other in unrestrained turmoil. This was the moment they'd both been waiting for. He'd finally seen the aftermath of all he'd heard in vague stories. He grasped the destruction, the murder, in his own trembling palm. It was an overwhelming feeling the likes of which only his human side could truly weep for. And this he did, however against his practiced control. But now, now..

"I'd rather fight and die than watch this all happen.."

Trunks hadn't looked up in what felt like an hour. So trained on the carpet, the nothingness of his rising emotions, that he snapped into the realization that someone was actually listening to him. This someone could help him. He was a warrior. He knew in his heritage what this meant. He had to. It was both the brutal savagery of a Saiyan's thirst for revenge, and the noble humanity, compassion for a due cause.

I've let this go on long enough..

There was only one option. And it was in his power. He was meant for this, chosen even, if life really was so written.

"No!" he exclaimed, ignorant to his volume. "I can't just sneak around while this is going on!"

He whipped his head around, only to find his dear friend's back turned. It was sunset, he noted. The effect matched his solid bulk. Gohan was in firm concentration... He must've stood this way the entire time. With a slight agitation, he also noted, he was ignoring him.

"Please..Train me...," he continued, the desperation climbing at rapid speed,"You have to..Please, I must to fight.." The pressure of his folded fingers against his palm would surely draw blood. He was in hysterics.

No acknowledgement. This truth would not fall on deaf ears. Trunks was onto something, he could feel it.

He stood, determined to reach his friend with any forms of persuasion. After all, a thirteen year old boy would not be swayed. He was too young to know the art of channeling serious intention through speech.

"C'mon Gohan. You're half Saiyan like me, right? So then you must know how I'm feeling! Help me channel some of this anger!" He growled on the last note, once again attracted to the floor. Losing himself momentarily, he waited patiently for a response. Trunks knew this would appeal to him. Over the years he'd paid attention to his conflicting relationship with his mother Chi-Chi. The woman was ridiculously unrealistic, and more than a bit bent on explaining the importance of mind over muscle. This charade tended to lose it's urgency after his father's death started to finally sink into the both of them. It was obvious, he knew, that that was what Goku would've wanted, for his son to take on the role of protective figure in their little family. So, naturally, Chi-Chi had relented, watching with a heavy heart as her son grew into his late fathers clothes and struggled to match his strength.

To his despair, Gohan was yet to answer.

"Gohan!" he called sharply, in an attempt to pull him from whatever seemed so fucking fascinating beyond his window. He seemed almost cruel, in his shadowed, enigmatic way. Teasing Trunks was always Gohan's favorite thing.

At last, he was graced with the older boy's amused retort.

"You're pitiful, Trunks," he laughed.

The pre-teen frowned. Thank you..so much..

"An emotional wreck," Gohan continued, carefully etched with the right amount of both humor and amusement. "Just like I was when my mom wouldn't let me train and fight with my father." He lingered on the nostalgia, obviously ignorant of the tragedies connected to the past he was describing. But on Trunks listened. He was coming to a point.

To his satisfaction, Gohan turned to regared him, a quiet smile spread across his face. This face he wore, always meant he had a solution. It was the sort of smile one couldn't help but acknowledge the positive aspects of a situation from. And then, to emphasize, Gohan walked forward. "From now on, I'm your master, and you are my pupil. How's that?"

Trunks matched his smile, the dry stain of his previous tears cracking his face. He nodded, a flood of relief, warm and heartening, washing over him. This plan was his calling. His attention was completely devoted to what's been granted.

"Great," he breathed. "I won't let you down."

In perfect response, Gohan nodded as well. "Yeah, I know."

A moment passed. One in which the young man quickly thought of how to go about this, and the younger one ached for the urge to begin. It was abruptly cut in half by the familiar sound of his mother's voice.

"Trunks! I'm home!"

"My mom's back! Oh man!" Trunks roughly wiped at his remaining tears. He wouldn't hear the end if his mother noticed tell-tale signs of real emotion. Bulma groaned for that kind of stuff.

But this new matter had to be kept a secret. "Please don't tell her."

"Right," Gohan chuckled.

Dinner was as normal as their world could offer.