Disclosure

BY : TristaML
Category: Dragon Ball Z > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 415
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragonball, Z, GT, Super, or anything of the such. I make no profit from this story.

This is going to be very different from my other stories...

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragonball, Z, GT, Super, or anything of the such. I make no profit from this story.

RE:

If the opening lines of a book are meant to be alluring and enticing, what then would the readers look for? Must every sentence to lead fluently to the next, to the point which it becomes a tangible itch in the reader to turn to page? Or, after it must be put down in order to maintain a certain quality of life, should it linger in their psyche, begging to be picked up even when not in view or within arm’s reach? Then, and only then, is it a good book?

When people say they’ve read a “good” book, is that not simply suggestive? For instance, what’s “good” to one person might be only “so-so” to someone else, and what’s compelling and interesting to one individual, may hold no merit on the next, but even that does not mean that the contents of said material are lacking, or that any other compilation of collected letters and characters should be overlooked in light of a previous, coinciding, parallel, or similar novel.

The point of a book is to tell a story, and, if it could be determined more concisely, whether or not the tale being told in and of itself is “good” is truly the deciding factor of what makes the book itself any good. Of course, there are different ways of going about explaining details of events, or characteristic traits, settings, and so on and so forth, but as everyone knows, there is nothing like living through the events which are told. Books are simply for the reader’s pleasure, or knowledge, and it is beneficial that such things, whatever the topic at hand, be told many different times, in many different ways, for people come from many different perspectives. Therefore, how can any one person define, with utmost certainty and practicality, when a book is “good,” even in spite of its contents and intent?

For example, in life there are many different versions of the truth, but there is only one singular truth, and the validity of such is what individuals who have experienced the “truth” tend to base their future endeavors off of. A person’s past affects them in ways a stranger could not possibly understand, whereas an individual who has come across someone’s personal life story and read about their previous encounters, would take an appreciation to said stranger’s odd ways, or at least, they would have a better grasp on where there are coming from, and how their behavior makes sense. Whether they put that knowledge into real-life context of those around them is another topic altogether.

Now comes the time where the reader must then get involved, or better put, feel a connection to the plotline of the fantastical fable they hold in their hands, and the emotion that is triggered within that reader is the true judge of the content of the book. Therein lies the catch, and the expertise of the explanation of the story ought to bring the reader to another realm, where reality halts for the few shorts minutes with their undivided consideration.

If a person picks up a book and never finishes it, would they be able to judge the book on its content with any sort of justifiable means?

If a person is angered by a story’s undertones, would it be fair to say that the punishment ought to be a negative speech on the subject matter of that novel?

If a person despises the whole of the story, even unto lamenting the very finishing of the journey, would it then mean that the book had failed in some way?

Take a moment to consider that herein lies the whole of a story, in its entirety, and it is this author’s point simply to relay that story, in truth and totality. How the truth makes someone feel does not affect anyone but themselves. Therefore, as it ought to be written on the cover of every book ever published: Read at your own risk.

1. Vegeta’s Perspective (VP) The Present:

I have come to realize now that life itself is only truly comprised of immediate meaningful consideration or the disability to achieve such a state of awareness. In other words, it is how you handle yourself each and every moment of your life, which in turn is worth more than what the whole of your life is actually about. Yes, even regardless of “success” or “accomplishments.” Those are meant for someone else.

You could be rich and still be miserable, or you could be poor and content, or you could be something in between, where you simply exist for the thrill of the abundant joys and the subconsciously “acceptable” offers of civilization, but most of the time, and I think I speak for the existence of intelligent beings everywhere; it’s the struggle of the moment that holds you the hardest and molds you the most. It’s the silent everyday internal monologue of the creatures of terminal inevitability that churn the very wheels of time, and ultimately create the doom their very souls wish to avoid; the cost of innocence, which in turn brings about the corruption of their very kind.

It is the same now as it has always been- our punishment- which is due to our imperfections, and the simple fact that we are aware of them.

Only those who believe that there is atonement have a chance at it.

If you don’t believe in anything, what’s the point? To serve yourself? To what end? You’re going to die anyway.

That is the very trial which every living being must face. We must decide what to live for, for life does serve a purpose. Since that is the case, why do the very seconds of our lives, which pass by whether we acknowledge them or try to drown them out, cause us the most inopportunity, the most distress, or the most pleasure, and even the most enlightenment?

Unfortunately for us we cannot carry enlightenment as strongly as we feel it in that moment. Practice makes perfect, and we practice with our thoughts every day, whether we are aware of it or not.

These are the things which make up our lives, truly.

The entertaining of certain thoughts, be they good or bad, pure or filthy, positive or negative, important or useless, worthy or self-serving, is what makes up our choices, and more importantly, the very makeup of our justly deserved end.

I used to believe in something. I used to believe in myself. Yes, selfishness became me, and everything that comes with it. That is not an easy life to leave behind, and lest your self-assuring guise ever be internally troubled, you would probably never part from it. Nor is it an easy life to live, for by all accounts, every moment of misery seems even more cruel than if you were to humble yourself into believing that suffering builds character and that you by no means have a given right to anything.

I am a man of discernment, great pride, and even a bit of philosophical understanding, but not without experience under my belt, and, like the very definition of “individual” explains, I have my own reasons and my own take on the prospect of my life’s meaning, and I have lived by my own set of rules, much the same as we all do, but with an extremist mindset, and a willful desire to succeed.

But what have I strived for, you ask? Do I now dare to say that, even with my aforementioned understanding of life’s greatest torment, I have goals? Yes, I chase after personal achievements and I must now confess, they are not what a normal mans’ might be, but perhaps if you knew me better, then you might understand why I scoff even as I explain myself. I highly doubt that the majority of the masses will be able to comprehend where I am coming from, and most of the time I do not waste my breath in speech with any mere commoner, because I am not a common person, and I am not above shunning my fellow man. I digress…

Ah, but what does it matter? See for yourself and decide what you think about it, after you know everything and can say with certainty that you are aware of the whole of the matter, and not just the obvious, easy conclusions which come about from the forefront headlines.

(VP) Without Further Ado:

“Kakarot,” I say to him as I slink around the corner, and I smirk even as I speak his name, well aware of just how anxious he gets around me. I confess I’m hoping to see a rise out of him. As I approach, I notice with distinction his smooth Saiyan skin, which is just like my own, except his is paler. Even so, it only accentuates his flawless complexion from the neck up, but underneath his orange and blue shirts I have seen his nearly invisible scars, and touched them for myself and for some reason that is what I think of most when I first lay my eyes on him today.

I sensed him arrive here at my wife’s house, and although each time we speak it is few and far between I still take the opportunity out of sheer desire. He doesn’t come here to see me, after all, but I hope to change that. ‘Soon enough,’ I think to myself.     

“Heyyy, Vegetaa…” He smiles at me and waves like the imbecile that he is.

I think far too much of him far too often, even for my tastes, and whenever he is around I can no longer remain indifferent and casual as I usually am. Why? For absolutely no reason, other than the fact that he is my blood and the only other of my Saiyan heritage, and I have an affinity towards him for that and many other reasons. Nevertheless, it’s a guilty pleasure, one I don’t deny myself even though it’s going to get me into trouble.

My response: “Did your annoying wife tell you to come here today? Bulma’s plans aren’t until tomorrow, you know.” Why do I act like I don’t care to speak with him? Well, because I do, of course.

He never stops smiling as he explains carefully, “I know! And don’t say that about Chi Chi… She’s nice most of the time. I’m here because I wanted to catch up with you, Vegeta. It’s been a while, and I figured you’d be free today.”

I answer, “The sight of your clothing is enough for me to wish not to see you.”

At that he only laughs. I can see that he isn’t offended by me in the least, and before I can say more to try and rile him up, he answers, “I didn’t think they bothered you that much, Vegeta! I like wearing my training clothes all the time. It’s convenient, they’re clean, and they smell good, too.”

I’m not used to socializing but whenever I do it’s usually with someone of more forward intelligence, so I have no idea what to say to such idiotic babble. On his face though, I see the Saiyan in him, the truth in his character that comes out even in his “earthly” way of speaking. Just because his response is simple does not make him so. He is a man of power and a creature of battle and he spends his free time wisely. If that is not intelligence, in some ways, then I am not a man of understanding. (I am.) Even if I can’t admit it out loud, I respect him more than any other I have ever met. I still have other feelings for him, though, feelings which lay dormant and patiently inside of me. My inner thoughts of this man consist of dark intrigues and curiosities which have never wholly subsided, even over these long years of absence. I guess absence does make the heart grow fonder.

I have too much on my mind to respond to him with any sort of not-so-clever answer, but I have to say something, so, regardless of how I sound, I remark quickly but nonchalantly, “On second thought, what does it matter? You’re just going to end up getting them ruined or taking them off, as per usual.”

He laughs and scratches the back of his head. I have seen him do this many times, and since Bulma has so willingly told me everything she knows about him, I can only assume that’s where he was hit as a baby when he fell off the ravine and rewired his brain. As it healed he was probably constantly rubbing it, like a tongue prodding at a sore in the mouth, and now that he’s an adult, he doesn’t realize the correlation between the event and his muscle memory, but a habit like that does not come from nothing.

I am brought from my thoughts as he says, “So, what do you say, Vegeta?”

Immediately I go on the defensive and I cross my arms, but inside I am wondering exactly what I should say to his blatant offer to spend some time together. I want something different from him, should I take this as an opportunity to make that something happen? Oh, he knows I won’t turn him away. He knows I won’t.

Asshole. Contemptuous fucking dick. How does he know me so well?

The same way I like to think I know him, I suppose.

I answer, “I would say ‘fuck off,’ but I’m bored.” In my mind I continue to explain, ‘and you excite me.”

He’s still smiling and then he says something I don’t expect: “So, what do you want to do?”

I’m confused and I know that my face has portrayed that much because I didn’t have time to mask it. Arms still crossed, lips parted and eyebrows drawn together, I ask him, “What do you mean?”

Kakarot’s eyes focus on mine closer, something only a Saiyan could have picked up on, as he explains, coming closer to me, “I thought that we could do something besides spar today. I’m still a little sore from training yesterday, anyways, and Chi Chi said-”

“I don’t give a damn what she said, Kakarot,” I growl and add, wondering in honesty, “What in the world would you like to do with me other than train?”

“Um,” he recovers quickly, stating it like I’m stupid, “There are lots of things we can do Vegeta,” and with his close proximity and the quickness of his touch, just like that we are off, and now we are somewhere else.

I jerk my shoulder away from him, arms still crossed, and I answer, “You’re some kind of showoff. Your earthling friends may not think so because they could never hope to measure up to you, but…”

Kakarot smiles at me with an even and simple grin of unconcern, and he says at my hesitance, “Come on, I’m not trying to rub anything in your face Vegeta. Don’t get so mad over something so silly. I actually thought that today you and I could take it easy for once. How about we just go for a swim, or lay out in the sun and talk?”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He’s already taking his shirt off, then his shoes, and I’m just staring at him, deeply rooted into the ground, unable to shake off my personal uneasiness.

I realize only now that he must have ulterior motives. This couldn’t possibly be going where I would like for it to go.

“Come on, Vegeta,” he says again, reaching out and tugging on my shirt, “Don’t be shy. Swimming is good exercise, too, if you’re worried about losing a day and all.”

I make the decision to follow his lead with sudden urgency, but no outward expression, starting first with my boots. Then off comes my shirt and I dive into the water before him, well aware that he was watching me.

If I get what I want would this infatuation end? Should I just continue to stand on the sidelines hoping that something else could spur between us, in constant waiting forever more? Would it be more interesting that way? Or should I just go for it, just to see what he says? Just to see where it takes us?!

He does a cannon ball into the lake right after me, clearly not on my same wavelength, and comes up with his usual grin. He tells me, “What a beautiful day. See, this is nice, too.”

I’m too deep into my suspicion of him now, because I have excellent defense mechanisms, and I know him well enough to see that he is not so innocent or dimwitted as others think. Only wishful thinking on my part could bring him out here, this close, for no reason other than to “annoy” me. I growl at him and ask impatiently, “What do you want, Kakarot? You’re not just here to get me out of the house for a little while? Tell me whatever you came to say!”

He laughs and looks nervous as he answers, “Well, okay, you’re right. I wanted to put you in a good mood first before I tell you the news.”

At this moment, treading water is the only thing keeping me from strangling him and demanding that he tell me whatever it is immediately.

He can sense as much, and he explains quickly, “Tomorrow, at Bulma’s party, I was gonna tell everybody that I’ve decided I’m leaving, but I wanted to tell you, first.”

“Leaving?” I ask before I can say what I say next; “Well, what else is new. Why tell me first?” Again, I’m defensive, and confused, but I don’t want to show it.

He says, swimming closer, “I… I’m not the same man I used to be when we first met, Vegeta. Things are… different now. Let’s be honest; I’m bored… and I thought you might understand...”

“So,” I smirk at him, “you’re going to go out looking for trouble?” Many questions begin to arise within me, unasked, and as always, unanswered.

He laughs and says, “Something like that…”

‘You. Asshole. You can’t do this!’ my mind screams in my inner turmoil. I see the distance in his eyes, the thought in them. In my own rage at the thought of him leaving I respond. I am a creature of violence, and so as I speak, I act; “Kakarot- you fucking third-class- piece of shit!” I shove his head under the water and watch him struggle, accommodatingly. He could fight me off, if he wanted. Knowing as much spurs me on further, and so I let him go, but as he’s coming up, I punch the back of his head, hard, and it knocks him out cold.

The result is unexpected but it’s too late. Now I’m dragging him out of the water. He’s heavy, heavier even still because we’re both soaked, and the solidity of body in his unconsciousness is outmatched, but I’m so pissed I make it happen. Now I’m struggling to wake up him up, cursing him all the way.

Goku’s Perspective (GP):

My head hurts and I’m angry. It’s an anger that’s so familiar, but so different for some reason, and yet so normal.

When I open my eyes I see a man above me. He’s very handsome, with dark features and a serious look in his eyes. He’s soaking wet. The water is dripping down his skin, around the curves of his face and off his strong chest. I realize, too, that I am wet, and I barely register that he’s speaking to me. I mean, I hear him talking but nothing he’s saying holds any bearing against my own thoughts. I only notice that he’s speaking with concern, but I’m thoroughly confused. As I look around briefly before focusing back on his face I realize that I must have some type of amnesia. Surely I know who he is. Who am I? What happened? Where are we?

“What?” I finally say, and by now I know that I am lying on the ground somewhere outside in the wilderness. Upon speaking, it’s almost as if I’m just now hearing my voice for the first time. I watch as the man’s demeanor changes slightly and he’s eyeing me heavily. I only wonder more about him and what the look on his face could possibly mean. What were we doing? Why are we wet? There’s a lake, perhaps there was some type of accident?

He asks, “Kakarot…” in a deep, accented tone, “What’s wrong with you?”

It’s hard to decipher what exactly he means by the question. Offended by it, regardless, I reply, “Nothing! Why do you ask?” I sit up slowly, too groggy to ask further information about him.

Then the pain hits. I reach up and grab onto the back of my head. It’s hurting something fierce, but it’s nothing I can’t handle, that much I know. I clench my eyes shut and shake my head to rid myself of some of the initial shock at stirring up such an excruciating feeling. Now his question makes sense, but the ache is dulling, and I’m more curious about what’s going on than sulking about a wound.

He’s not so quick to speak, though, and I’m beginning to wonder what we were just doing a few minutes ago, so I ask, “What happened?”

His hesitation to answer is reasonable, I suppose, but I expect a response, and when I don’t get one in a timely fashion I get angry and begin growling at him. I throw a glare his way, but his response is not what I would have guessed.

He stands to his feet and crosses his arms, looking down the bridge of his nose at me. Now I can see how truly beautiful he is. There is a cold and calculating stare coming from his gaze, but there is more emanating from his stance than his face. He doesn’t seem intimidated by me, though by all means I feel he should be, and he takes his time with his answer, giving me a few more seconds to spare in contemplation of everything.

Finally he says, “You wanted to go for a swim, Kakarot, don’t you remember? Don’t tell me I hit you so hard you forgot everything we were just talking about?”

At this point in time I stand to my full height and it is my turn to look down at him. I answer, “You hit me?”

His expression is emptier now than before, and I can see that not only does he have some experience in the art of war, but also in the art of negotiation, and I don’t expect to get many straight answers from him, although we obviously know one another quite well.

“So you don’t remember?” He wonders, and I can see his mind turning as he’s processing our predicament quickly.

In my irritation I reply, “Isn’t it obvious? Who are you, anyways? Where are we?” He glances towards the ground, no doubt deciding how to answer me, but I add, taking a threatening step closer, “That will be the only time I ask before I make you give me answers.”

 



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