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Not My Father	By : thePrincesJewel Category: Dragon Ball Z > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 765 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own DragonballZ, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Not My Father
- 1
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not rich.

Clouds. They're just clouds. Nothing really special about them. They're just another part of nature, blown wherever by the wind, and dumping rain or snow depending on how cold it is out. Just clouds, pushed into different shapes. Which was why he was watching them, after all. Because clouds change.
That one had looked like a pirate ship for awhile. Now it looks like roadkill. Well-smeared roadkill at that. A cheeseburger there, and a hat, and that one looked like Vegeta's hair. A soft snicker escapes the cloud-watcher, and his eyes track that particular cloud until the winds warp it into an abstract artform.
He is too much like his father. Everyone says so. Says he looks like him, acts like him, everything like him. Nothing he's done seems to make any difference. Not even dating a slew of men instead of girls, dying his hair pink, or wearing dresses. He's still called a miniture of his father.
Haven't any of them looked at him recently? Bright pink hair, polished nails, make-up... the dresses? Simpering and preening for the many men he lets screw him? He certainly hasn't hidden his activities... and couldn't hide his new appearance if he wanted to.
He doesn't train incessantly. Barely trains at all, actually. Couldn't care less about fighting, even if he isn't a slouch at it. Covers his natural scent with perfumes and lotions, unlike his father. Doesn't resemble his father much any at all, anymore, since he made himself over. So why doesn't anyone notice? Why is he still his father's miniature?
He trails a long red nail over the dress he wears, wondering why no one sees him. Why they only see his father. How can they miss that he's turned himself from everything that was ever male... or even Saiyan... about himself? He eats less than half of what he used to... considerably less than his father. He's easily mistaken for a dieting human woman by everyone except those who continuously refer to him as his father's miniature.
And he's tired of it. A fresh gust of wind whips his dress around his legs. He shivers as his date appears and pulls him close. "Come back inside. The party isn't over yet."
No, the party isn't over yet. He turns in the other man's arms, trying desperately to remember the man's name as he is lead back into the room. A dull, murmuring roar washes over him as he enters, the conversations of the throng of people gathered in the Capsule Corp. ballroom enough to make him cringe slightly.
His presence was announced when he arrived. And yet, he'd heard his mother and Bulma complaining about him being late... or having run off and hid as soon as he got there. He lifted his face to receive the kiss his date - Brad! That's his name! - is bestowing on him. Had heard Vegeta muttering to Trunks that he was as bad as his father, would be late to his own funeral if he could arrange it. His emotions surge again, and he clings to Brad's shoulders, dropping his face to hide it against the other man's chest until he is sure he has the urge to cry suppressed.
It takes him awhile, long enough that there is a quiet surrounding them when he finally looks up again. He turns to follow Brad's gaze, to find Bulma behind the podium. She is frowning slightly, scanning the throng of people. Her eyes light up when she finally spots Brad, and she begins speaking. It's then that he realizes the party is in his date's honor... that Brad's company has partnered with Bulma's in some sort of not-quite-a-merger type of deal.
He is ushered to the stage when Brad - never one to not flaunt his conquests - goes up to say a few words. He does the perfect imitation of a sycophant, clinging to his date and mostly keeping his eyes fastened to Brad's mouth. He starts to send a sweeping look around the room. The confusion in his father's eyes, the scorn in his mother's... he didn't want to see anything else. Glimmering eyes turn back to Brad, who meets his gaze with one full of lust.
They stay far too long. He can't help but overhear snatches of conversation: his sensitive hearing picking out his mother's voice hissing angrily at his brother, his father's plaintive questions to his prince, the scoffing of his childhood friend to the fighters who have remained in the background for the whole of the event, the returned mockery. The spiteful comments he hears break him in a new way. He is barely functioning by the time Brad finally makes his farewells, immediately curling up in the corner of the limo when they finally leave, at last allowing the tears to escape.
He hears Brad's disgusted snort, the sound of a zipper. The man wastes no time trying to soothe him. He is pulled from the corner, his dress flipped out of the way. He continues to cry as he's fucked, not sure why he feels so ashamed when he's finally gotten what he wanted for so long. Tonight, they had finally noticed. They had finally seen him, not his father.
He is still numb when Brad pushes him from the limo, landing ungracefully on the curb. He looks up, haunted eyes meeting the cool ones that stare down at him. A smirk crosses the man's face, and Brad litters his lap with a few bills. "Not the best fuck I ever had, but I guess I may as well pay you for the time."
The limo has pulled away before the statement fully sinks in. He is shaking with rage and humiliation when he stands, automatically gathering the zenni and putting it in the small purse. Trembling hands smooth the skirt, brush the dirt from the back. He stumbles into the small rental, scalding tears burning his eyes with the need to be shed. He just... can't cry anymore. Not yet.
The mirror tells him he is a mess... something obvious even through the gathering flood. The purse falls to the floor, the dress and shoes shed as he moves to the bathroom. Not until he stands under the water's spray do the tears come again. He scrubs himself clean as they fall. Pain, humiliation, shame. He sinks to the shower floor, arms wrapped around himself, head tucked into his knees, breath coming in racking, gasping sobs.
They had seen him. Him. Not his father, not this time. He had gotten used to his mother harping about his long hair, her bitching about him dying it. To Trunks complaining that he never had time to spar anymore, teasing him that he was looking like a girl. To his father's constant confusion concerning his lack of interest in going to spar, or not eating much at all when they got together for meals. To his brother's slightly sneering looks and total silence. He'd gotten used to all that.
So what was so different about the earlier scorn? He rocks beneath cooling water, scrambling to understand why he feels so badly about being seen as himself instead of a little copy of his father. Was it just because it was all of them, all at once? It is the only reason he can come up with. He stands, shutting off the water, stepping from the shower to run a towel haphazardly over his skin before wrapping his hair in it.
Lotion comes next. It is a ritual now, one that rarely varies. Lotion, deodorant, fragrance. The silky bathrobe goes on next, and soft, fuzzy house slippers. He walks aimlessly into his bedroom, flipping on the light to gaze around the lavender decor. He's always loved lavender. The walls are painted the same soft purple as Trunks' hair, the carpet a slightly darker shade, as is the ceiling. Even the bed linens are in shades of lavender. A vase sits on the bedside table, the white and purple lilacs in it perfuming the room.
His bed calls as the day's events swamp him again. He crosses to it quickly, tossing the down comforter back. Shedding slippers and robe, he slips beneath it to curl into a small ball.
Morning comes far too early for the young demi. His sleep was restless, nightmare-ridden. And for all that he does not want to revisit the horrors in his dreams, he is so tired he just wants to go to sleep. Instead, he crawls from the bed. A brisk wash and some carefully applied make-up cover the more obvious signs that he has not slept well.
Breakfast is meager for a man who as a child ate four dozen eggs, two slabs of bacon, and several loaves of bread with butter and jelly. A single egg, a piece of dry toast, a strip of bacon. Then back to the bedroom to prepare for his day. The uniform is a simple one, blue pants and top, white socks and shoes. He dons it quickly, then struggles to brush and braid the mass of hair he's acquired.
He's at work by seven in the morning, sorting the clothes in the laundry. He has no real skills, wasn't a scholar like his brother. He has the menial job, with the lower pay... and he makes his money last. No one at his job is sure whether or not he is male or female. He rarely, if ever, speaks, and has never attended any of the company parties. He dates no one from the workplace, instead choosing his partners from the various businesses he visits from time to time when he decides he can do better than wash other people's clothes.
His job is giving him too much time to think today... it's just not possible to get lost in sorting colors from whites and brights from darks. Folding and delivering the clothes takes no time at all... and he's left to wait for the machines to finish their cycles so he can go through the rituals of his job once more.
He feels like a failure. Feels like he's failed himself for finally being noticed as himself. Unbidden, unnoticed tears trickle as he works. He has succeeded. He has finally been seen as himself... but he's more miserable than when he was a miniature. His nightmares... he relived every word.
The words that hurt him most were his father's. His innocent, naive father. "Vegeta... why doesn't he want to be like me anymore? Am I so bad?"
- 1
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Not My Father