Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gohan never thought a single gaze could press down so heavily. Yet across the table — between shared laughter, passing plates, and casual conversation — a pair of piercing blue eyes found his.

Steady. Familiar.
Too familiar.

It hit like a sucker punch. Memory, swift and unrelenting. Of what once was. Of what they never dared say aloud.

Those eyes still saw him — truly saw him — in a way no one else ever had. They held the weight of old silences, of glances that lingered too long, of nights when the space between them felt like a secret being kept from the rest of the world. When time wasn’t linear and neither of them belonged to the present.

Back when the future had been a warning.
And its name had been Trunks.

But Gohan was no longer that wide-eyed boy, suspended between destinies.

He was eighteen now. Hardened by grief, tempered by responsibility. He had laid his father to rest — twice. Had mourned Trunks in the only way he could: by becoming someone strong enough to carry what was left behind. He no longer tried to be what the world wanted.

He had grown into something else entirely.

He lived in the tension of duality: the electrifying joy of battle and the quiet solace of literature. He was a warrior who meditated before dawn, a scholar who could crack mountains with his fists.

The strongest in the universe.
And somehow, still one of its kindest hearts.

A paradox. And he had made peace with that.

But those eyes — those impossible, sky-bright eyes — they stirred everything he thought he’d buried. Everything he'd grown beyond. They shouldn't have power over him anymore.

And yet... across the table, one glance had him unraveling.

He swallowed hard, pushed back his chair, and murmured an excuse about fresh air. He didn’t wait for anyone’s reaction. The pressure in his chest was building too quickly. He needed space. Distance. Clarity.

The night met him with a quiet breeze and a sky full of stars, but the air felt thin. He stepped into the garden, closing his eyes as if the darkness could anchor him.

He didn’t have to turn to know he was being followed.

The ki at his back wasn’t loud. But it was unmistakable — tightly coiled, razor-sharp, controlled like a knife pressed flat against the skin.

Then came the voice. Low. Playful. Dangerous.

“Did you miss me, Gohan?”

His heart clenched — violently — though he’d been expecting it. Waiting for it.

He opened his eyes. Turned slowly.

There he was.

Older now. Sharper around the edges. No gentleness in his stance, no softness in his smirk. Just raw, blistering confidence and a gaze that pinned Gohan in place like a blade through the ribs.

He was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful — dark, crackling, inevitable.

Gohan held his ground. Met the gaze. Let the silence stretch until it throbbed with unspoken things.

Then, steady and low, he answered.

“You have no idea.”

A beat passed.

Something in the air shifted.

And then they were close — too close — breath mingling, space collapsing. The kiss hit like a breaking point. Heat. Pressure. Teeth. It wasn’t soft; it never was. It was firestorm and friction, surrender and challenge, everything they weren’t allowed to say forced into skin and mouth and tension.

Gohan melted into it. Fought it. Wanted it.

When they finally pulled apart, they stood breathless in the quiet.

The man’s lips brushed against his cheek, his voice low — a murmur that carried far too much weight.

“You always were too smart for your own good.”

Gohan huffed a breath — half laugh, half ache. He didn’t answer right away.

Because now, up close, the truth was undeniable.

Not blue eyes.
Black.

Not the son.
The father.

Gods, was he in trouble.

Chapter Text

He had imagined this moment a hundred different ways — some quiet, some cathartic, some threaded with hope, others drowned in guilt — because time, cruel and generous in equal measure, had given him too many hours to envision how it might all unfold when he finally stood in the same room as Gohan again.

But in none of those versions had he expected it to hurt like this — this slow, sickening twist beneath his ribs, this ache that pulsed low and deep, like something ancient and unfinished had been shaken loose inside him.

The room around him was alive — filled with the clatter of cutlery, the hum of overlapping conversations, the warmth of bodies close together, sharing food and stories like they’d never known loss, like they hadn’t survived a war that gutted the world. Laughter rose and fell like music, like something sacred. It was a portrait of normalcy, vibrant and golden and painfully out of reach — a life that had continued without him, that had reshaped itself in his absence, leaving no space where he might belong.

But Trunks wasn’t listening.

His focus was narrowed to a single point across the table — a single person, sitting just far enough away to feel like a memory brought to life.

Gohan.

Time had changed him, but the essence of him remained untouched. That quiet gravity. That gentleness beneath all the strength. Trunks had spent years trying to forget that face, then more years trying to remember it properly. And now here he was — real and solid and close enough to touch.

And yet impossibly distant.

Did Gohan feel it?

Did he remember?

What they were before time and distance rewrote their story?

And then, as if drawn by some quiet, inescapable pull, Gohan looked up.

Their eyes met.

And for a single, charged moment — just one — the noise of the room fell away. Everything else dissolved. There was only a glance that lasted one second too long, stretched tight with memory and meaning and the quiet, shattering ache of the unspoken.

And Trunks felt it.

That flicker of something once tender, once possible.

Still alive.

He didn’t imagine the catch in Gohan’s breath.

Didn’t misread the stillness that passed between them.

Didn’t hallucinate the way Gohan’s expression faltered — just slightly, just enough.

And then—

He looked away.

Trunks blinked. Once. Swallowed hard. Tried not to let the shame rise too fast, too visibly.

Gohan stood.

Pushed his chair back quietly.

Didn’t look at Trunks again. Just murmured, “Need some air,” under his breath, like a man excusing himself from something far too close for comfort.

Trunks just sat there, staring at the empty chair across from him, hands clenched tightly beneath the table, as if gripping hard enough could stop the spiral of his thoughts.

The hope — the one he’d carried like a secret, like a sin, since the moment he came back — twisted into something sharp and fragile. Thin as glass. And just as breakable.

He should’ve known. Of course he should have.

Whatever they were — or could’ve been — had happened a long time ago. But time moved forward. People did too. And maybe Gohan had made peace with leaving that chapter unfinished.

Maybe it wasn’t fear or avoidance.

Maybe it was closure.

But gods, some part of Trunks had believed.

Believed that it still mattered. That it had meant something. That it had lasted.

The connection that didn’t need words. The closeness that felt inevitable. The nights together that ended too late, the conversations that ran too deep, silences that felt like home.

And now Gohan was walking away from all of it. 

But Trunks wasn’t the boy he had been. He wasn’t seventeen and unsure and willing to pretend silence was safer than truth. He hadn’t come back just to watch Gohan disappear from his future again.

Gohan needed space, and Trunks would give it. Carefully. Respectfully.

But he would not let this be the end.

Because that look — that flicker of recognition, of want, of ache— had been real. He knew it. Felt it in his chest like the low hum of something waiting to be reignited.

So let Gohan run.

Let him take his space, build his walls, decide what to do with the past.

Trunks would wait.

Because he hadn’t come back for peace.

He hadn’t returned out of nostalgia.

He hadn’t fought to rebuild the pieces of himself just to settle for polite distance.

He came back for Gohan.

And he would have him.

Chapter Text

He’d been watching Gohan all evening.

Not obviously, of course. He wasn’t some starry-eyed Earthling teenager mooning over his high school crush. He was Vegeta — Prince of all Saiyans, survivor of wars, destroyer of planets — and when he observed, it was with the keen, disciplined gaze of a warrior.

Because something was wrong.

He couldn’t name it. Couldn’t pin it down. But he felt it — like the subtle shift in air pressure before a storm, or the way ki twisted in your gut just before the killing blow landed.

Gohan was...off.

Not in any way the others would notice. He smiled at the right times, laughed where expected, passed the damn soy sauce with the same infuriating grace he brought to everything. But Vegeta had spent too many years studying people— and this wasn’t surface-level unease.

A flicker behind the eyes. The faint clench of his jaw. Fingers curled under the edge of his plate like he was grounding himself — like he was barely holding something down.

Or in.

Vegeta narrowed his gaze, arms folded, leaning against the far wall of the dining room like a statue carved from irritation and instinct. Around the table, life carried on: Trunks and Goten were bickering about something idiotic, Bulma was halfway through a story he hadn’t been listening to since sentence one.

And then — as if confirming everything Vegeta had already felt — Gohan stood. He murmured something about needing air and slipped out the sliding door into the dark.

Vegeta didn’t move.

Not yet.

He just listened — to the echo of footsteps, the subtle shift of ki, the cold, sharp stillness Gohan left behind.

That wasn’t just discomfort.

That was pain.

And it pissed him off.

Not because Gohan was hurting — though that alone twisted something sharp in his gut — but because he didn’t know why.

Did the idiot even know that the only reason he — Vegeta — was still here, still fighting, still trying,, was because of him?

Because he’d watched that soft-voiced, unsure half-breed grow into something otherworldly. Power like that didn’t come along often. Heart like that came even less.

He’d made Vegeta want to change.

A better man. But also a better father.

To Trunks. Even to that other Trunks, the one from the timeline where everything had gone to hell.

And if Vegeta was honest — and only in the privacy of his own damned head — he wanted to be someone Gohan could believe in.

Someone worthy of the way Gohan looked at him.

Like there was good in him.

But tonight? That look was gone. Replaced by something distant. Haunted.

Vegeta pushed off the wall in one fluid movement. Silent. Intentional. The room barely registered his absence. They were all used to him disappearing during these gatherings — which suited him just fine.

He found him in the garden, standing beneath the stars like he’d walked straight out of one of those ridiculous books he read — all windswept hair, starlit skin, and that goddamn tragic expression that made Vegeta want to punch something.

He was ridiculously beautiful.

Vegeta approached slowly. No need to announce himself. Gohan would already know.

“Did you miss me, Gohan?”

It wasn’t a tease. Not really. They were past that — far beyond smirks and sarcasm and all the bullshit games.

Now, there was always too much truth beneath the surface.

Gohan turned, slowly, eyes shadowed and unreadable.

But the answer came without hesitation.

“You have no idea.”

And just like that — the distance between them collapsed.

Like gravity reasserting itself.

The kiss landed with the urgency of instinct — no choreography, no buildup. Just mouths meeting like they belonged, like they’d done this a thousand timelines already.

Because they had.

A ritual. A refuge. A secret.

Hidden beneath pride, and battle scars, and all the things they refused to name.

Vegeta’s hand curled around the back of Gohan’s neck, anchoring them both. Gohan melted into him with the desperation of someone running out of time.

When they broke apart, foreheads rested against one another, breath mingling between them. Neither spoke.

Vegeta didn’t open his eyes.

Gohan was here. His body was warm. His breath was shaky. He still had the ability to surprise Vegeta with even the tiniest action, like the hand carressing his arm that made his every muscle tense with anticipation.

“You always were too smart for your own good,” he muttered.

Gohan gave a soft huff of laughter — but it was hollow. Empty.

This wasn’t like the other times.

He was hiding something.

And Vegeta could feel it in his bones.

His eyes flicked toward the house. Toward the people at the table. Toward whatever had made Gohan so quiet, so tense, so afraid to speak.

Who had he been watching?

What had he been thinking?

Vegeta didn’t know. Not yet.

But he would.

Because this thing — whatever it was between them, whatever name they still refused to give it 

It wasn’t just habit anymore.

And if Gohan was slipping away?

Vegeta wasn’t going to let it happen.

Not without a fight.

Chapter Text

It was getting ridiculous.

Gohan had run out of excuses — lame or otherwise — to avoid being in the same room as Mirai Trunks. Not that it was easy, considering that the Son brothers practically lived at Capsule Corp these days. Goten and chibi Trunks were inseparable, and Gohan... well, Gohan had found himself secretly doing a lot of things with Vegeta that didn’t involve training.

He felt so guilty. How could Mirai understand that everything had changed? That somewhere between grief and survival, his father had become the anchor in the darkest chapter of Gohan's life?

He still remembered it vividly — the day Vegeta showed up at his door, not long after Goku’s death. Just a sharp glare and a demand to spar, like Gohan was doing him a favor. But Gohan knew better.

Because no one understood the weight of failure — and the hunger to overcome it — quite like the Prince of all Saiyans.

What began as sparring sessions turned into routine. Routine turned into months, then years. Somewhere along the way, between bruises and broken limits, they built something neither of them had words for — a bond forged in silence and shared pain.

At first, it was physical — two bodies testing limits, finding rhythm in the clash of fists and the hum of ki. But over time, something else crept in. Small things. The way Vegeta lingered after a fight instead of storming off. The way he would grumble but still bring food when Gohan forgot to eat. The way his scorn softened — just slightly — when Gohan smiled.

It wasn’t tenderness, not in the way Gohan had known it before. It was fierce, wordless understanding — something born of exhaustion and stubborn affection. They didn’t talk about it, didn’t need to. But in those rare moments between battles, when Vegeta would sit beside him in silence and the world didn’t feel quite so heavy, Gohan knew what it was.

It wasn’t love like he’d known with Mirai — bright and desperate and full of hope — but something quieter. Healed edges pressed against new wounds. Two survivors finding warmth in the same cold.

Vegeta had saved him—not by shielding him from darkness, but by accepting it. He embraced the shadows within and showed him that passion could thrive there too. Whether through battle or the quiet intensity of touches and muffled cries in the gravity room, where they carved out a world of their own—one where raw emotion was not just allowed, but revered.

Now, as he watched Goten and chibi Trunks chasing each other through the wide gardens of Capsule Corp, laughter echoing across the open space, he felt Mirai’s gaze settle on him — steady, searching. Waiting.

Waiting for him to speak. To acknowledge the magnetic pull between them.

But the present was complicated now. Too complicated.

“So,” Gohan started, the word sticking awkwardly in his throat. “How have you been?”

'Nice, Gohan. Completely lame.'

Mirai’s lips curved into a quiet, knowing smile. “I miss you.”

The words hit harder than any punch. Simple. Honest. Unapologetic.

And Gohan felt it too — that ache, that connection that never really faded, even after years and timelines apart. But how could he explain everything else? The guilt. The comfort. The strange, fierce loyalty he’d grown toward Vegeta — a man Mirai still saw as someone broken, someone who couldnt possibly have something to offer to Gohan.

He swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the grass. “I know,” he murmured.

A pause. The air between them thickened, heavy with all the things neither dared say.

Mirai’s voice softened. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Gohan exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of two worlds pressing on him. He wanted to. Kami, he wanted to. But he wasn’t sure if he even understood it himself.

“I... don’t know where to start,” he finally admitted.

Mirai took a step closer — close enough for Gohan to feel the familiar warmth, the promise of something unspoken.

“Then start anywhere,” Mirai said softly. “Just tell me why you’re acting like seeing me again is a problem.”

Gohan’s chest tightened. He opened his mouth — then shut it again, helpless.

Mirai’s brow furrowed, his voice barely a whisper. “Why can’t we just… pick up where we left off?”

The question landed like a strike to the gut —because it was too innocent, too hopeful.

Gohan’s fingers curled at his sides. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” Mirai’s tone cracked, a flash of frustration slipping through. “I came back, Gohan. After everything — after years of thinking I’d never see you again — I’m here. You’re here. Isn’t that what we wanted?”

Gohan exhaled shakily, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s what I thought I wanted.”

That made Mirai flinch. “You thought—?”

“I’ve changed,” Gohan said quickly, desperate to stop the pain spreading in Mirai’s eyes. “Everything’s changed. I can’t just go back to who I was — to who we were.”

Mirai stared at him, searching for something, anything that made sense. “You say that like what we had was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t.” The words burst out before Gohan could stop them, raw and trembling. “Kami, it wasn’t. You were—” He broke off, the weight of what almost came next pressing hard behind his ribs. “You were the only good thing left for a long time.”

Silence hung between them — brittle, suffocating.

“Then what are you so afraid of?” Mirai asked, softer now. “If you still care, if it still matters… why are you running from me?”

Gohan couldn’t meet his eyes. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Because I don’t know how to be that person anymore. The one who needed saving. The one who needed you.”

Mirai’s breath hitched. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach out, but Gohan took a step back. The motion was final — defensive.

“I’m sorry,” Gohan murmured, barely audible. Then he turned, shoulders tense, ready to walk away before his resolve cracked completely.

But Mirai moved faster — stepping in front of him, hand gripping his wrist. “No,” he said, voice rough. “You don’t get to run again.”

“Let go,” Gohan warned, low and dangerous.

Mirai didn’t. “You’re hiding something. I can feel it. I deserve the truth.”

Something inside Gohan snapped — not anger, not exactly. Something older. Deeper.

“You think you deserve something from me?” he hissed, jerking his arm free. His ki flared for an instant, a flash of heat and sorrow that made the air between them tremble. “You left, Trunks! You left me!”

Mirai froze, the rawness in Gohan’s voice cutting deeper than any blast ever could.

Gohan took a step forward now, eyes burning. “You think you get to come back and demand answers? You were gone! You went back to your world, your war, your ghosts — and I was supposed to just keep waiting?”

“Gohan—”

“I buried you a hundred times in my head,” Gohan snapped, voice cracking. “Every time I thought about you, I reminded myself that you weren’t coming back. That you couldn’t. And now you’re here, acting like nothing happened—like I’m the one who’s broken for moving on!”

The silence after that was unbearable.

Mirai’s voice, when it came, was quiet but steady. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Gohan laughed — short, hollow. “Neither did I.”

For a long moment, they just stood there — two versions of the same loss staring each other down, the space between them full of everything they couldn’t say.

Mirai’s hand fell slowly from the air, his expression softening with realization, but Gohan was already turning away again — the fire gone, leaving only exhaustion.

And as he walked off toward the Capsule Corp gates, Mirai finally understood what scared Gohan most.

It wasn’t that he’d stopped loving him.

It was that he still did — and didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

Chapter Text

Mirai sat on the Capsule Corp balcony, arms folded tightly across his chest, eyes locked on the horizon as the last light of day bled into dusk. The wind tugged at his hair, but he barely noticed. His mind was still trapped in the conversation with Gohan — looping, unraveling, refusing to settle.

Not because Gohan didn’t care — that much was obvious in every trembling word, every glance that lingered too long before darting away.

But because he did care.

And still walked away.

“I’ve changed,” Gohan had said. “Everything’s changed.”

The words had landed like a punch to the chest. Mirai had crossed time for this. For him. For the one person who had ever made the world feel survivable. He had imagined this reunion a thousand different ways — some painful, some hopeful — but never like this. Never with Gohan looking at him like a distant memory.

But there was something else. He could feel it — a weight behind Gohan’s words, a hesitation that didn’t belong to grief or confusion. It was guilt. And guilt meant secrets.

Mirai had seen enough of war to know when someone was hiding something.

He didn’t notice Chibi Trunks until the boy climbed up beside him.

“You look like Dad when he’s mad,” Trunks said, swinging his legs.

Mirai blinked, pulled from his thoughts. “Do I?”

Trunks nodded. “He gets quiet like that. All tight in the face.”

Mirai gave a soft chuckle, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

Trunks tilted his head. “Maybe you should go flying. Dad goes out at night sometimes.”

Mirai turned to him, alert. “At night?”

“Yeah,” Trunks said casually. “He thinks I’m asleep, but I hear him leave. He doesn’t take his training stuff. Just goes.”

Mirai’s pulse quickened. “Do you know where?”

Trunks shrugged, then pointed toward the mountains. “Somewhere near Mount Ponzu. It’s close to where Gohan lives, right?”

Mirai’s breath caught.

“He goes a lot,” Trunks added. “Sometimes he comes back before breakfast. One time he was even smiling.”

Smiling.

Mirai stared at the boy, the pieces falling into place with terrifying clarity. Gohan’s distance. His guilt. The way he couldn’t meet Mirai’s eyes.

“Thanks, Trunks,” he said quietly, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ve helped me more than you know.”

Trunks beamed. “Are you gonna go flying too?”

Mirai stood, ki already stirring beneath his skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I think it’s time I saw the truth for myself"

That night, Mirai followed Vegeta’s ki — low and steady, threading through the forest like a secret.

And what he found shattered him.

They were together. Sitting close. Talking quietly. Gohan laughed — soft, real — the kind of laugh Mirai hadn’t heard in years.

Then Vegeta leaned in.

And Gohan didn’t pull away.

Their lips met — brief, quiet, but unmistakably intimate.

Mirai stepped into the clearing, no longer hiding his presence. Leaves rustled under his boots. Both heads turned sharply.

Gohan’s eyes widened. Vegeta’s narrowed.

Mirai’s voice was low, but sharp enough to slice through the quiet. “So this is what you couldn’t say.”

Gohan stood, tension rippling through him. “Mirai—”

“You said you didn’t know how to be that person anymore,” Mirai snapped. “But you didn’t forget how. You just stopped needing me"

Vegeta shifted, protective. That was all it took.

Mirai’s ki flared. “Tell me something, Dad. Did he ever tell you I was his first?”

Vegeta’s jaw clenched.

Mirai stepped closer, voice rising. “Did he tell you that he begged me to stay? That all those years ago, when I left, he cried and told me I was the most important thing in his life?”

He turned to Gohan now, eyes burning. “I guess you didn’t have to look far to find my replacement. A cheap copy, that is"

Gohan’s breath hitched. His eyes locked on Mirai’s — wide, wounded, stunned.

Vegeta’s ki surged, and in a flash, he lunged — fist cocked.

But Gohan was faster.

He moved between them, grabbing Vegeta’s arm mid-swing. “Don’t,” he said, voice low and commanding.

Mirai didn’t flinch. He looked Vegeta dead in the eye.

“See? Nothing’s changed with you, Dad. You still think you can solve everything with your fists.”

Vegeta yanked his arm free, breathing hard, but didn’t strike again. His stance remained protective — planted firmly between Mirai and Gohan, like a wall. It was surprising, seeing him protecting someone other than himself.

When had his father ever cared about anything other than pride? Other than power?

Mirai’s voice dropped, bitter and final. “You think he can make you happy, Gohan? He can’t. He’s incapable of it. He’ll always put himself first. You know that.”

Gohan’s expression twisted — shock, pain, fury all tangled together. 

He turned to Mirai, voice trembling. “This isn’t helping.”

Mirai’s voice was hollow now. “You think I came here to help?”

He looked at both of them — the man he loved and the man who had taken his place — and felt the last thread snap.

“I came here to understand,” he said. “And now I do.”

With a final surge of ki, Mirai vanished into the sky, leaving behind silence, tension, and the unmistakable sting of truth.

Chapter Text

The clearing was quiet again.

Gohan stood with his arms crossed — not in defiance, but to hold himself together. The confrontation with Mirai had left him shaken, exposed in ways he hadn’t prepared for. He could still feel the heat of his words, the weight of the hurt in his gaze, the sting of truths Gohan hadn’t dared to speak.

Vegeta hadn’t said a word since Mirai vanished into the sky. He stood nearby, silent, watching Gohan with a look that wasn’t angry — just sharp. Focused. Waiting.

Gohan finally spoke, voice low. “I should’ve told you.”

Vegeta raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t know?”

Gohan blinked. “You… knew?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Vegeta said. “I saw the way you looked at him. The way you’ve been acting since he came back. I just didn’t know the full extent of it.”

Gohan looked down. “I didn’t mean to hide it. I just… I didn’t know how to explain it.”

Vegeta snorted. “You don’t owe me a history lesson. I’ve got my own past. You’ve got yours.”

Gohan’s voice cracked. “But I do owe you honesty.”

Vegeta was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You’re right. You do.”

Gohan looked up, surprised by the calm in his tone.

Vegeta stepped closer, arms still folded. “I’m not mad that you had a life before me"

His voice dropped, rougher now. “But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t piss me off. Watching him throw your past in my face like I’m some kind of third class substitute.”

Gohan opened his mouth to deny it, but Vegeta waved him off.

“I know who I am. I’ve made peace with it. He’s a better man — easier to admire. He’s a hero. I’m not.”

Vegeta’s eyes narrowed, voice firm. “But he’s wrong about me.”

Gohan blinked. “What do you mean?”

Vegeta’s tone shifted — quieter, but no less intense. “He thinks I’ll always put myself first. But when it comes to you… I don’t.”

Vegeta’s voice dropped, rough but steady. “I don’t have the best words for this. I never have.”

He looked away for a moment, then back at Gohan.

“But my life changed when I chose you. And it wasn’t some grand decision. It was instinct. Something deeper.”

He paused, jaw tight.

“On Vegeta-sei, we believed certain bonds were unbreakable. I never understood that. Not until now.”

His gaze sharpened.

“I will protect you, Gohan. That’s not a promise. It’s a fact. Whether you choose me or not — I won’t stand by and let anyone hurt you. Not him. Not anyone.”

Gohan looked at him — really looked — and saw something in Vegeta’s eyes he hadn’t expected.

Quiet, unwavering loyalty.

And beneath it, something sharper. Something wounded.

Vegeta’s voice dropped, rough and final. “But I won’t share you. He can have your past, but I need to be sure that I have your present and your future”

Gohan’s breath caught.

“I’ve made the first move,” Vegeta continued, stepping back. “I’ve said what I needed to say. Now it’s your turn.”

His gaze was steady, but his ki flared — sharp, restrained, ready to leave.

“Figure out what you want, Gohan. I will be waiting"

And with that, Vegeta took off into the sky — fast, silent, leaving behind only the wind and the weight of decisions left to be made.