Room to Smile

Room to Smile

12.09 PM, Monday, Hiuretto Lake

Late May was the time of year when people who weren't supposed to be taking breaks slipped out the back door of their well lit offices, loafers clasped in their hands, baseball caps obscuring their features. You saw them everywhere. Dinning nervously at the McDonalds, spread out in the cool grass surrounding Lake Eora, drifting in and out of the clothing stores, buying ice-cream. Or at least, Trunks hoped many people did that. It would set his mind at a considerable ease if he no longer had to feel as if he were the only one who ever considered skipping an afternoon of work. Again.

Trunks sighed and pulled his oars up from the water. Across from him, booted feet propped up on the edge of their small boat, Yamucha kept an old, battered hat pulled low over his features, eyes glistening beneath the shadow it cast as he waited for the fish to gather round his baited fishing cane. He held it with ease, as if he didn't care whether the fish would bite or not. It was a humid, lazy afternoon, the sun hanging high in the sky and making the skin itch. Yamucha was at home in such heat. Trunks wished he had brought one of those battery powered fans he saw teenagers carrying, the ones that squirted water as they dried you out.

“How long does it usually take them to bite?” he asked Yamucha, removing his silk vest and folding it at the bottom of the boat.

“Long,” Yamucha murmured, the drowsiness of the day stealing over him.

He had picked up Trunks at Lake Eora, near the Capsule Corporation where Trunks resided as President and unwilling prisoner, to hear the boy tell it. He liked fishing alone, but Trunks had looked so lost, glasses perched on his nose, cellular beeping to itself in his pocket, that Yamucha had just decided to bring him along. The boy was quiet, almost as shy and reserved as the Trunks he had known a long time ago, when life had been simpler: battle, bleed, heal, eat, sleep, wait. Sometimes Yamucha missed those days. Sometimes.

Trunks dipped his fingers into the water. The ripples yawned at him for a moment, then stretched out beyond his sight. He sighed. Maybe he shouldn't have come out with Yamucha. Fishing just wasn't his thing. But what was I going to do at the office? Just sit around and think…? He sighed again. He didn't like to be by himself much anymore. Being alone only meant he would start thinking and thinking meant he would start remembering… Pan holding onto his arm. Pan smiling up at him through the snow and the morning air. Pan leaning close… He shook his head, found that he was slumping.

Shaking his cane once, Yamucha watched him in silence. The boy seemed moodier than usual. He sat at his end of the boat, quiet, slumped, white working shirt rolled up at the sleeves, tie hanging around his neck, undone. His hair seemed longer than customary since he had become the Capsule Corporation President, his blue eyes washed out and hollow. Yamucha thinned his lips.

“Hey, kid, what's up? You look a little stressed. Tough day at the office?” It sounded stupid the moment he said. He watched Trunks shrug his shoulders once, give him a half smile.

“Nah. I'm all right, Yamucha. It's just the heat. I, ah, seem to have grown accustomed to air-conditioned surroundings somehow. You know.”

Yamucha gave him one hard look, the silence growing out between them. The water lapped at the sides of their boat, rocking it. The older man pulled in his cane, pulling off his bait and dropping it into his beaten tackle box. Trunks didn't say a word, merely picked up his oars again and dipped them into the water almost at the same time Yamucha dipped in his. They rowed back to the shore in silence. As Yamucha jumped out from the boat, Trunks called out to him.

His old friend turned his head abruptly, greying ponytail swishing across his back. “Yeah?”

Trunks sighed, dug his hands into his pockets. “Nothing, Yamucha. Nothing.”

6.45 PM, Monday, Brief House

"Kaasan, tadaima. I'm home. Sorry I'm a bit late. Bad traffic jam all the way from the 50 down to Inoyuki."

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked to itself, the only sound he encountered. No footsteps, no voices, no greeting. He shrugged out of his worn travel coat and draped it across the nearest chair. He had spent the two and a half hours it took him to drive home composing longer, loftier excuses for his lateness. He should have known he wouldn't need them. He had learned long ago that excuses were never demanded of him unless he didn't have one. He accepted it as part and parcel of his life.

Voices drifted from the kitchen, a warm golden glow spilling out into the adjoining hallway. He could see his mother had cleared away the wiring that usually littered the hall, a wrench and toolbox neatly pushed to one side. He spied the remaining wires peeking out from the closet further down the hall. So we're having company... He made sure to unroll his sleeves, smoothing them down as much as was possible before he stepped into the kitchen.

A multicoloured ocean met his eyes. Everywhere was draped with rolls and yards and scraps and pieces of fabrics. Velvet hung from the chairs, satin nestled on the table, silk crumpled on the floor, sheer fabrics he couldn't identify strewn over the countertops, lace neatly wound around the blender. At the centre of the ocean, her head bent over a glossy fashion magazine, was his mother, biting her lip as she pointed at a spread of glistening silk gowns. Videl sat close to her, accentuating her points with a pair of scissors. They were both engaged in heated conversation, and neither saw Trunks until he bent to kiss his mother's cheek.

Videl looked up at him with a bright smile. It was clear from the look on her face that she wanted him to settle something. He looked down at a heap of pink tulle and murmured a greeting. Videl laughed.

"It's nothing hard, Trunks. I was just telling Bulma that... Well, let me show you." She pushed away from the table and came to where Trunks stood, the magazine his mother had been reading folded to show a frilly pink prom dress. "You see? I think it's perfect. Not too frilly, not quite plain. You see what I mean? But pink... Well, I'm not too hot on pink anymore..."

Bulma came to stand beside her son as well. He could smell that she had been drinking. It made him slightly uncomfortable. She never drank when he was at home, but he knew she kept at least one six-pack of Kirin Beer at the back of the refrigerator. For your father, she'd say. She pointed at Videl's frilly choice and hmphed deep down in her throat.

"And this is what I've been trying to tell Videl. That dress is too damn frilly. Pan's turning twenty, not fourteen. I think she should wear something simple. Elegant, but simple."

Trunks kept his gaze fixed on the row of frilly, bubble gum pink dresses parading before his eyes. He didn't particularly like any of them, but he didn't want to hurt Videl's feelings. He could feel her eyes on him, heavy, waiting for an answer. He swallowed. "Ah... Well, it's not really my choice, is it...?" He felt his voice become a whisper, buried beneath the looks his mother and Videl trained on him. They were expecting an answer, not a retreat. He cleared his throat again. "I mean, well, it's Pan's birthday... you should ask her..."

Videl threw up her hands, sighing in exasperation. "That's just the problem. Pan. She won't decide. I've been to all the fashion boutiques in town with her, and nothing interests her." She made a sweeping gesture over the different effects strewn over the floor and chairs and countertops and table. "I ordered all these magazines, hoping she'd find something there... but nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Maybe she doesn't want a party. But he didn't say anything. He watched as Videl sat heavily at the table again and pulled a new magazine closer. She flipped through the pages in absentminded abandonment, sighing. Trunks wished he could say something, anything. His mother took a swig of beer and leaned against the counter, studying the floor. They looked so hopeless, so serious. For a moment he wanted to laugh. A dress. This was all for a dress. But he knew he couldn't laugh, not at Videl. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Well, I, ah, sort of like black. If that's any help..."

Videl ceased her flipping. She looked at him quietly, her lips thin as she digested his words. "That's strange," she said at length, "that's the only colour Pan seems to be interested in too. Have you talked to her?"

He found he had backed away. His hands shook, and he looked down at them, fascinated, before he wiped them over his trousers and smiled at Videl. "Yeah. Yeah, I did, as a matter of fact. She invited me to Lake Eora."

Bulma laughed, tossing her empty can in the trash. "And you talked about dresses?"

Trunks blushed, feeling like a schoolboy. Wishing he could feel his age for once. "Ah, n-no... not exactly. But she just... I don't know. Black would look good on her. Don't you think? And she already likes it, right? So..."

"I don't really like black all that much," said a new voice.

He heard Videl flip through her magazine again. Heard Bulma step over to the fridge, the handle rattling as she opened the door to pull out another can of beer. Heard Pan as she padded into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. She looked across at him quietly, arms crossed over her chest. He heard Videl welcome her back, Bulma's voice joining in. Pan nodded at them both, a tiny smile tickling at the corners of her lips. Trunks swallowed, feeling foolish and uprooted and too young. "I-I didn't mean that..."

Pan smiled. "It's OK. I know what you meant. But black's becoming like pink. Too much baggage attached to it."

"All colours are like that, honey."

He hardly heard Videl's voice. All he could see were Pan's eyes. Bright. Blue. Accusing. He found he had stepped away again. His mother was speaking again, calling out to Pan. Her blue eyes remained locked on his as she answered. They moved away quickly, her steps loud in his ears as she joined her mother and Bulma at the table. Trunks backed away. It was his house, he didn't have to excuse himself. He simply backed away into the hall, hurried up the stairs, and left them.

5.41 PM, Wednesday, Brief House

Bra Brief stretched out on her bed and looked up at the ceiling. A cloth mobile hung down over her eyes, little blue elephants and pink giraffes and yellow monkeys. She reached up to spin it before she looked across at the shape of her older brother. He stood leaning against her closet, cream coloured suit jacket draped over one arm. He seemed ill at ease, his eyes moving across the knick-knacks she kept in her room with nervous gestures.

"So... you gave yourself another half holiday at the office again, eh? You seem to take quite a liberty with those. Not good for morale."

He sat down at her vanity table, his back bent and his hands clasped on his knees. "I knew kaasan wouldn't be here today."

"So you're scared of her now?"

He didn't answer, merely picked up a tiny carousel horse she kept propped up beside her multicoloured collection of angels and faeries. He twirled it around carefully in his hands, his glasses slipping down his nose. Silence hung between them. A car honked outside, the sound melting into the traffic that sped past the front gates. Golden afternoon sunlight spilled into the room, drawing out square patterns over the floor. Bra flopped over on her stomach, chin resting on her folded arms.

"What's wrong? You usually kept to your own room when you came home."

He twirled the horse slowly, sunlight catching in its cheaply painted harness. A Hallmark keepsake. He placed it back among the angels and faeries. "Nothing. I'll leave if I'm bothering you..." He stood up slowly, as if it pained him. He moved slowly, carelessly, Bra could see that now. If she looked at him closely, she could see that his eyes seemed sunken, troubled. He looked thinner. She scrambled into a sitting position.

"Hey, no, wait. You ain't gonna walk outta my room looking like that." She saw him stop, his shoulders holding him up against her door's frame. She bit her lip. "Aren't you gonna tell me what's wrong? You ain't fooling neither of us with that 'nothing' business. What's wrong?"

He sighed, turning so that his back rested against the frame. It bit into his bones, and the pressure bothered him much more than he had hoped it would. He gazed at Bra, sitting cross-legged on her bed. She seemed so young, long hair braided at her back. She hadn't picked up after Bulma as everyone had expected, and he knew she couldn't tell a new model battery from a three year old model, let alone what went on under the hood of any machine. She had disappointed her father by showing no interest in claiming her Saiyan heritage, although she humoured him by keeping a strict workout schedule. She instead demonstrated an uncanny ability in picking out people's moods, what went on behind their eyes, their minds. She was home on summer vacation from the university, a psychology major. She had written last April about researching at a laboratory in Osaka. She seemed so young.

"How old am I, Bra...?"

The question seemed to take her by surprise. She rubbed the back of her head. "I don't... I don't really know... Isn't that funny? I keep thinking you're thirty. You've been thirty since I went off to the Uni. Haven't you noticed I don't bring up your age in birthday cards anymore?"

"I thought you were just being polite." He gazed out at the hallway outside her room. Long mahogany rails curved to become stairs that were lost in the distance. He heard Bra shift on her bed, springs groaning under her weight.

"Why do you ask? Mid-life crisis? I think you're too young for that..."

"I think I'm thirty-three, Bra. I'm not quite sure, either. I seem to have lost track of time."

"Oh." She let the word hang in the air. There didn't seem to be anything else she could say. Trunks stood staring outside at the rails, eyes empty and watery as he looked at nothing. He didn't look thirty-three. She stretched out on her stomach again, looking at him. His hair was the same length it had been when he had waved goodbye at the train platform as she left for the university, his eyes the same blue of the photograph she kept in her wallet. He was the same height, the same weight as far as she could see. But there was a heaviness about him, something she had never noticed before. It gnawed at her.

"Trunks..."

He turned towards her, washed out eyes willing a smile to creep into them. "I'm sorry. I've just been thinking too much. It's my blasted job. Nothing to do all day..."

He pushed away from the door frame. His smile was tired, but sincere, and she found that she couldn't think of a single thing to say to him. She thought she understood him, but she knew, deep inside her, that there was really nothing for her to understand about him. His job, the university, the miles, nine years during which she had not existed in his life. He was almost a stranger.

He bent down to kiss her forehead, straightening with the same tired, wistful smile. "I'm sorry I bothered you. I haven't seen you in some time."

She pulled at the fabric of her bed spread. "Since graduation, almost. But you've been busy, I know." She pulled out a long, stiff thread. She could hear his footsteps as he walked to the door, slow and shuffling. His car was waiting outside. She could see it from her bedroom window, a small, grey town car. It looked alien.

"Um, listen, Trunks... If this is about your job..."

He shook his head. "Kaasan already knows about the job. I think she's ready to admit that I'm not exactly happy there. She's giving me a while to think about something else and..." His voice drifted away. When he spoke again there was a note of sarcasm in his voice. "Isn't that rich? She's telling me how to do things. Isn't that so dam rich?" He sighed, one hand running through his hair. "But this isn't about the job, no. I'm not even sure what it's supposed to be about. I guess I'm just feeling moody. The heat..."

She heard his footsteps on the polished wood floor outside, going down the stairs. His voice floated up once, inviting her to dinner. It sounded like an afterthought. Bra drew her knees close to her chest and leaned back against the wall. Trunks's car rumbled to life below, backing carefully into the street, pulling away slowly. She saw the small grey shape move away into the distance. He would be back when their mother returned, an excuse planned out, sunken blue eyes looking out at nothing.

11.09 AM, Thursday, House Son

Pan picked up the phone at the third ring. She went through the motions, heard a voice at the other side ask if Videl was available. It was Bulma. She made her voice sound as if she were smiling and called her mother. Videl emerged from the kitchen with Gohan on her heels, his voice dropping as they came nearer. He seemed to be talking about politics. Pan passed her the phone in silence and climbed up to her room. She heard Videl sigh in answer to her father's soft-spoken question.

"She's been like this all week."

She reached her room in silence and dropped down on her bed. It was bare except for a dark green bed spread and matching pillows. She had made sure to pack away all of her childhood things. Dolls, plush toys, idol posters, her Candy Candy trading cards with little hearts drawn over Archie and his be-spectacled brother Esteel. Everything had been packed away in boxes and taken to the attic. She knew her father loved to climb up there, to look at her childhood things and remember her as she had been at fourteen. She didn't want to remember. She was better now. She was herself now. There was no longer any need to grow up to be a fighter or a Saiyan or an anything. It didn't matter anymore that she was only one fourth an alien. It didn't matter anymore.

She spread out on her bed and looked at the ceiling. She would be twenty soon. Acceptance letters had arrived from the Tokyo University, from the Technical Institute, from the Ludwig-Maximilian University in Germany. She had her whole future planned out before her. History major. Graduation in four years. A job in Tokyo, away from this place. A shoe box office. University teacher. Research. No one to get in her way.

She curled on her side, drawing her long, black hair from its ponytail. Her future had always seemed so near, so certain. She had gone off to summer camp with the full intention of having her twentieth birthday party, announcing her choice of the Tokyo University, and leaving everything behind. Her grandfather's grave, the martial art's school, her mother and her father and his grey suits and newspapers, Bulma and her husband and the dome of the Capsule Corporation. Trunks.

Pan sat up in bed. Weak morning light streamed in, dust particles floating before her eyes, spinning silently. She could almost see Trunks' face, his blue eyes, the bend of his neck as he settled his glasses, his well matched suits. She could hear him, murmuring in the cold air around Lake Eora. I can't let okaasan down. She's always expected me to inherit the Corporation, she trusts no one else with it. And besides, what else could I do? She wanted to reach out and shake him, slap him, take away the hopeless look she saw in his eyes. You could marry me, you dolt. But she hadn't said that. She couldn't say that. To admit it would be to throw away everything she had worked so hard for. Independence, the belief that she didn't need anyone, especially not a husband. And not him, the son of Vejiita. If there had been a planet Saiyan, he would be a prince. She hated it.

She curled into a little ball, her hands taking hold of her ankles. She wanted to disappear. She wanted him out of her thoughts. Black would look good on her. Don't you think? She closed her eyes tightly. She felt ridiculous. How dare he do this to her. She could feel a tear rolling down her cheek, and she wiped it away angrily. The dark green walls of her room stared back at her, keeping her grounded.

"Pan...?"

She heard her mother's footsteps on the stairs. They stopped at her door. "Pan, honey...? Bulma wants to know if you'd like to speak to Bra...?"

She sat up in bed, her hand against her cheek, tears still clinging to her face. It seemed forever before she answered. "Yeah... Yeah, I'll be down in a while."

2.34 PM, Thursday, Hiuretto Lake

The paddles went in once, came out with a sloshing sound, went down again. The boat moved in jerks and heaves. Trunks held on to the sides and tried to concentrate on the sunlight reflected on the waters. Yamucha rowed in silence, his lips set into a grim line. He looked even more severe than usual, grey ponytail flat against his back as he strained with the boat.

"Are you sure you don't want any help...?"

Yamucha scoffed. "You're no longer any age to do this without spraining something, y'know." He saw the younger man sigh. "Don't worry, I'll get us there."

Trunks leaned back, watching the sky as it went past, fluffy white clouds spilling from its corners. The boat heaved once, violently, and he knew they had reached the shore. He saw Yamucha climb out, pulling out his bait box as he went. He called back to him to gather up his buckets. Trunks obliged with a shudder. Yamucha's catches for the day snaked about in their bucket, cold, slimy bodies slapping against the sides. He didn't want to think about their fate. The smell choked him, and that kept his mind free of the discomfort he could feel growing in him. He still felt grim and religiously quiet as he handed Yamucha the bucket. The older man heaved it up into his arms with ease.

"Called yer mum yet?"

Trunks fished out his cellular, shaking his head. He looked at the orderly lines of numbers for a while before he pocketed it. "It's too early. I'll beep her at around 5:30, OK?"

Yamucha dumped his load onto a pick up truck he kept parked in front of his house. He never used it, his 1976 Toyota Corolla still served him faithfully, but it made for handy storage, and Puarl had even camped out with him in it some nights. It sure beat the cramped Toyota in that aspect. He gave Trunks a quizzical look as he emptied out his catch.

"You planning on staying that long?"

Trunks came ashore slowly, thoroughly out of place in his neat grey slacks and starched white shirt and tie. From the look on his face, Yamucha could tell he felt as out of place as he looked. "No, but I'm not going home. Maybe not even at 5:30..."

"No kidding. Trouble...?"

Trunks looked at his feet. Mud was beginning to seep into his shoes, soaking into his socks. He sat down with a heavy sigh, his cellular biting into his thigh, tugging at the back of his head. The office. Go back to the office. He shook his head and looked up at Yamucha's weather beaten face.

“You know,” he said, “I used to skip school all the time. Goten and me. We used to come out to the mall and blow our lunch money on arcade games, ice-cream, all that stuff. I felt like a regular old punk, you know? But I never once earned a single damn failing grade. Excellent work, good job, all that crap.”

Yamucha took his bait box from the boat and squatted down on the mud to sort out his baits. He grunted under his breath, knocking excess water out of a hairy, round bait. “And that's supposed to mean…?” He quirked an eyebrow at Trunks. “You look at me, son. Fishing for m'self an’ Puarl, no job, no prospects. That's how I like it, thank ya. But I sure wouldn't wish it on someone like you.”

Trunks ran a hand through his hair. Of course his words would backfire on a man like Yamucha. For all his roughness, the older man was all heart, all father, friend, and word of world beaten wisdom. Study hard, get a job, become a salary man. The new Japan. Trunks was part of all that, why would Yamucha advice him to throw it all away? Trunks looked away.

Shinny ripples of sunlight stretched across the lake, lapping at the muddy shore. Yamucha's boat rocked lazily against its mooring, drowsy and content. Trunks slid his hand into his pant pockets, his fingers brushing over his cellular. He drew it out and held it in his palm. Sunlight glinted off its polished plastic surface and hit his eyes.

“I hate this thing,” he said.

Yamucha's head snapped up. He watched, his breath catching for an instant, as the younger man drew back his hand, cellular balancing precariously in its grasp, then brought it forward and released. Time seemed to slow down, or maybe it speeded up. Yamucha couldn't tell. He could see the phone spinning out towards the water, twisting and turning against the sky. It dived with a muted break of the water's surface. Yamucha's hand had risen to cover his mouth. Trunks was laughing.

Yamucha spluttered. “W-what the Hell you go an’ do that for?!”

Trunks smiled, a tiny, humourless smile. He turned to look at Yamucha, clear eyes bright with tears. “I hated that thing,” he said. “I hated it.”

7.09 PM, Thursday

Trunks crawled into bed, his arms heavy and alien as he lay face down over his pillow. Bulma's voice came and went below. Her feet paced the living room, her voice low but urgent as she spoke on the phone. That's right. He quit. No, I don't want to speak to Matt. Get me Kinomoto. What d'you mean who's Kinomoto? Public relations, man! She fired off a list of questions, the answers eliciting clipped, urgent responses. Trunks shifted and reached for his pillow. He pulled it over his head and closed his eyes.

He couldn't tell if he was smiling or crying.

* * *

Pan cracked open the door to the attic and climbed up. Her knees scrapped against the rotten flooring, but she paid no mind. She squeezed in, a torch clamped firmly in her teeth. She switched it on and ran its light across the tiny, cramped room. Boxes stood along the walls, stacked and ageing, flanked by folders and papers wrapped in clear blue plastic. Dust covered everything; rising up to tickle her nose as she crawled forward, looking for the one box she knew had very little dust. The box her father climbed up every now and then to sort through and remember and smile like a child. Her box.

* * *

The voices had quieted down below. Trunks turned to face the ceiling, one hand resting over his brow. The ceiling fan spun silently above him, casting long, shivering shadows across the walls. It lulled him, pulling him into a drowsy state of non-entity, playing with his head until it was the room that was spinning around a stationary ceiling fan. He closed his eyes. He was spinning down into darkness, sleep stealing over him. Pan's face looked out at him, smiling towards the grey winter sky above Lake Eora. She turned towards him and her smile widened. He opened his eyes.

I need to call Pan.

* * *

Pan pulled out a trading card pack, the shinny foil cover showing a pretty blond girl with pony tails. Pan ran a finger along the girl's smile and set aside the pack. She reached for a curly haired bride doll dressed in a ruffled, cream coloured gown. She turned it over in her arms, feeling its weight, feeling a doll. A bride. I'm going to be your bride. She hugged the doll to her chest and smiled. How childish she had been. She set the doll against the box and rummaged in it for her diary. Pink, with ballerina slippers over the cover, decorated with stickers of Judo terminology and poses. She ran her fingers over the cover, leaning back against the wall. The pink of the diary hurt her, gazed up at her accusingly. What did you do to my little girl? She turned her gaze away from it, away from the possessions of a fourteen year old she hardly knew.

“Pan…?” Gohan's voice drifted up faintly. “Honey, a phone call for you.”

Pan set aside her diary, wiping away at the tears she hadn't felt forming. “Coming, dad.”

8.14 PM, Thursday, House Son

His voice sounded apologetic. “Am I bothering you…?”

She frowned and sighed. “No, of course you're not bothering me.” She paused, waiting for him to continue. Seconds filtered past. “Hey…?” she said. “What's wrong?”

He coughed. “Um… I just wanted to talk to you. About… About anything.”

She sat down in the hallway, her back against the telephone table. “About us…?”

He didn't say anything. The phone shifted and she heard him sigh, the sound magnified by the receiver. “I was just thinking…”

She closed her eyes. “You're coming to the party, right?”

He drew in a breath, held it. “I wanted to say…”

She stood up, cradling the phone against her cheek, feeling as if the floor could not support her. Feeling cold and small and unreal. “I'll see you then,” she said. Her hand lowered and she watched, transfixed, as she hung up.

9.45 AM, Saturday

Pan stood in a sea of crumpled confetti, watching as her mother scooped up popped balloons, streamers, and paper cups. Videl bent and straightened with ease, making her way across the living room as if time were running out, enjoying a little, personal game. Pan stepped aside and watched her gather up confetti in her hands.

“I think I need a broom here,” Videl said.

As if on cue, Gohan stepped out from the kitchen, bringing a broom and dust bin with him. He whistled at the mess. “Boy, I can hardly see our furniture.” He turned a bright smile and a wink on Pan. “Mighty fine way to turn twenty, honey.” He squeezed her shoulder kindly as he stepped back into the kitchen, where he was tackling the birthday dishes, licking frosting off a few plates with a guilty, conspiratory grin.

Pan sighed and stepped outside. A cornflower blue sky spun above her, little strokes of white cloud racing towards the horizon. A cool, quiet breeze blew over the city, and she closed her eyes to it. As she opened them, she turned to face the dome of the Capsule Corporation. It glinted to itself, its windows winking in and out in orderly rows. She could see the window of Trunks's office, the shades pulled closed as it stood empty and silent.

Gohan stepped out, stretching and drying his hands on the apron he had tied around his waist. He followed Pan's gaze, the way her lips settled into a strange, whispery smile. He sighed and ran a hand over the bridge of his nose, settling his glasses.

“Do you hate him?” he asked.

Pan lowered her head, gazing at the grass blades peeping out between her bare feet. Trunks had not come to her birthday party. He had called her, his voice low but steady.

“I'm at the train station,” he said. “Kaasan knows I'm here. Keiji from marketing was appointed head of the Corporation.” He paused, drawing in a breath. “Are you going to hang up?”

She mouthed a quiet no, pressing her lips together as music drifted in from the living room, couples dancing, celebrating, casting furtive looks her way as she stood in a black satin gown, cradling the phone to her ear. His words came slowly, stumbling between them.

“Pan, I want you to know that I… Well, that I want you to be happy. I don't want you to worry about me.” He paused. “I know what I did was wrong. I've done a lot of things wrong, and I'm sorry.”

“I love you,” she said.

He closed his eyes. “I know.”

She looked down at her hands over the receiver, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “But you don't love me… and I always knew it.” She paused, pushing back the tears, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Why are you leaving, you idiot? You could stay. Get another job here. You could stay… you could stay with me.”

He rested his head against the cold, green face of the public pay phone. “Pan… I'm not… I'm not the man you deserve. I'm sorry, but… it's how I feel. I want… I want to leave this town.”

“I'm going to Tokyo! What are you talking about? Meet me in Tokyo. You think I want to stay here? We both want out. Why couldn't we just…”

“Get out with each other…? Pan… I love you. But we can't… we can't be each other's way out. Don't you see?”

The tears were spilling freely now, running into her mouth. She mouthed a weak protest. “You don't really love me… you don't. Don't say you do… Y-you coward.”

Trunks closed his eyes. His body felt heavy and alien, a shell he couldn't break out of. “What do you want me to say? That I love you deeply? That I want to marry you…? You know I can't say that. You know that.”

“You just needed to leave the Corporation.” She sobbed out a laugh. “You jerk. Trunks, you jerk. Why didn't you just tell me? I could've hated you then and left it at that. Why are you doing this…?”

“Pan…?” He sighed, his shoulders dropping. “Call Yamucha when you can. Kaasan doesn't know where I'm going, but he does. Please?”

“You're not going to Tokyo…?”

He didn't answer. She could feel him drawing away, reaching out to cut the strands that held them together. They snapped within her, a hollow ring as he hung up, telephone lines shivering between them as she stood alone in her black satin gown. She replaced the receiver with dull, limp hands. “Good bye,” she whispered.

Straightening, she wiped away at her tears. She smoothed out her dress and turned towards the living room. Her mother had just wheeled out the birthday cake, smiling and motioning her to come back to the celebration. Pan made sure to smile, a little, secret smile, and she walked into the room.

Author's Note, August 22th, 2000

First off, I would like to thank all of the fans who have written in, expressing their enjoyment of Child Bride and A Little Smile, and requesting an end to the story of Trunks and Pan. Thank you so much, everyone! I dedicate this third story to them. It took three years to write… but I finally finished it!

I feel as if I owe them an apology, though… for not writing out a happy ending. As I wrote, I began to realize that I wasn't really writing so much about love as about communication, specifically the lack of good communication between two people who love each other. In the end, I opted to focus on Trunks's and Pan's imperfections and mistakes. Not the most romantic of roads, but one I felt the closest to.

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