Battling Until the End

Disclaimer: I do not even have a chance of owning Dragonball/Dragonball Z as they are the intellectual properties of Akira Toriyama and Toei Animation.
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Authornotes: Warning -- The fic, as a whole, will be containing slash, mPreg and some heavy psychological stuff. Don't like? Don't read. The pairing is Tarble x Broly Also: Broly's perspective.
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I spoke softly. Ne need to raise my voice. "I...want whelps."

"You're sure about that? I mean...look at us. I don't think we have the physical equipment needed." Tarble blurted. His eyes seemed to widen and his body seemed tense. I did not understand why, myself. He let his tail droop to the left side; usually, that meant it was something he'd rather not discuss. But I couldn't let it go. Not this time. "I mean...we're both...male."

I kept giving him my stubborn look, leaning in closer. I couldn't let it go. "I want whelps. Even if...it means...revealing my genetic legacy."

I had never told him that male breeders had run in my family; he'd never asked, to begin with. Even my father Paragus had not been immune; after all, he had inherited it from the father he knew, his father Articho. And, as my father had inherited it, I too had inherited the same thing.

He finally stared at me, trembling. "Y-You're really sure?"

I nodded, starting to spill my every feeling. "Maybe...it is what I need. What I need to mellow me. I'm so tired...There has to be something more than this mental prison I've put myself in." I felt myself trembling now. This was the real me coming out. Not that facade I'd forced because of my father.

I took a few deep breaths now before continuing. My throat felt dry and I could feel my heart hammer against my chest. "There has to be more to life than ending other lives. All I do is kill and destroy. And all it makes me think about is my father...I don't want to think about him anymore. He used me as nothing more than a tool for his personal gain. And look where it got him. Look where it got me. I mean sure, he probably loved me--he was a doting father compared to most saiyan fathers--but...he used me! I...I want to get away from that urge that rose from his use of me!" I wanted to cry by this point, but I've never really been able to shed any tears. Not since I was but an infant myself. I could feel my energy rising; my emotional state had me on the verge of my transformation. Heartbeats became heavier. My throat was parched. Soon, however, I worked myself back to a calm state. "...Do you...understand?"

Tarble gave me a gentle, but sad look. "I think I do, actually. But if all you're wanting is to esca--"

I tensed up. How could he think something like that of me?! "It's not just about escaping the past!" I snapped, leaning in closer to him with cold eyes. Suddenly I calmed down; this wasn't worth getting this worked up. Now much calmer, I spoke again. "I've always panicked around whelps. Their crying...it unsettles me. I want to get over that. A whelp of my own might leave me steadier about it than another's whelp. I'll be less likely to kill my own."

Chocolate-brown eyes peered into my own now. He was serious about this. "I know you want to believe that's true. But it's nothing more than wishful thinking. Look at my father. He was willing to kill his own whelp if need arose. Why would you be any different?"

My heart sank as I replied. "...He was raised cold and ruthless."

His face seemed to shift now; perhaps he understood? He then leaned in. He seemed curious. "Then tell me. How did Paragus raise you?"

I stared into his eyes, memories flooding back into my mind. "He'd instilled in me the importance of a family. He was all I had, and I was all he had. Your father had ordered us killed, remember? He had plenty of opportunities where he could have killed me--including the day I was born. But you know what? He begged your father not to kill me, even if King Vegeta had to kill him instead. He begged your father to spare an infant who could have been a threat to the royal line. Why? He valued family--his own whelp--over establishment. He valued my life more than his own, even. He constantly reminded me of that too. I guess something in him was different since he was a breeder himself. I guess you don't share your body for months with a parasitic life form and then pass them out self-sufficient without getting a little attached."

Tarble stared for what seemed like an eternity, as though he were trying to process my every word before he finally spoke up. "S-so...then you really want them...don't you?"

I nodded intently. "Yes, my Prince."

"Then...I'll help you try for a whelp." His voice seemed half-hearted.

I bit my lip now, shifting some. "And what if I were to tell you that I was 'with whelp'?" I had to know. I had to know if he honestly meant that he would try for my sake.

"I'd be happy for you, but...I'd secretly hope the whelp isn't mine." Tarble said nervously, his eyes darting away for a moment before darting back to mine. "I could handle the responsibility. I...just can't handle the thought that maybe, just maybe, I'll end up passing my weakness onto them."

I tensed tighter than I'd done before now. Selfish! So selfish! "...Do you think I'm wanting to pass this instability onto them? No. If I do, they have someone to turn to when their life gets uncertain and they feel like they're going to snap. You...really shouldn't care if you pass that weakness onto them. It just means they'll have someone who's been weak. Who's been the odd man out. We aren't our fathers, Tarble. We don't live in the era of power levels." I was on the verge of tears again.

"...I'm being selfish..." He mumbled, trembling before glancing up to me.

I put my hand gently on his shoulder now, tilting my head. "...saiyans are selfish creatures by our very nature. Look at our fathers. Did they not have selfish qualities?" I paused, waiting for him to answer--which he did with a nod. I then posed the question to him. "Then...let me ask. Are you sure you do not want a whelp?"

His face gave a faint shade of blush now. "...I guess I do kind of want a whelp. I mean, I'm responsible enough. Just...let me know if it happens. Please."

"...As long as you will help me, when the time comes." I replied, pulling him closer. I would have rested my chin atop his head, but he's too short for that, even.

"And...if we aren't able to produce whelps?" He suddenly asked.

I laughed softly, giving my own little white lie to him. "Then I know we tried, even if we do not produce them. I know we tried, my Prince."

Dear Bardock:

I have a little problem with the governing figurehead of my species. I'll just call him a monarch. You see, this monarch is terrified that somehow my whelp is going to overthrow his entire family if they don't execute him. As I'm writing, I'm highly surprised that I myself haven't died yet.

The thing is, the monarch left to challenge an overlord who's been enslaving us for a while. So I won't get my shot at revenge. What should I do? Should I pray my son and I live to take our revenge on the Prince?

Signed,
Victim of a King

---

Saiyan--just 'cause I have a feeling:

Ah, screw the royal family. If you two live, raise that boy of yours with lots of...well, let's just say affection is a good thing here. It'll make him stronger 'cause he'll have a reason to fight. Don't be that regretful dad that didn't hold his son once...OH GOD...OH-OH GOD. FRIEZA'S GOING TO FREAKING DESTROY US ALL. I'm so sorry I got your hopes up pal.

Apologies, my fellow warrior.

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Dear Bardock:

My father has been really distant with me. He won't even return my scouter transmissions. I miss him dearly and I wanted to ask him something but he frickin' ignored me. I know it's stupid of me to write to an advice column...but answer me dad!

Has Kakarrot been born yet?

Signed,
A Daikon Radish

PS: You know who this is.

---

Dear Raditz,

Sorry 'bout that kiddo. My scouter's been on the fritz.

And yes, Kakarrot has been born. DON'T YOU DARE START SHIT WITH HIM WHEN HE'S IN HIS TWENTIES, GOT ME?

Love,
Dad.

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Dear Low-Cla--I mean Bardock:

I have a young charge. I'll call him...Shorty for now. You see, Shorty is really mean to me and he yells at me over the stupidest things. I swear he's going to make me lose what little hair I've got left.

Thing is, I want to gain his trust because I want to be his personal lifelong guard like the guard his father had. Got any advice on how to tame Shorty?

Signed,
Cabbagehead

---

Nappa:

I am NOT your advice service. You're obviously pissing the prince off with your presence so back off and treat him like...YOUR FELLOW WARRIOR. Besides. You REALLY don't wanna know what Zorn and King Vegeta were doing behind everyone's backs.

Oh, and I'm pretty sure Prince Vegeta appreciates being called Shorty. I'm going to laugh here in Hell while you get the crap beat outta ya by him. 'Kay?

And when you get to Hell, I'm beating the hell out of you. 'Kaaaaaaaaay? >:)

Dear Bardock:

I've got this friend. I'll call him Carrot.

Then I've also got this female friend. I'll call her Parsley.

You see, I've really got a thing for Parsley, but she seems to have a thing for Carrot. Now, Carrot's my best friend and I know better than to try to kill him. What should I do?

Signed,
A Tomato in Love

---

Dear Toma:

I know it's you, stupid. Don't you have better things to do than write to my advice column? I told you a thousand times--I DON'T HAVE A THING FOR YOU-KNOW-WHO. She's free. Go for her. I DON'T WANT HER.

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Dear Bardock:

I...killed my brother. I actually killed my brother.

I guess you should know a little about me.

I was raised in a clan of shinobi. When I was a little kid, my older brother slaughtered my whole entire family except himself and me so that I would get angry enough to kill him.

And I killed him.

Why do I feel so guilty? W-was I bad? Was I that horrible?

Signed,
Shinobi on the Run

---

Shinobi,

Boo hoo my brother killed my family! Oh dear god I killed him! Are you actually listening to yourself? I'VE BEEN ENSLAVED BY AN INTERGALACTIC OVERLORD BENT ON SLAUGHTERING MY RACE.

If you ask me, it's a good thing you killed him off. That's the saiyan way to deal with problems too. Break it or kill it.

You probably feel guilty because you're an inferior race to a saiyan--we don't feel guilty when we kill mooks. No, we actually party after that. You should go party. You took down a thorn in your side.

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Dear Bardock:

I have this annoying little thorn in my side. I'll call him King Tut. Now, King Tut always beats me at the same damn card game every damn time and I'm sick and tired of it and I won't rest until I beat him.

That is, unless I can kill him.

Do you think I should?

Signed,
Bedeviled in Domino

---

Bedeviled,

DO IT. KILL HIM.
How many times do I have to say it's the saiyan way of dealing with problems? EVERYONE SHOULD DEAL WITH THINGS THE SAIYAN WAY.

The memory was all too real, and a reminder.

"You're sure we have everything we need, Bardock?" Tora asked as he laid out an alchemic array drawn on paper for Bardock to copy onto the floor.

Bardock nodded, snagging a piece of chalk and drawing the alchemic array. Callused hands that had once been used to exterminate other alien races now carefully marked every point of the array with an unparalleled accuracy and precision. One wrong mark and it could be certain death. Standing against the wall, Shugesh took a bite of a piece of beef jerky as he leaned in to get a good look at the alchemic array.

"Shouldn't that be the Mercury symbol instead of the Venus symbol?" Shugesh questioned, pointing to a symbol on the array.

Bardock pushed up his glasses with a hint of annoyance. "You're looking at it upside-down, you fool."

Tora shook his head hard, leaning in. "No. Shugesh is right. That should be a Mercury symbol."

Bardock flicked his tail, clearly frustrated now. "And you should have printed it more clearly. I had a feeling Shugesh should have transcribed the symbols."

"Well excu-use me, General." Tora sneered, laughing faintly.

"Ohoho. What's this? Fighting over Fasha already, you two?" Shugesh teased them now.

Almost as though reading one another's thoughts--nay, because Bardock was reading Tora's thoughts, both growled at the same time. "Butt out, fatso!"

As soon as Bardock had finished drawing the array, the men gathered the ingredients: thirty-five liters of water, twenty kilograms of carbon, four liters of ammonia, one and a half kilograms of caustic lime, eight hundred grams of phosphorus, two hundred fifty grams of salt, a hundred grams of saltpeter, eighty grams of sulfur, seven and a half grams of fluorine, five grams of iron, three grams of silicon, and two drops of blood. The last had been the hardest, because there were three men, and only two drops needed--in the end, they had settled on a drop each from Tora and Bardock, who had been the closest to Fasha. Shugesh took a deep breath; he planned on charming Fasha with the money he'd earned in this new life in Armestris. Tora cleared his mind; he planned on charming Fasha with his good looks. Bardock let himself slip into a more relaxed state; he planned on charming Fasha with the same charisma that had made him the leader of his platoon. Each man yearned for her, but even moreso, they just wanted their dear friend back. The trio placed the constituent parts into the center of the array.

"Ready?" Tora asked the other two, biting his lip deeply.

"Steady." Shugesh nodded.

After a moment, with the air of commanding that he'd always had, Bardock nodded and ordered. "Go!"

Each put his hands to the array in unison, tapping into the alchemic energies to activate it. What happened next was a blur--an unexpected, horrifying blur. A force--nay, the force of The Gate itself drew each in, made each face it, and ripped away pieces of them. The aftermath was a horrifying conclusion that none of the saiyans who would be alchemists expected. Each was hacking up blood--all of them having lost at least part of a lung in the backlash--but that was the least of their worries. Externally, Tora had lost half his tail, and both forearms; Shugesh had lost half his tail and at least half of each leg. Slate eyes gazed in horror at themselves, and then at their friend, their fearless leader Bardock, who lay upon the ground, gasping for air, his remaining arm reaching for them. One whole leg was missing, as well as most of the other. Only a stub remained of his tail--a quarter of what it had used to be--as he had lost three-quarters of his tail to the backlash.

It was a secret shared among the three, that they dared not share with others. Tora had managed to carry them out with what had been left of his arms, and they had all gone together to get automail prosthetics. None of them had cried, let alone made a peep when the limbs were attached; it wasn't in a saiyan's nature to cry.

It was soon after that when Shugesh had parted ways first and headed for Rush Valley. Tora had stayed in Resembool. Bardock himself? He had went to Central to take the test to become a State Alchemist.

He had passed the written exam with flying colors. The practical was a piece of cake. Then came the physical. The doctors had been astounded at the sight of his scars. Moreso, they were astounded that he had so much automail. He'd been able to lie it off as having been in a train accident.

Cold hard reality snapped back into his mind in the form of the voice of Roy Mustang.

"Steel Will, what are you still doing here in my office? You should be on a train to Resembool." Roy commanded.

Bardock glanced back over his shoulder. "Understood, Colonel. I got lost in my thoughts."

"Get a map next time." The Flame Alchemist quipped.

Mentally, Bardock made a note to flip off Roy Mustang next time he saw that bastard. For now, however, he had his mission--to find Tora in Resembool. Fate seemed to have thrown him a bone for once. He had information on the whereabouts of Tora now. The memory felt real, and now, too, did his mission.

Sometimes there are worse things than being dead.

Bardock used to think that it was worse to work for Frieza than to be dead; now he was pretty sure that being a dog of the military ranked right up there with it. In fact, he was sure that having automail ranked up there as well, but that might as well be a case of "there are worse things than being crippled by your attempt at forbidden alchemy."

He'd fallen into the same routine under the command of Roy Mustang: get up, go to Central, give a report of his progress into his alchemy research (He had chosen "practical combat uses of alchemy" so he could at least have an excuse to destroy things.), try to find information on Tora and Shugesh, play a round of chess against Hughes, go back to the military dorms, go to sleep, and have nightmares of Frieza. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Occasionally things were shaken up by the precognitive abilities given to him by the Kanassan he'd slain so many years ago. Otherwise, his new life was endless ennui interrupted with Roy Mustang's innuendos. He almost wished that the powers that be in the universe hadn't given him this second shot at life, but there wasn't much he could do about King Enma forcing him through one of the desk drawers--and the Gate of Truth.

He'd abandoned most traces of his old life. The scouter had been replaced with a pair of wire-frame glasses because he'd lost the scouter anyway. His armor? Replaced with the standard military uniform of the Armestrian military. His old abilities? All-but-unused, in favor of alchemy. The only things he'd kept as a symbol of his old life were the blood-stained headband that had once been Tora's armband, his crimson armbands, his old body, and the friendships he'd developed with Tora, Shugesh, and Fasha. Sometimes he almost wished he could have hijacked a different body, but that was another story.

And today was just another day.

"Miniskirts! When I'm the Fuhrer, there's going to be miniskirts as far as the eye can see!" Roy suddenly blurted. It was the same thing he'd heard a million times since he joined the Armestrian military and ended up in Central; he had his feelings that Roy wanted to be Fuhrer for more than that, but Roy constantly brought it up.

Again with the miniskirts? The saiyan's eye ticked before he suddenly yelled. "Well, then the female soldier in that one must have a huge ass!"

"Oh no he didn't!" Havoc blurted.

"Oh yes. He did." Hughes stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

A jet of fire sailed by Bardock's ear. Roy gave a displeased frown. "Out of line, Major."

"Out of your damn gourd you megalomaniac nymphomaniac." The saiyan shot back.

Maes Hughes had long since questioned his sanity; how he put up with these two fighting every day was a mystery. Maybe one day the colonel would snap and incinerate that bespectacled hothead's automail? Or perhaps one day the major would finally get tired of calling that miniskirt-obsessed nymphomaniac names and leave Mustang's blood spattered over his own automail? He contemplated, but said nothing. It was best not to get in between his best friend and his favorite chess opponent.

"Colonel! Urgent news from the Fuhrer." Riza Hawkeye had stepped in just in the nick of time. It wasn't too far from the truth that she had news from the Fuhrer.

"I'll deal with you later, irontailed monkey." Mustang grunted, taking Riza into his private quarters with him.

The saiyan gave a completely deadpan expression. "Like you dealt with the other three hundred thirty-seven times?"

Hughes laughed behind him before patting him on the shoulder. "Looks like someone needs some Elicia-therapy."

"Only if you want to see the Kakarrot Special." Bardock laughed.

He had to admit it--he had it pretty good, seeing as he'd died and went through King Enma's desk drawer to get here. He wouldn't tell Maes Hughes about that. It's not as though Hughes would believe that the Gate of Truth led to King Enma's mahogany desk drawer.

"I thought the other day you'd show me the Raditz Special." Hughes smirked.

Bardock shrugged. "I've got two sons, so I might as well milk them both for what they're worth. After all, Raditz was the perfect little warrior, and Kakarrot's a hero in the making."

"Right." Hughes said, fishing out a few photos of Elicia. "Look at her! Isn't she the cutest little thing you've ever seen? She's wearing Daddy's glasses!"

Bardock laughed. Now he remembered why he lived in this world: Maes Hughes made him smile with his kind demeanor and these silly photos of Elicia. After a few photos, he chuckled softly and laughed gently.

"Let's play chess, Maes." He suggested.

Hughes gave a smile. "I thought you'd never ask."

---

After a few turns, Hughes found himself cornered. His king had the white bishop, the white knight, and the white queen in range. No matter where he moved, he would be put in checkmate. Bardock was good--a brilliant strategist who could beat him at chess without batting his eyelashes. He hesitantly moved his king back.

A gloved finger touched the knight first, then settled on the bishop. Bardock gave a faint smirk before reverting back to his serious countenance as he moved the bishop into place. With a throaty whisper, he spoke only one word. "Checkmate."

Maes Hughes could feel his glasses sliding down in astonishment. "Again?! You're good..." He had to admit it--he was in awe of Bardock's chess-playing skills.

The saiyan stood up from his seat and saluted Maes Hughes. "You played well too, Maes." He then removed the glove to reveal his automail hand and let his automail tail swish to the side slightly. Hardly anyone knew of this except himself, the Colonel Roy, the Lieutenant Colonel Maes, the automail-smith that had crafted the limbs, and Tora. Hastily, his flesh hand pushed his wireframe glasses up on his nose.

Hughes gave a cheerful smile, glancing up to the other man. "Wanna see a photo of my darling little Elicia?"

Bardock gave a more peeved look now. "Do I really have a choice in the matter?"

The two were suddenly interrupted by the footsteps of one of the other soldiers in Central. She stood with a firm poise, arms at her side as she gave a stern look.

"Get back to work." Riza frowned to Maes Hughes. Her eyes then glanced to Bardock. "And Steel Will--Bardock--Colonel Mustang needs to see you in his office."

The warm blood in his veins suddenly turned to ice. Was this revenge for the earlier outburst that had started the argument between the two men? He supposed he should get it over with, lest it haunt him like his nightmares of Frieza. Slowly, he stepped into Roy's office, his eyes doing what they could to avoid his fellow State Alchemist.

The colonel was sitting in his seat, the back turned away from his desk and the door. As soon as he heard the footfalls of the saiyan alchemist, he spoke. "Major Son? Come here."

"Yes sir." Bardock said with a bit of deference now; he knew when not to disrespect his commanding officer. Saiyans didn't traditionally have surnames--he'd taken his surname from the visions he'd had of his son Kakarrot, who the old man and the other beings in the visions had called Son Goku. Goku had seemed like a strange surname to him, but Son sounded normal. That was his surname now.

Roy turned around in his seat, smirking. "You're going to Resembool, you lucky bastard." Suddenly, his face fell into a more serious state. "I need you to meet up with a man called Tora Mato. We have reason to suspect that he has performed Human Transmutation at some point in the past." Here, Roy slid a file folder with a photo of Tora toward Bardock, who picked it up.

"Understood, colonel." Bardock spoke, running his finger along the photo now. Tora hadn't changed much, it seemed. 'Tora...my friend.' He then tucked the folder under his arm, turning around, his eyes hazing over. It had been quite some time since he'd last seen Tora, and understandably, he missed the guy. He wouldn't let another see the tears that misted his eyes. After all, a soldier, especially a saiyan soldier, never cried.

Roy quirked a brow. "You act like a sentimental fool."

Roy's words had fallen on deaf ears. Bardock's coal-black eyes stared off into space, memories rising to the surface and feeling every bit as real as his visions of the future. His mind whirled back to the day he'd last seen Tora--nay, the day he'd last seen both Tora and Shugesh--the day the three had attempted human transmutation to bring back Fasha.

Sometimes, there were worse things than being dead--like remorse.

Taburu liked that spot, propped up on the taller Saiya-jin's shoulder. He didn't quite remember how the whole sitting-on-the-shoulder thing started. He just knew that he liked that spot on Burori's left shoulder. He felt more like the Saiya-jin no Ouji he was, instead of a nobody and a nothing.

Burori too seemed to enjoy this--he had someone that didn't make him feel like he was a threat to everyone and everything. The smaller prince on his shoulder seemed to understand that underneath all that brute force and muscle, there was a being that just wanted another to understand that there was more to him than great power, death, and destruction.

"The stars are pretty tonight, aren't they, 'Ro-ri-kun?" Taburu smiled gently, propping his arm across the top of the taller man's head. It rested among the soft spikes of black hair that cradled it gently.

Dozy slate eyes glanced up. "Hn? Ah, y-yes, my prince."

"You don't have to be so formal with me." Taburu blushed.

"But you are 'mine', yes? And a prince? Then you are my prince." Burori reasoned. Under those muscles also lay a mind that yearned to speak itself. "Does that make sense, my prince?"

Taburu laughed softly, draping his tail across the shoulders of his mate. "It does, 'Ro-Ri-kun."

The tail continued to loop around, almost mischievously. A smile crossed Taburu's lips as he brought the tail around enough to tickle Burori's nose. The taller male suddenly sneezed, accidentally shaking his smaller mate off his shoulder. Hastily, he grasped to catch Taburu by the tail; as he did, the prince went limp, his eyes giving a dozy stare up, panting heavily.

In his shock at the state of his companion, Burori gently put Taburu on the ground, releasing his grip on the tail slowly and gently. Slowly, Taburu adjusted himself to this new position, the grass of the ground. A large hand ran itself through the prince's soft black spikes gently.

"Please be okay, my prince." Burori murmured. "I could not take it if your death was by my hands."

Taburu slowly sat up. "I'm fine. Just...don't snag my tail like that again, please? I don't care what you grab instead, just not the tail."

"I understand." Burori nodded, giving a faint pout.

Taburu gently tugged the taller man closer--he wasn't one to easily stand a pout--and caressed the larger, younger man's lips in passionate kiss. It was an accident, after all. No use being angry about something that just happened. After all, the accident was his fault anyway.

Matthew had debated as to whether or not he should have made pancakes for Alfred. After all, his brother never seemed to notice the little things. No, Alfie was too busy being his boisterous American self and sticking his nose into trouble as usual; that's why Matthew was tending to him now. Alfred had gotten reckless by trying to invade Iraq's house, and now he was hurt pretty bad from the scuffle. The Canadian heaved a sigh and shook his head at the thoughts. After he slid the pancakes onto the plate, he dug in the refrigerator for his bottle of maple syrup.

But it wasn't there. The bottle. Wasn't. There.

"Alfred! Where's my maple syrup?" Matthew called out through the house, getting no response. As usual, ignored, the Canadian thought to himself.

Suddenly, he heard what seemed to be an overly-cheerful hum. Ah yes, Alfred must have gotten up from bed finally, or else gotten out of the bathroom. Matthew couldn't think of any reason otherwise that Alfred was whistling...unless...

And then he saw it in one of Alfred's hands. The maple syrup bottle.

"Wh-what're you doing with that, Alfred?! I was going to put that on your pancakes!" Matthew gave a flustered look. "You'd better not have done something dirty with it, eh!"

Alfred chuckled, pushing down his glasses, lovingly named Texas, and gave a goofy grin. "Oh, I'd never do anything dirty with food. I thought I'd try squirting some of it in my mouth and see how it tastes by itself."

The Canadian stared with a lofted brow at his American brother before rolling his eyes and pushing up his own glasses. "Well, if you're d--wait. Why is that strand all...dirty and sticky-looking?" He'd noticed that Alfred's frontmost stick-up strand of hair, affectionately known as Nantucket, looked all dirty and sticky and was drooping ever so slightly.

"Uh, I'm sure it's nothing. Nantucket's been all...unruly lately. Ahaha..." Alfred rubbed the back of his head. In the back of his mind, however, he was hoping it would elicit the response he was hoping for.

Matthew put his hands on his hips. "You need a little bit of help from me to get that strand to stand, Alfie. Lean your head down."

Alfred leaned his head down, giving a secret smirk when his face was out of the sight of his Canadian brother's eyes. Matthew took the strand in his mouth, sucking on it to try to straighten it back up. A strangely familiar flavor seemed to be coming from the strand of hair. Matthew took another taste. It was sticky...and sweet...much like...

Maple syrup?!

He could suddenly feel his face going bright red like the maple leaf on his flag. Alfred straightened up and winked.

"And here you thought I was always ignoring you. At least I know you love your maple syrup right? Well...I think I got some on my lips too." Alfred winked.

Matthew blushed deeper. Oh that Alfred! He knew! But Matthew couldn't resist the sticky sweetness of the syrup, so he brought himself in for a kiss, taking the opportunity to savor the sticky sweet goodness that was on Alfred's lips. Life was sweet, and the pancakes lay going cold, ignored, unlike Canada in a moment of passion with America.

The night was scary; Feliciano was sure of it when he didn't have Ludwig by his side to reassure him that he was okay, things weren't hopeless, and that he wouldn't be forgotten. Feliciano clutched tightly to the blanket, trembling.

"Esso sicuro è solitario." Feliciano murmured, crooking a finger to his lip as he stared to the left, out the window, rather than to the right toward the doorway. He felt useless. Useless Italy. Hopeless Italy. How many times had he heard those words?

In the light of the doorway, a man's figure suddenly appeared, a hand supporting a plate. The man cleared his throat, causing Feliciano to jump before he looked over. He recognized that figure anywhere. Ludwig?! It was Ludwig! Feliciano threw his blanket aside, his eyes lighting up as he leaped at the tall, strong, blonde German man.

Ludwig hastily raised the plate of German wurst and pasta over his head as the smaller, skinny Italian brunette man. He was used to Feliciano over-reacting like this if he was away, by now. Hell, he'd seen worse out of Feliciano because of nightmares. Like that time Feliciano had leaped on his bed wearing nothing but a scared look on his face.

"L'ho mancata! I missed you!" Feliciano gushed, staring up at Ludwig with his cheerful smile.

Ludwig heaved a sigh. "Calm down. I'm sorry I've been so long. Please accept this meal, ja?" Here, he lowered the plate down to Feliciano.

"Ringrazia un milione! Thanks a million, Ludwig!" Feliciano grinned brightly, accepting the plateful of pasta and wurst. He secretly wrinkled his nose at the meat, but, by far, it wasn't the worst meal he'd ever eaten. Or the "wurst" meal at that.

Ludwig gave one of his rare smiles, then sat down on the bed. "Are you ready for battle, Feliciano?"

Feliciano looked over to the serious-faced German while slurping down noodles. Ludwig facepalmed, then gave a faint smile. Ah well. At least "Italy" wasn't hopeless right now.

As Feliciano slurped the last of the pasta down, he, the cheerful young Italian, smiled brightly. "L'amo, Ludwig."

The German blinked, then popped off. "Ich liebe dich auch, Feliciano."

The courtrooms were seen as the hallowed halls of justice, where truth was valued over all else. Many cases saw themselves as the homes of trials--not just of truth or innocence, but the trials of the human spirit. Some spirits were broken more easily, like that fragile older man whose pride had been destroyed so many times by rookie defense attorneys. But the youth's spirit was strong. Or, at least, he thought it was. Until he neither got truth, nor a verdict.

--------------------

Soft footfalls echo outside the doors of the courtroom, resounding alongside the throbbing of a heart. Kyouya's hand shook as it reached for the door of the courtroom that he'd had his first trial, the thoughts and memories rushing through his head. It was Saturday--no trials would be held today--so he could reflect in privacy. His hand finally gripped on the handle of the door as he slowly tugged it open, taking a deep breath. All the memories rose to the surface--the musty diary. Naruhodo Ryuuichi presenting that falsified page. Arumajiki Zakku fleeing the court to leave the trial without a verdict.

He ran a hand across the prosecution bench. He'd been so proud when he sauntered into the courtroom and the judge greeted him with the name "Garyuu-kenji"...or as he would have been called in America, "Prosecutor Garyuu". Now...he wasn't so sure. Why was he a prosecutor now? Was it for the guilty verdict like the Karuma family and Mitsurugi? No. That couldn't be it. It had to be for the truth, that which he so desperately craved.

For a moment, the breath caught in his throat as he choked back the tears that started to form in his blue-green eyes. Why couldn't he at least have the truth?! Was he not worthy of it? The tears ran down the seventeen-year-old prosecuting attorney's cheeks as he pushed his fingers up through the strands of his platinum-blond hair. Why did that Naruhodo jerk have to be the defense anyway?! It was supposed to be a fair fight between brothers. He, Garyuu Kyouya, versus his older brother, Garyuu Kirihito. And he couldn't even have that!

"Why!?" He screamed out in the silence of the courtroom, his voice quivering with the pain of his very spirit.

He slumped against the prosecutor bench, coughing as he choked back the tears once more. He felt alone. He felt cold. He felt sick. But worst of all, he felt useless. Eyes closed themselves as he slowly seemed to drift into a deep sleep brought on by the emotional exhaustion that caused him physical exhaustion.

"Kiri...hito..." He murmured in his sleep, his eyes welling up with tears. It was that dream again, the same dream he'd had since that trial--a dream that Zakku would return and do something not to hurt him personally, but to hurt Kirihito. "Kirihito...what...happened? Why are you bleeding? Who did it to you?!" Even in his sleep, his voice was scared and frantic and exposed his chaotic maelstrom.

Kirihito gently placed his hand on the leather-clad teenager's back and rubbed softly; he knew he shouldn't wake Kyouya up--not here, not now. Gentle hands embraced the teenager as he eased Kyouya into his arms. Seventeen and still easily carried, like a child, Kirihito mused. Kyouya whimpered in his sleep even as Kirihito rocked him gently while walking out of the courtroom--and the courthouse--to his car. He calmly eased Kyouya into the passenger's seat, buckling him in gently.

"Sleep well, Kyouya." Kirihito whispered in his brother's ear before he moved around to the driver's side and seated himself, leaning back in the seat slightly as he pulled out and drove home.

Kyouya remained fitful in his sleep. "Kirihito, what did he do to you?! What did Arumajiki do to you?!"

Kirihito gently removed a hand from the steering wheel to give a comforting stroke to Kyouya before resuming his driving. He couldn't think of anything to do or say--he knew that dream was recurring, something that had happened since the trial. But mentioning that trial caused Kyouya nothing but pain and suffering. It was nothing but a catch-22.

As he pulled into the driveway of Garyuu Manor, he gently patted Kyouya on the shoulder. "We're home. Wake up. Kyouya, wake up."

Kyouya cracked an eye open, his body trembling as he took a few gasping breaths. "Th-that nightmare. That nightmare again, Kirihito."

"I know, Kyouya..." Kirihito said gently.

...Seriously?

Make a virus that is going to strike on April Fools Day?
That's taking a day away from people who JUST WANT TO HAVE FUN ON THE INTERNET.

God damn you fucking douchebags who think they should play stupid shit like that.

...I hope they die in a fire and get shat on by diarrhea-plagued BEARS.

Guess who's been overworked lately? ...Me.

Which means I haven't had as much time to post IJ posts as I used to.

And the worst part is...I swear that the universe DOES NOT PAY ME ENOUGH for this, in between the bad luck and the headaches and the fact that my ankle's all sore...

God I dread tomorrow. April Fools. That's going to be hell in a handbasket in a hamsterball going down a hill at 100 meters per second into a brick wall covered in flaming broken glass.

...Hell, I dread lab today.
...I dread sculpture today.
...Ugh.

Can't even get out of classes for it.

Can't walk because it hurts my knee so damn bad with the cold and the moisture in the air.

And on top of that, my heater's broken.

What's a Vic to do but whine about it, yeah?

Ah well. I have ramen and my love to keep me warm. And blankets.

Peace out, boy scout!

Here it is, the new year is approaching fast.

And it goes out not with a bang, but with a whimper. By which I mean I'm the one curled up on my bed whimpering about being sick. >_<; I'm still sick from the eggs I had for breakfast, and light's bothering my eye so that doesn't help.

But I guess I'll stay optimistic that the new year brings me good things like the old year did. After all, I'm already looking forward to February and my one year anniversary with my love. Hell, I'm looking forward to tomorrow.

But for now I guess I'll just keep that one eye closed. Stupid light...

I drew this with a tablet. Hope you like it, love.

I don't have my tablet installed yet. But I can tell of my Christmas haul:

A sweater from grandma, pants I picked out, a dragon necklace from mom, a copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard (a side-spinoff from the Harry Potter books), several games including Elite Beat Agents, Midnight Club 3, Final Fantasy 4, Sonic Unleashed, Sonic Chronicles, and Pokemon Ranger. Oh. And a wireless router from my uncle, hooked up by my brother. Which proves that my bro isn't as big a douchecanoe as I thought. -Smirk.-
...And a nice twisted ankle from the bad luck sprites that struck me yesterday. But that's a tale for a different time.

I know the bigwigs probably aren't going to read this, because they probably don't give a damn what some lowly user says...but now I'm pissed. Very pissed.

After TWO days of Mysterious Melody not resetting, I'm asking: WHY THE FUCKING HELL HAS IT NOT FUCKING RESET ALREADY? Are your heads up your asses for the warmth?

I don't care if some people have been having a GREAT time with their fucking Mysterious Melodies. I HAVEN'T. Neither has my boyfriend. AND TWO GODDAMN DAYS WITH NO RESET? THATS MOTHERFUCKING EXCESSIVE. I've put up with fucked up shit. BUT THIS IS BY FAR THE MOST FUCKED UP OF ALL.

I've got an extraordinary amount of patience. BUT MY PATIENCE HAS WORN TO THE POINT THAT THERE ISN'T A FUCKING SHRED LEFT.

God motherfucking damn. Is it that fucking hard to reset ONE FUCKING THING?
IS IT THAT MOTHERFUCKING HARD?

...I'm officially BEYOND pissed.

...BEYOND FUCKING PISSED.

EITHER RESET IT OR EXPLAIN, GODDAMNIT! RESET IT OR GIVE US A GOOD GODDAMN EXPLAINATION. I'M NOT BEING FUCKING UNREASONABLE. I'M ACTUALLY RATHER FUCKING REASONABLE.

...It's the reasonable thing to do. It's the logical thing to do. AND IT'S THE RIGHT THING TO DO SO JUST DO IT YOU FUCKING ZAKKU ARUMAJIKI-LEVEL JERKS!

THIS IS 13, YOUR PRESENT-GIVING RANTING MONTRE, AND THAT'S PROBABLY NOT ALL I HAVE TO SAY ABOUT THAT.

I think I had too much fun in class today.

Well...maybe not so much when cleaning up in Organic Chem lab since washing beakers and stuff like that is boring. Though having to help clean up concentrated sulfuric acid ended up weirdly fun.

But let us go back in time an hour or so before that to General Parasitology.

The professor (also my advisor) had just wrapped up lecture. And she pulls out a FROG PINATA.

The first person...only managed to knock the frog pinata around.
The second person...was me. And I managed to dent it enough for the third person.
The third person...BROKE IT OPEN.
And candy and little plastic frogs fell out.
So I sniped out a metric fuckton of chocolate.
And packages of gummy worms.
And a few suckers.
And, like...five toy frogs. Which I called my army.

Now that was fun.

And I checked Subeta when I got back.
OVER 700,000 IN SALES IN A FEW HOURS TIME. That felt so badass awesome.

Kyouya-kun had a gooooooood day.

It's freezing here. Really bad.
Like, bad enough to snow.

Don't get me wrong. I love snow. I love it lots. It's beautiful to look at if only because crystalized icy precipitation is beautiful.

But I hate that my knee hurts every time it snows. Makes me want to bash mother nature over the head with a crutch.

...That and it made the bridge all icy this morning. And I hates icy bridges. My love can tell you that. Believe me. He's been through a lot of my "icy bridge" rants.

But I guess things aren't all bad. The snow gives me the excuse to fix hot chocolate. And I love hot chocolate almost as much as I love my sweetheart. And he knows it.

That and it gives me a good excuse to curl up with my DS. <3

Even if it makes my knee ache.

Yeah, I feel bad that all I seem to do is complain about how sick I am.

...Though I'm glad my throat stopped hurting. If I could get rid of the pukiness and stuff, things would be freaking awesome. I'm not freaking kidding how awesome it would be. That and if my fever would finally freaking break already. I'd kill for my fever to break. I honestly would.

Of course, I thank my love for keeping my spirits up. He's a blessing, I swear he is. I think I'd curl up on the bed all day out of misery if it weren't for him sometimes.

Man, I hate being sick.

Especially when I end up getting laryngitis on top of my pre-existing stuff. So my voice has been making like a magician and disappearing all day. And usually at important times, I've noticed.
I go to tell a professor I'm going to have to make up the lab. I end up having to write it down for him.
I go to tell my R.A. about some arsehats down the hall. Again. Writing it down because my voice decided to go bye-bye.
...Oh well. At least I still have my looks and the ability to write? <3