A/N: To be honest, not even sure where I'm going with this story. It was just an idea I had one day while I was driving, and I liked it.

I'm using Mirai Trunks (or Future Trunks) because that's how I want you to imagine him, not as the GT Trunks.

As always, I do not share any views expressed by any characters in this story. And I own nothing in this story.

Okay, please read, review, and enjoy!

"Get back here you little piece of shit!"

Trunks huffed around the corner, slipping in a puddle of mud and nearly falling to his knees. They weren't in his neighborhood anymore, and he had no idea where he was going. He didn't have enough time to look back, because he could hear 17 and 18 on his tail. After knocking over some metal trash cans, Trunks jumped onto a chain link fence, pulling himself up and over it to the other side, rounding into the next alley.

Then he stopped. "Fuck." Now he was trapped between the fence and a brick wall. There was no time to go back over the fence, because 17 and 18 were already there, out of breath, staring him down. 18 grinned, pushing her platinum hair out of her electric blue eyes. "So, what are we going to do with him?" she asked, looking to her younger yet taller brother.

17 popped his neck, then scaled the fence. Trunks took a defensive position, his heart about ready to beat out of his chest. "Maybe if he had given me what I asked for, I wouldn't be so upset with him," 17 replied. Then he smiled in the direction of the young teen, flipping his long, black hair back. "You should've learned by now that it's best to obey me. Now hand it over."

After a moment of hesitation, Trunks sighed, emptying his money out of his pockets and onto the ground. There wasn't much, but Trunks had planned to use it to buy a sleeping bag. It was cold and wet outside, so sleeping on the ground had become even more uncomfortable, and now he had no hope of it getting better. Merry fucking Christmas, Trunks.

17 stepped forward, his hands in his pockets. "Y'know, I don't really feel like getting these pants dirty, kneeling down. Why don't you pick that money up and hand it to me?" He half smiled, extending a hand, waiting patiently. His hands looked soft, not rough from the dry winter air.

Trunks glared, but swallowed his pride, crouching down to pick up the crumpled bills. After placing them in 17's hand, a swift kick connected with the left side of his face, and he fell to the wet concrete, groaning in pain. Beyond the black and swirling colors of his vision, he could hear 17 and 18 laughing as they ran away.

He laid there for about five minutes, then took a deep breath and sat up. His clothes were wet, and he was shivering. Trunks stood, and somehow managed to scale the fence. He stumbled, then continued walking, and didn't stop until he reached St. Augustine's, a nice little soup kitchen that fed street people great, hot food. It was warm inside, and Trunks hummed, taking off his damp jacket and getting in line. He didn't come here often, but the people in this kitchen were nice and served some fairly good tomato soup.

As he ran a hand through his lavender hair, Trunks paused. There was a new boy behind the counter serving grilled cheese triangles, and he was hot. His black hair made his brown eyes look like amber under the hot lamps, and his skin was pale and smooth like porcelain. Clearing his throat, Trunks looked at the white tile floor, picking up a burgandy, plastic tray. When he stepped in front of the new boy, he avoided eye contact. He mumbled, "One, please."

He saw the boy smile, and pick up a sandwich with his metal tongs. "Here you go. Some hot food should warm you up. It's awful out there today."

Trunks nodded, then stepped forward, feeling his face start to get hot. He knew he looked terrible, and the kid had even commented on him being wet. Not that he expected anyone to ever hit on him, especially charitable, beautiful men he met in a soup kitchen. Once Trunks had his cup of tomato soup, he quickly found a table and sat down. The soup was so warm, it heated him from the inside out, and he smiled a little. The grilled cheese was buttery, better than usual. Had that boy made the sandwiches?

For the rest of the day, Trunks just tried to pass the time watching the people outside, fighting over taxis and hurrying to get out of the frigid enviornment. There was a man playing a cello for money across the street, and Trunks thought it must be hard to lug that thing around. He wished he had a talent that could earn some spare money as he drank the rest of his soup. It wasn't as warm now, but still good.

Trunks had been homeless since he was twelve. Things at home had been fine until his mother died. After that, it was just him and his father. They didn't speak much, and when they did, they were arguing about something stupid. The death of Trunks' mother had really taken a toll on his father, who ended up becoming an asshole because of it. Trunks knew he was stupid for leaving home, but there was no way he was going back now, no matter how hard things got. He'd been fine for the last five years, he'd be fine for five more.

His conflict with 17 and 18 was a newer thing in Trunks' life. They tormented him every time they bumped into each other, and 17 usually beat the shit out of him for no reason, whether he had money or not. Trunks was a little short for his age, and he was so weak with hunger that it was generally hard to fight back. There was no way 17 and 18 were actually homeless; they were in too good of shape, and 18 always had her nails done. They were just two punks that liked to pick on people who had nothing.

It started to snow softly outside, and Trunks scowled. Usually, snow was nice, because it was so beautiful, and things generally became quieter as it fell. Right now, though, Trunks just thought about his wet clothes, and shivering next to a dumpster all night. Then, a hand came into view, holding a folded, hunter green blanket. The teen looked up to see that new guy smiling down at him. "It's going to be really cold tonight; you'll need this." Slowly, Trunks took the blanket, clutching it tight. "I hope you have some dry clothes to change into." Trunks said nothing. "My name's Gohan."

"Thank you," Trunks told him, hoping that would be the end of it. Thankfully, it was, and Gohan walked away. The lavender-haired boy sighed, watching him walk outside, pulling his hood up. Some snow caught in his raven black hair, and he looked like something out of a fantasy world for a moment. Then, he disappeared into the bustling city.

That night, Trunks was slightly warmer than usual, his new, fleece blanket wrapped around his body. He still shivered, his knees pulled up to his chest. Snow fell gently, sticking to his blanket and dusting his eyelashes. Trunks had stayed so still, there was now and even layer of snow on his shoes and legs. Maybe he'd be buried before morning came.

He thought of Gohan, the new boy, and imagined him walking to work, only to stop and look at a taped off crime scene. Surely, he'd be curious, and ask an officer what happened. "Oh, just some homeless person froze to death last night. Damn shame, but this happens more often than people think." Gohan would cast a sad look at the scene, and then go on his way, never knowing it was the lavender-haired boy from the day before. Would he have cared if he did know? Trunks fell asleep before he could think of an answer.