Author's Notes

I wrote this ages ago, for some sort of project, then just put it away and forgot about it. I only found it again when I was cleaning out by hard drive. It's based Kousei's (the twins' father) POV on the divorce. It's a bit weird in my opinion, but I'll yet you readers be the judge of that.

Disclaimer: All I own is the actual story. Any characters used, or in this case alluded to, do not belong to be, nor does Digimon from which it was based on.

Enjoy.

A Single Stroke

One stroke. Just a single stroke would end it all forever. But could he do it? Could he really take that last step to free himself from those ties, only to permanently craft stronger, far more everlasting chains of captivity? Could he really do it, and face the consequences of his actions? Or was it far better to endure what he already knew?

He stared down at the paper in his hand. A single stroke would complete his signature, marking his name...binding him. His eyes danced lightly over the words once again. A pointless action, as he had skimmed the paper in question too many times to count, and the words were, in essence, imprinted in his mind.

It wasn't the paper itself that was plaguing him, nor the words imprinted on it, but rather the cost of agreeing. Not for him; he personally would be happier once his name marked the sheet in his hands and severed the ties between him and his wife...but the children. Could he really condemn them to a life apart just for his own peace of mind and the serenity of his wife?

It wouldn't be fair, innocent children paying the price for a dead marriage. They had been young, and foolish, thinking that ties fashioned on lust mistaken for love would last a lifetime.

Obviously, it would not.

He looked out the window, watching his two children playing in the snow outside. They were so happy, so innocent...it wasn't fair for them. It was not their fault that he and their mother were no longer in love. They shouldn't have to be the one to pay the price for it.

He could hear their laughter outside; their joyous cries as they played in the snow, following and leading each other in another one of their never ending games. They were inseparable; always had been, always will. No amount of physical distance would be able to break the bond that the two share, if only because they would never be complete without each other. They were each the foil of the other, balancing each other's strengths and weaknesses.

His hand twitched, but he did not withdraw it. Instead, he reverted his gaze to the paper that weighed his mind. The fountain pen was still poised on the dotted line, tip gently touching the white surface; a small twitch would finish the stroke and mark his name.

His hand shook, but the pen stayed still. He tore his gaze away once more, looking out to the children outside, now making snow angels in the snow, giggling happily.

He would never see one again if he signed that paper. The young child would go off with his mother, and would no longer exist to the two he would be forced to leave behind. He envisioned that particular scenario perfectly; the small form being led away by his own mother, one hand stretching with that childish innocence to seize the hand of the boy following them, but every moment, they moved further and further away, till they vanished completely into the shadows.

His hand twitched, but he payed it no heed, in his mind's eye seeing the look of anguish his other son turned to face him with, the salty tears turning crystalline in the cold winter chill.

But they were young. Perhaps they would forget. If nothing else, it would ease the pain that came with the harshness of divorce and separation.

But it would not be permanent. And he knew that, and so did his wife. And the adult mind was far less flexible than a child's; they would remember, and every day, they would be haunted with their decision.

But could he endure, for them? For their innocent children, the ones whom no blame could be placed on for this dead relationship?

His will faltered, and he removed the pen, only to look down and see that it was already too late. His name was neatly printed on the dotted line. The events had been set into motion, and could no longer be forced along a separate path.

Perhaps, it is now as it was meant to happen. Despite how much he wished it could have been otherwise. But perhaps it was for the best, else he would most likely have dwelled on his decision till someone, or something, else had nudged the events from their stationary state into motion.

A single stroke, a single slip of his hand, almost unconsciously as he had mused over his current predicament, had set these events into motion.

The paper was plucked precariously out of his grasp; it didn't matter now what happened to it, for there were many to bear witness. His hands, now relieved of their heavy burden, thumped limply onto the desk at which he sat.

It was done.

A single stroke had set the course. And he knew that one day, he would have to face the consequences. A day which he hoped was far in its coming. He could still envision it, the look of anguish, the look of betrayal, but it was done.

He had freed himself, but condemned others precious to him, and in doing so, he had condemned himself.

The End