Welcome to my first Digimon fic! This story focuses on my favorite Digi character - Matt, and his relationship with T.K. Each chapter will represent a pivotal moment in Matt's life and his development. The poor boy has so much angst and not enough love! How far this story will go depends mostly on interest. I hope you enjoy reading. Don't forget to leave a review. =)

Shooting with Broken Arrows

One: Holding Together

Their mom and dad were fighting again. They fought almost every night now. They began quietly, arguing in angry whispers. Matt tiptoed out of bed and cracked open the door, peeking out. Mom was standing at the sink washing the supper dishes. He couldn't see her face, but her back was rigid and tense. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in front of him. His fingers gripped the handle tightly, but he did not raise the porcelain to his lips. They threw words back and forth like stones, each one striking Matt and embedding itself in his skin. Ripping open invisible wounds. He bled transparent. He didn't know what they were fighting about – these days it seemed they never fought about anything specific at all. They had lost the ability to communicate with each other without yelling.

Their voices were rising. Mom had turned to look at Dad, wringing the dish towel in her hands as if she was trying to strangle it. His father remained sitting, but Matt thought he could see him shaking. He hated when his parents spoke to each other this way – their voices dripping venom, dropping on him like bombs, explosions he heard even in his dreams. He loved them both so much; he hated seeing the ones he loved hurt and upset, especially when they were hurting each other. How could he protect his loved ones from each other? He thought his mom and dad were in love. He remembered they used to profess their love all the time, kiss in the hallway and before his father left for work. His dad used to bring his mother flowers. What had happened?

Maybe it's my fault. Maybe he had done something wrong. Maybe he was the problem. During their fight last Wednesday – a particularly vicious one, even by their standards – he had heard his name mentioned and repeated. The name they had given him spoken angrily, hurled at each other amidst a barrage of insults. His name shouted in contempt like a dirty word. A familiar missile, calculated to cause the most damage.

His parents were at war. Not with fists or guns, but with words. A war in which his mother and father sought to tear each other down, but a war in which, Matt was coming to realize, he and his brother would be the biggest casualties.

"I can't do this anymore! I can't!" His mother screamed, throwing down her towel.

A chair scraped against the floor. His father stood and, with equal volume, thundered, "You can't do this? I work hard to support you and the boys! What do you-"

Matt shut the door, slightly muffling but unable to completely silence the sound. He rested his forehead against the wood. He sniffled, trying to hold in his tears. He wanted to scream, wanted to tell his parents to stop, to shut up. Didn't they see what they were doing to their family? To him? His mother said she couldn't do "this" anymore. What was "this"? Be a mother, be his mother? If she gave him a chance, he would do better. He'd try harder. He'd do his chores and look after his brother. He'd get groceries and make his own lunch for school. He'd do anything to make "this" more bearable for her.

"Matt?" The voice behind him was soft and sad, full of childhood innocence. Matt wiped his eyes and swallowed the remainder of his tears. His eyes adjusted to the dark, the familiar room with its desk and bookshelves, toys and clothes littering the floor. He could easily spot his little brother's silhouette, half-illuminated by the constant glow of Tokyo, sitting up in bed.

"T.K, why aren't you sleeping?"

"Are Mommy and Daddy fighting again?" Matt's bare feet were soundless as he padded across the floor. T.K stared down at him expectantly from his top bunk. A teddy bear clenched tightly under his arm. Instead of answering, Matt climbed into his brother's bed. Together, they huddled under the sheets, pulling the blankets up over their heads like a tent. Matt grabbed the flashlight and book he had hidden between the mattress and the wall for such occasions as these. T.K cuddled close to him. His body warmth, pressed against his brother, made Matt feel too warm, but he didn't object or move away.

Matt opened the book to the place he had marked, angling the pages to catch the light. He began to read. His voice was steady, even as he stumbled over big words, gentle and confident, drowning out his parents' hatred. T.K listened to the rhythm of his brother's voice, the reassuring thump, thump, thump of his heart-beat. He tried to make his heart sound just the same - sound like love.

Matt finished the chapter and began another. He tried to fill T.K's head with fantastic stories of adventures and fairy-realms, glorious and courageous heroes and villains who never won. He wanted him to forget. Forget real life, the battle on the other side of their door. A battle without victors, without a good guy or bad guy. Just two people too tired to try anymore. This had become their nightly ritual of late: when the shouting started, Matt climbed into T.K's bed and they hid, just the two of them, inside soft folds of fabric and the cadence of Matt's voice. Sometimes they listened to the radio or made up stories from their heads: Matt's always featured tragic heroes and epic heroism; T.K's were always about incredible monsters of fur, scale, and steel. Once T.K had fallen asleep, Matt would double-check that he was tucked in safely, and he would finally allow himself to drift off. Most nights he didn't bother getting into his own bed.

Outside their room, a door slammed. Mom had either gone to bed alone, forcing Dad to sleep on the couch, or Dad had left to take a walk. Matt worried that one day his father would go for a walk and never come back. T.K interrupted the story mid-sentence to ask, "Matt, are we going to be okay?"

"Of course we are, T.K. Why wouldn't we be?"

The little boy's wide eyes brimmed with tears. "Mommy and Daddy are always yelling at each other. Kieda, from next door, she told me her mom and dad used to yell at each other, and then her daddy left. She never sees him. She said her family broked apart. I don't want our family to be broke." T.K sobbed. Matt rushed to soothe him before the wailing began. T.K buried his head in his big brother's t-shirt, his little fist bunching up the material, keeping Matt by his side. "I want us to always be together: Mommy, Daddy, you, and me. I don't want us to go away."

"Shh, T.K. That's not going to happen to us. We're going to be okay."

T.K looked up at him, his eyes pleading. Ready to believe anything his brother said. "Do you promise? Promise you won't ever leave me?"

Matt embraced T.K. Nothing could ever convince him to leave his brother behind. "I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

"Never ever?"

"Never ever," Matt agreed solemnly. A childish promise whispered in the dark. A promise to T.K, and an oath to himself. Matt would do whatever necessary to keep his family together. An idealistic belief that simply wishing a thing could make it true.