Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon. But my 19th birthday is in two months~

a/n: First of all, I want to dedicate this collection to ToastyToaster22, LILFOC, adorkable-digidestined, and ittybittymattycommittee. Idk if you guys know it, but you guys are awesome af. Thank you for existing and being members of this site.

setting: 1995, pre-Adventure.

01 || Hope

Natsuko isn't going to lie. She misses Hiroaki. She misses him greatly.

There are nights where she lies in her bed, wide awake, and she's angry at him. Angry because of all the things she did wrong, things that they did wrong, and because it doesn't seem like they tried hard enough. Separating seemed like the best idea at the time—it's what the logical part of her brain says. They weren't happy. And she knows her sons could see it, feel it, as well. It's wrong of her and Hiroaki to force them to watch their family fall apart even more.

The part of her brain that's fueled solely by emotion tells her that it was a stupid decision. Aren't marriages supposed to be life-long? How did they even end up unhappy in the first place? She doesn't even remember how it all started, and that's what hurts the most. But it's easier to be pissed at him, for her to pick out all of his mistakes; than it is to admit how empty she feels inside because of his absence.

But the clock ticks and ticks, turning seconds into minutes, and minutes into hours. At some point, her anger fades to lonely. It always does. She's hurt and she misses him and it's completely ridiculous, but she wants the one person who caused this ache in her chest to come back so it will go away. When her fingers grip the empty covers beside her, she is reaching for echoes of their children's laughter; for faraway whispers of love and warmth in his embrace; for the ghost of her ex-husband's smile; and she wonders, every night, how long the image of her broken family will haunt her.

She hates feeling this way. She needs to cut these thoughts off; drown them out. Needs to be strong for Takeru. But she's young—she's almost twenty-eight. And she does still love Hiroaki. How is she supposed to raise their youngest without him by her side? And what about Yamato? Will she even get to watch him grow, or will she always be too far? She thinks briefly of calling him, of giving in, but she dismisses the idea immediately because they've already made their decision. She can't hold on like this.

Her alarm clock blinks 1:34 a.m. She sits up in her bed, using the back of her hand to wipe stray tears away with more force than necessary. Draws in a deep breath and releases it slowly. She knows she works at nine and will have to get up two hours before that to get her youngest son ready for the day. But she's not going to sleep anytime soon.

Natsuko swings her legs over the side of her bed. Her head aches faintly and she can still feel the pressure of tears, but she pushes herself up anyway. It's dark, but her eyes have long ago adjusted to it, so she slips through her door easily. Peeks in through Takeru's bedroom door and sees him cuddled up in the corner of his small bed.

His blanket is by his feet, and automatic instinct is to fix it. She walks over to him, pulls it over his shoulders, and tucks it in tight. Ghosts his forehead with a kiss. He stirs slightly but doesn't wake.

Her feet then carry her to the kitchen. She's thirsty and craves tea, but the whistle from the kettle would be too loud. Settles for a glass of water from the tap instead. Then she's padding quietly toward the small sofa in the front room and feels around for the remote. She has a tendency to leave on the floor or inside the couch—

Ah. Yep. She pulls out from under the cushion and clicks the power button. Turns the volume down until it's two notches away from mute so she won't wake Takeru, and uses the light from the screen to search for a movie. Most of them are Hiroaki's, and she pushes down the wave of sorrow that threatens to build itself a home in her heart. She needs to get her mind off of him.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually, she decides on a film in French. Pops it in the VCR and the static screen turns black for several seconds. Remembers that she has to rewind the tape, which takes a little bit.

While she waits, she pulls the afghan crochet blanket from over the top of the sofa and wraps herself in it. Then the tape clicks and the title screen pops up, and Natsuko takes a small sip of her water.

For the first twenty minutes, she's entirely focused on the movie. It's a crime film, and she's always been a sucker for thrillers. She's a journalist (although she's not the best, she admits), so it's easy for her to slip into anything that resembles a good case. But her mind keeps wandering back to toothy, young grins; to strong arms enveloping her; to soft, loving caresses and childlike giggles; and all the sudden, the screen is blurry and her cheeks are hot and damp.

She jumps when she hears a soft whisper that sounds strangely like "mom."

Wipes her eyes furiously when she notices that her four-year-old is standing across the room, rubbing his face tiredly. "What are you doing up, baby?"

"You're up," he says groggily and starts to walk toward her.

She's on her feet as he stumbles and makes it to him in time before he falls. Wonders briefly if he is sleepwalking, but before she can even begin to guide him back to his bed, Takeru whispers, "Why are you in here, Mama? Did you have a bad dream?"

"No," she says, trying to smile. But she isn't doing a good job. Inwardly takes a cleansing breath, and continues, "It's late, baby. You need your sleep."

He shakes his head. Then sleepy eyes land on the television (she hasn't paused the movie yet), and before she can blink, he is crawling onto the couch.

"Takeru, no," she says, grabbing small hands and coaxing them to release her blanket. She scoops him up, and his arms instinctively wrap around her neck. He frowns at her. Pouts, more like. In the dim glow of the tv, she can see that his eyes are webbed. Probably mirroring her own, she thinks. "C'mon, let's—"

Tiny fingers grab her cheek. "You're crying, Mama."

Damn it. All of the sudden she wants to sob. She knows it's not going to solve anything, but her nose burns and her eyes are stinging once again. She clears her throat and blinks several times to dispel the sensation and says in a voice that breaks: "I'm gonna put you back to sleep, ok, Takeru?"

"Are you going back to sleep?"

She hesitates. Purses her lips into a thin line. "Yes."

"Liar," he accuses, still pouting. "Mama, I wanna sit out here with you."

"You can't."

"But you are!"

Part of her thinks this is going to turn into a tantrum. Her mother instinct tells her that it doesn't matter if he wants to stay up, he shouldn't. But she's too exhausted, physically and emotionally, and the last thing she wants is to upset him. He's only four, and she knows he won't understand her insomnia, nor does he understand why their family is like this, but she also knows that deep inside, Takeru feels the same hurt she does.

She can tell, even when his lips curl into a smile. Even when laughter spews from his mouth. Even when he is running around and playing, she knows that he cries. He misses his dad, and he misses Yamato. Just like she does.

She sighs after a moment and resolves to sit on the couch once again. Takeru shifts in her lap and automatically reaches for the blanket she has been using. She's half-sitting on it, though, and he doesn't possess the strength to pull it free, and so she helps him. A tiny giggle erupts from her lips when she sees the frustrated face he makes.

"They're talking weird," he murmurs quietly when they're both comfortable and wrapped up. Her arms are crossed over his chest and her chin is resting on his head.

"It's in another language," she explains just as quietly.

"What's that mean?"

"Some people don't speak the way we do." She pauses as she realizes he's looking up at her, blue eyes tired but curious. Their noses are almost touching. "They just have a different way of communicating."

"How are you gonna watch it, if they're talking different?"

"I happen to know how to talk the way they do."

"Really?" His face suddenly becomes excited. "That's cool, Mama. You're so smart."

She laughs and runs a hand through his hair. It's messy and due for a brush, she notices absently before focusing her attention back on the screen. "If you think so, baby."

"What're they saying?" Takeru asks and mirrors her actions.

"They're stuck in an elevator."

His head tilts to the side like he's confused but he doesn't ask another question. Says, instead, "I want to talk like that, Mama. So I can know what they're saying."

"You know," she begins, "you visited your grandparents a few years back. They spoke French."

"French?" He blinks, tiny eyebrows quirking upward.

"That's the language they're speaking. We speak Japanese, and they speak French."

"I wanna talk French, Mama."

His smile is wide and innocently happy. Natsuko temporarily forgets that it's well past two in the morning. She can't help but grin back at him. "I can teach you."

"Really?"

"Yes, I can."

"Oh, how cool."

She laughs again, and it's full and rich. Tightens her hold on her youngest baby and brushes her lips against his hair. The next ten minutes are full of Takeru asking questions, about what means what, and Natsuko doesn't hesitate to answer each one, repeating phrases fluently while Takeru stumbles over almost every word. But it isn't long before fatigue catches up with him, and he falls asleep forty-five minutes before the movie finishes up.

She doesn't bother rewinding the tape again. Leaves it in the VCR, shuts the television off, and curls up with her child in her arms. She still misses Yamato. She still misses Hiroaki.

But she has Takeru with her. And that gives her hope.