Disclaimer: I don't own anything that's property of Ritzuko Kawaii. I'm planning on robbing her house eventually, but ya know... No, I'm just kidding! All property AKA characters, settings, and etc. from her show Hamtaro are hers. I just envy that fact a lot. XD

AN: I couldn't take it anymore, not updating, so here's a load of nothing. I'm really sorry for the unrewarding wait, but honestly, I can't write anymore. I have no ambition or will, let alone ideas to do this any further, so I may not update any of my other stories for another looooong while. (sweat drops) That, and school took up a lot of time. And I'm in soccer, but those don't count. XD Well, enjoy anyway! This one goes out to all my real pals and E-pals, old, new and to come and the nice ones who've reviewed and faved either myself or my work! You know who you are! :D Thanks again, all!

AN Jr.: I wrote this about a year ago, but finally finished it a few months back and got it checked by my amazingly lovely Beta, Elric24! So, thank her as well for fixing this up so nicely! Check out her work, too! It's honestly fantastic! And thanks again guys for reading! Hope you like it at least a little bit! It's good to be back... (happy sigh)

Dangerous Years

It was a run-of-the-mill SNAFU. The thick air of feuding sunk about the once peaceful playroom. A formerly beautiful tower of blocks was askew on the plush pale strawberry-hued carpet and the one of choice had been used as a weapon of sorts. It lie beside the knee, decorated by a neon pink bandage, of a sobbing child- a little girl of maybe four years with pretty red-blonde locks captured in a small, green elastic.

She was not the victim, but the antagonist whose role had been transformed into the victim's with her twin's need of revenge. His wrath was well understood by then as the little girl's tears ceased dribbling down her lightly freckled peach face and her head's throbbing worsened. A bump had begun to form at the area where the blunt yet still hard yellow wooden block had made impact and when she touched her hand to the tender spot, more crying started. Despite the pain, she found herself stable enough to stand, so she pushed herself up and quickly toddled out of the place. Sniffling, she moved to another room where her mother was sewing. An instant chill shot through the little boy's body as he scooted up to the far wall fearfully. Now came the guilt, but no regret as of then.

He frowned in dismay, staring into the filled-to-the-brim toy chest he had hoped to find shelter in. As he heard his sister's heart-wrenching sobs, he let the lid slam back down and cowered elsewhere.

The small boy could see his twin's shadow wipe its face with a sleeved arm and point off to the playroom's direction from the den. He saw his mother's shadow stand up sternly, placing what was in her hands down. Shutting his eyes and hugging to the wall closer, he prayed somehow he would become invisible.

The guilt intensified, but only because he'd been caught. And with that guilt came an idea. As the noise of the woman's steps got louder, he ran to the door, closed it, and reached high up on tippy toes to turn the lock so no one could get in. He sat on the floor with a pout and his back to the door as he waited for his mother to punish him, but nothing happened. Minutes passed and not so much as a word was audible to him. That was when his ears picked up the far-away sound of his mother's voice. She was on the telephone, most likely with his father.

"He's locked himself in there, darling. Our son doesn't even realize he just put himself in time-out!"

A wave of red made its home on Stan's angry face as the woman's laughter persisted. He stamped a tiny blue sneakered foot to the floor numerous times and tried to keep from crying too loudly. The tears started to sting from the back of his eyes and threatened to spill out as he hit his fists to the floor as well.

"Nooohooo…" he whined to himself. "No no no!" The rest of his mother's conversation was unheard except for her adieu.

"… Alright. I'll let you handle it when you get home, then. I love you."

Click.

If the child wasn't already sobbing, he was then. He and his sister knew very well what happened when their father 'handled' bad behavior. It was a consequence worse than death, more painful than a booster shot at the doctor's without the reward of a lollipop, scarier than the world's tallest, speediest, rollercoaster (though how utterly slow it happened each time!), like a big huge bee sting- The worst possible thing was going to happen at around five that evening when his father would walk in the door from work.

A swat, a swift smack to the behind, maybe even the belt would come into play…

Stan flinched at the horrid thought.

Maybe he could hide until everyone had grown tired of his unwillingness and gone to bed. Maybe then he could run away. But, to where? Perhaps at his pre-school pal Hamtaro's home? No. His parents always wanted him to stay outside and play until it was time for supper. Then they'd make him take a bath and go to bed right after due to his odd hyperactivity. That wouldn't be so fun. Oh! Maybe he could seek refuge with his older friend, Boss! His mother always loved lots of company, especially her son's friends. Wait. No. They moved across town into a bigger house and Stan didn't know where their new place was… No matter! He would still dash off to someplace…

But, until then, all he could, and had, to do was wait. It got hard very quickly because his tummy started to grumble. He put his hands on it to muffle its sounds as he wished he hadn't missed snack time by being mean to his sister. He couldn't leave now- that would be too risky! So, he just sat and stared around the empty room. It was a lot less boring when his sibling was there to play with… She would probably never play with him again after today's incident. The boy sighed and his stomach made noises along with him. Then came an unexpected knock.

Stan felt it on his back which was still propped against the door. It was a heavy-feeling, a loud-sounding hit, belonging to only his father. He had come home earlier than normal. That's when it dawned on the boy that today was Saturday and his father got off at two-thirty instead of at five. He hadn't enough time to prepare his escape and now he was truly trapped.

The knock came again. The child gulped.

"Stanley…? I know you're in there."

Stan gulped again, harder. His bright green eyes went buggy and his mouth hung agape to draw in air. It wasn't working.

"Mmhm. Yeah, Daddy…?" His voice wavered in shock.

"Come out here, son," was his father's soft order.

"I don't wanna…" Stan whimpered under his breath. His father caught the tone of his voice and became more impatient.

"Come out here now, son." It came out an accidental snarl.

"A-aw-wight." He'd sprung up from the carpet about as soon as he heard his father's command, but stayed silent for a moment as he braced himself for what was to come. He revealed himself as the door creaked open.

He was greeted with a lukewarm smile. His expression turned horrified instantly.

"You know what has to happen, yes son?" Stan noticed the man didn't sound angry, but something else.

"Yes, Daddy. You're gonna spank me…"

"You understand why, right?" Crickets. The child wore a blank stare. "You hurt your sister. That's not tolerable…"

There it was. The mystery feeling. It was disappointment.

Disappointment in Stan because he had failed to be a good older brother- even if titled so only by the two minutes that had separated the twins' births. Everything was coming back to the boy as he was brought into the kitchen and set over his father's big left knee.

The large hand was raised.

A tower of blocks painstakingly had been erected, sorted by color with care. The first floor was red because that was the most abundant color amount in the children's collection. The next was yellow, then green with the third most, and lastly, blue- only containing three in its group. So much time and work to make such a pretty thing…

It began to fall upon the tensed-up flesh.

Those stacked blocks were a marvel- and admirable to boot- standing so tall and proud. It gave him pride. However, his sister had to march on over and with one swift, blink-of-an-eye movement of her extended arm, shattered all of that work, all that glory, and for no apparent reason. Just to be mean. Just to destroy what was rightfully her brother's…

Like the quick act on the blocks, the large hand snapped down in a flash, causing a great pain across the boy's backside. And like the blocks as they tumbled down, that was the sign that this was all over. Stan's father set him down and walked away stiffly in silence.

Tears left the child's eyes now as he attempted sniffing them away. They weren't due to the punishment he'd received, but from the realization of what started this ordeal.

He hit his only sibling.

It all began to re-play in his small mind.

As his masterpiece collapsed, he took hold of one specific wooden cube and tossed- no, not tossed- threw it at her.

His face was now sticky and damp.

It soared through the air in a parabola, reaching its height almost at the ceiling and rocketed down straight at her pretty, pretty head…

The crying and snot made his sad face really wet now.

Then it collided into her (evilly) giggling form, stopping all joyous sounds and starting extremely woeful ones. The way her eyes squinted up like snowflakes as they released hot, salty tears, the way her face turned from rosy to enraged and hurt, how she fumbled immediately onto her butt while wailing terribly, how she'd wrapped her face in her tiny hands to soak up the tears… All was caused by his actions that were caused by her actions, that were made out of mere malice. And yet it all fell upon his shoulders. He'd made the last move. He should have tried being the bigger kid…

But he had chosen to be small and used that smallness to creep off to his room while his mother set up the table for dinner before starting her actual cooking, unnoticed so he thought. The woman looked from the corner of her eye and watched him saunter off with a weak smile. She shook her head and returned to her work, first getting out the right seasonings.

With his mind full of buzzing thoughts, he cradled his head in his folded arms as he lie atop a pillow, continuing to sulk.

"I hitted baby sister," he whispered sullenly to the wall. "I hitted baby sister…" The wait for dinner felt much longer then.

When a knock finally came to the door, a meek voice announced,

"Stanwey, we eat now."

Stan breathed in sharply, trying to figure out if he was more angry or surprised with a hint of sorrow.

"G… go away, Sanny. I don't wanna eat," he huffed. On the contrary, his stomach growled deeply.

"But it's puhsketti! You wuv puhsketti!" There was no response and a large pause. "Ookee then. I'w wike, go now."

"Good."

Why would Sandy talk to him now, anyway? His belly gave an uninterruptible answer as it roared again. He sighed heavily.

The rest of the family ate on as if nothing had happened, just like nobody was missing in Stan thought. Their laughter and chatting proved this even more. A big pang rushed over the boy and it was no longer his hunger.

It was a mixture of loneliness, shame, and hurt. This blend also had a hint of anger about it. And it didn't have to be this way, but the child hadn't realized that. To him, this was the way it was supposed to go. That he was supposed to go.

He had to leave now. He almost couldn't take it that he'd already struck and hurt his little twin sister, and he definitely didn't want to risk causing her pain anymore. It was the only way to keep it from happening again. It was the single path to take to keep everyone else happy, protected from him.

Thus, he began to pack.

A half-broken box of crayons and an activity book were the very first things to be put into his drawstring bag. Stan figured they would come to use after he'd learned how to write when enough time had passed, he would be able to send a letter back home. Next was his stash of old Halloween candy, in case he wouldn't be able to find food. Then he squished up his blanket to keep him warm on nights he would have to sleep in the street or on a park bench. And within the remaining space, he placed his piggy bank and all of its two dollars and ninety four cents. That would get him by until he found a job, he figured. Of course, he brought along his treasured maracas, but they couldn't fit in his bag, so he tied them to the outside. Perhaps he could bring in more money by playing them. But they were mainly brought for when he got bored.

His packing was finished. He reluctantly tugged the bag which sat atop his bed closed. The forks scratching against the plates, the chortles of the rest of the family, and his saddened heartbeat filled the boy's ears; tears his eyes. Stan used those misty eyes took one last (blurry) look around his room and, as he snuck out of it into the hall, there as well. As he dragged his feet, he tried to take in as much of the rug as he could to bring along in his memory, as much of the cool, smooth wall. The child would try to remember all of the photos of everyone together. He thought of how many would be taken of them apart.

Too preoccupied in laughing and story-telling about happenings at work were his parents, and too absorbed in watching the adults was a grinning Sandy with pasta sauce on her face. Stan noted that she was also swinging her legs. He stared at her bandage. And as his mother dabbed at her painted eyes with a napkin while coming down from her hysteria, his father loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair. His sister just sat, slurping up the remainder of her noodles, making more of a mess on her chin.

Oh how he would miss them!

The little boy slunk sneakily around the corner, crawled on all fours under the card table, and exited the kitchen once he was past the marble counter. With a final glance back, he choked his tears down and silently opened the screen door to the porch. It clattered shut so lightly for being metal, no one had heard it, so no reason was given to look up and check what had caused the door to move. Luckily yet unluckily, it was a calm, breezeless day.

Stan was then out the door and into the world of his front yard.

Frightened and alone already, the child widened his eyes, scanning left and right. He heard a tiny snap behind him towards the bushes but quickly realized it was only a loose twig plummeting. He caught sight of a bright yellow bird flying home. The boy neared the road to cross and at the same time, the driver of a large car narrowly missing their destination a few houses up slammed on their brake. A loud screech echoed through the air.

Sandy poked her head up right before her mother could finish washing the little girl's face. She spotted her brother by the mailbox from her place at the dinner table. Both she and the woman gasped for different reasons as the child suddenly dashed to the door and past her father, who was then reading the day's newspaper.

"Staaaanweeey!" she hollered, sprinting at him. Her brother turned around with a pained expression on his face, peering away and at the ground. "Where you going?"

The other child drew in a breath.

"Away, Sanny. Far away…"

The girl began sniffling.

"B-but why?"

Stan frowned. "Why? Because I hurted you, sissy!"

"So…?" Sandy blinked her eyes a few times as they glossed over. "Who am I gonna pway wiff? Who's s'posed to share snack wiff me? How am I gonna 'splain to Mommy and Daddy you're gone?"

The last question made Stan laugh stiffly.

"Sanny, I don't wanna hurt you anymore!"

"But, you wike, di'n't hurt me so bad…"

"I don't wanna do it again at all!" His boisterous voice was stern towards the weeping girl.

"Sometimes you gotta, though!"

"But, I'm your big brudder. I's s'posed to take care of you." The male twin sulked, kicking up some dirt in the driveway.

"… You do." Sandy smiled.

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it as they walked back to the house. He smiled in return, making her beam.

Actions and reactions. They can be the most beautiful, or plain down-right ugly. And to think: If the twins had gotten into such a battle over a bunch of blocks, how much of a bloodbath would it be when they were older and bicker over the T.V.- or worse, the bathroom…

The End.