Panthera made an interesting note to me about my lack of strong characterizations for both Rowen and Kento. Which, to my embarrassment, I only picked up now. :sweatdrop: Yes, apparently with all the action switching between Ryo, Cye, and Sage all the time, I forgot to write about what the last two Ronins were doing and thinking that entire time cause nothing has happened to them. …Oh dear.

Anyway, I'm very rusty with Rowen (actually I'm horribly rusty with Kento, and if I was smart, would write a short with him instead, but it's been decided, that out of all the Ronins, I am horribly close to Rowen in temperament and lifestyle than anyone else, and so this is the POV I take more joy in writing) so this is a practice piece, slightly tied into RWU but really a stand alone. Actually, it's pre-Talpa, so nothing has to be read to understand anything. :smile:

"Tension Line"
By: Little Ucchan

Divorce.

The Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary states, in its first definition of the word, divorce to be the action or an instance of legally dissolving a marriage. Subsequent definitions include: to end marriage with (one's spouse) by divorce, to dissolve the marriage contract between, and to terminate an existing relationship or union.

All in all, it didn't sound that bad to Rowen.

There was a loud bang that resounded just outside of his closed bedroom door. The side of his father's fist just slammed against a table counter. His voice, however, was lower than the contact of flesh against wood, the resonant smack of skin. His father's voice was never, what some people would call, a shouting voice. Nevertheless, it held its own power. Anger could temper even the most pleasant of voices into sharp steel. But none was as sharp as his mother's. Rowen always thought it had to do with her job as a journalist. All those colorful words must have come from somewhere.

"I can't believe you would do such a distasteful—"

"Oh! As if you weren't partly to blame!"

Rowen huffed and stared down doggedly at his text book, ignoring his mother's shrill shouts. He'd developed it into an art form really, ignoring upraised voices as if it were commonplace. Desensitization. He decided he should get a medal for it.

In fact, he should get a medal for fixing his father's computer when his mother poured coffee on it. Crash course in computer electronics and outstanding performance under pressure. And a medal for how many bouquets of flowers he bought his mother, signed in his father's hand with an apology for not being there when she arrived home from business. A commendation for stealth and the art of forgery by the age of nine. And another for pulling off the illusion of a normal home life to his classmates and teachers. Successful undercover operative for seven years straight.

Rowen should get a lot of medals that he knew people didn't give out medals for but he'd appreciate anyway.

By the age of ten, he had mastered the art of keeping his life somewhat stable by covering up what his parents naturally did to hurt each other and make it appear less… offending.

By the age of eleven, he had retired, quit, threw in the towel, gave up, and said (in his head of course) "Screw you all," because he found out keeping his parents happy by deflecting all argument starters was, in fact, making him horribly unhappy and equally tense.

So, with the bars raised and no outside force to intervene, his parents, whenever they actually met in their cozy, three bedroom apartment, (which was usually three days after his mother arrived and had proper time to seethe because his father had once again forgotten to take time off so they could spend her short vacation together) turned the place into a war zone with Rowen diving into the metaphorical trench, otherwise known as his bedroom.

He had gotten quite comfortable in his trench for the last six months. Had even established the habit of eating his dinners in there. Survival in harsh conditions. Yet another medal he deserved but would not get. How many people out there knew of his plight anyway? He was so good at covering it up, after all.

There was another bang. It was hollow and vibrated through the floor to Rowen, who was lying by the base of his bed, trying to read. His father had stomped his foot.

Somehow, the war had gravitated closer to his door, their voices at each other back and forth, crashing into just this one jumbled mess of noise and pain. Rowen didn't breathe. Frozen above his book, the words of Einstein long ago lost to him, he listened, then shut them out, then listened again. He hadn't quite gotten the hang of it. This desensitization bit. Six months. He was only twelve. Not enough time to fully switch from caring to not caring about his own parents.

A bang resounded against his door, and Rowen jumped, his pulse quickly catching in his throat, so close to his ears that all he heard was the pumping of his heart against his skull. He stayed locked in his position, wanting to calm down, wanting to convince himself of what his logical mind had conditioned him to believe; that he didn't care, that they couldn't hurt him, that he wasn't hurt by them hurting each other.

He didn't know how long he stayed that way, how long ago the shouting had ended, didn't even realize it had stopped the instant his father had carelessly banged his fist against Rowen's door in anger. He didn't see his father's horrified face as he stared at his fist, still against his son's door, or hear his mother's equally horrified reprimand. All he knew, when he came to his senses, that the living room beyond his door was quiet. One of them had left. Or both. Frankly, he didn't care which.

His parents were divorced a month later. It was his suggestion. His decision really, that they had, surprisingly, agreed to. Apparently, they were much better to each other if they didn't believed them to be married to one another. And apparently, they were only still married for his benefit.

Fancy that. They had been waiting for a green light from him all this time. He could have ended his pain so much sooner.

But luckily he didn't, for, unbeknown to him, his 'training' here would serve him well on an actual battlefield two years from now. By then, he'll be good enough at making curt logical decisions to save his and his friends' lives. By then, emotional pain will not hinder him; they will not even factor in.

But then again, around that same time, he'll remember what it means to feel, what it means to hurt, what it's like to see people you care for fight against each other.

And on some days, he'll be able to take it in for stride and break up the arguments.

And on other days, he'll be twelve years old again, unable to do anything but watch.

And on a few, surprising days, he'll be an adamant participant, for all the times he hadn't said anything to his parents when he really, really should have.

Fin.