Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mikey has three brothers.

And he is also four years old, when he hears about it for the first time.

Dad sits them down in front of the fireplace, on carefully laid out cushions, and his face is serious, almost as serious as when he needs to remind them to eat dinner before dessert. Mikey isn't the biggest fan of this particular face, but Dad leans in to pat him on the head anyway, so he'll let it slide, this one time.

And then he tells them a story.

So Mikey sits there, face tucked into the fur trim of his cloak and a glass of orange juice between his chubby fingers – so far the only way to get him to sit still in one place for more than five minutes.

The story is long, full of words like ''mutation" and "DNA" and Mikey gets lost halfway through, too busy trying to get one last drop from his glass.

But when he looks to his brother, Donnie stares at their father with alert, attentive eyes, full of intrigue; palms tapping on his crossed knees in that way he does when he's excited.

Mikey misses the very end of the story because the metal of Donnie's glasses reflects the candlelight in a funny way. He's sure it wasn't so important, anyway.

He doesn't know how much he actually understood from the story, and it certainly wasn't the answer he expected when asked where do babies come from, but Donnie looks like he gets it.

And in the end, Mikey knows, that as long as Donnie is around, he'll be alright.

And Donnie is always there.

Because why wouldn't he be?

(He will find out, one day. But not yet. Not for a long time.)

***

A year passes, Mikey listens to the same story a few more times, and the most important things he gets from it are:

1. Lou Jitsu is his father, the greatest warrior in the entire world – right after Dad, and his only answer to the question of who he wants to be when he grows up.

2. There used to be four, and now there are two.

When he asks this question for the very first time, him and Donnie are seated together in their corner of Dad's lab – a piece of thick mat, enclosed by a small, metal fence that Huginn and Muninn have begun to affectionately call their "enclosure''.

The fence used to be plastic, until they discovered that Donnie can and will chew through anything that stands in the way between him and all the things that he is not allowed to touch in the lab. So – metal it is.

Donnie's on his knees, taking a toy robot apart, presumably to see how far he can get before it finally shocks him. And then some more.

The robot was technically built for Mikey, but they never had any problems sharing things this way. Donnie always knows how to put together, what he already took apart.

(Except the one time he didn't. But Mikey came out of that experience with teary eyes, a new toy, and a lollipop, so he couldn't really complain.)

Dad's leaned over his desk, glancing in their direction from time to time.

(He started doing that more ever since the fence incident.)

Mikey catches his gaze and grins, revealing both of his missing front teeth in all their glory.

Dad's face softens a little.

Mikey stands up, still a bit wobbly on his legs, holding out his hands. When he stands on his toes, he can rest his fingers against the edge of the fence.

He can feel teeth marks under his fingers.

“Hey, Don-Don?”

Donnie doesn't look up, but Mikey hears the soft chirp from the back of his throat – a sign that he's listening.

Mikey's not sure why he's even asking this question.

Maybe it's been bouncing around his mind for a long time, subconsciously, in the back of his head, waiting for the right moment. Maybe he's just five years old and not a lot of control over his own mouth yet.

Maybe.

“Do you think...” He turns, kneeling on the mat next to his brother, “What do you think happened to them?”

Donnie's tail, previously wagging absentmindedly above the mat, stops in place. His brother straightens his glasses, then looks at him, frowning.

“Who?”

“You know,” Mikey leans closer, like he's sharing a secret. And in a way, maybe that's what he's doing. “With our brothers.”

Donnie's eyes widen.

He quickly glances at their father, too engrossed in his work to pay attention to the sudden change of atmosphere.

Mikey doesn't think Dad would have anything against them talking about it, but Donnie likes to share secrets, and Mikey's very good at listening to them.

(As for actually keeping them, Donnie's record may not be the cleanest, but what he lacks, he makes up in enthusiasm.)

“Do you think Lou Jitsu actually took them?” Donnie asks

“Dad said so.”

Mikey is five years old, and that one statement is still all the reassurance he needs.

Donnie shrugs.

He picks up the toy again, but Mikey knows that he's still listening.

“I know,” he fixes his glasses to busy his hands. “But Lou is, well, like a hero, right? And heroes don't steal babies.”

Mikey rubs at his chin thoughtfully, feeling some leftover paint from earlier.

“Maybe he didn't know they were kids,” he says, finally. “Dad said we used to look like turtles.”

Donnie seems to consider this for a moment.

“We still look like turtles, Angelo.”

A cable flashes briefly under his fingers. Donnie's eyes fill with a familiar twinkle.

“Yes, but-”

He doesn't finish, because Donnie suddenly looks right at him again, with a suspiciously overjoyed smile.

“I'll give you my dessert if you lick this.”

Five minutes later, Mikey has no real answer to his question, but a very sudden awareness of the consequences that come from mixing saliva and electricity.

***

Mikey is eight years old when he remembers that memory again.

He's lying in the shallows of their pool, resting his elbows on the edge, his plastron warm from the water.

The room is dark without any windows (probably due to the fact, that it was once quite a sizeable storage room, judging by the leftover boxes stacked in the corner, grown soggy over the years), but Donnie doesn't like harsh lights, and the fairy lamps Mikey hung around the ceiling, add to the calm, sleepy ambience.

Which, apparently, he's the only one affected by.

The water behind him ripples, and Mikey glances over his shoulder in time to spot his brother.

Donnie swims close to the bottom; in the dark, his shell almost merges with the shadowy pool. But his tail, unconsciously wagging in a familiar rhythm, gives away his position surprisingly quickly.

That, and his eyes; faint, white glow of his eyelid.

He's fast, but Mikey knows which corner of the pool to focus his eyes on next, even before his brother's claws touch the tile.

He's getting predictable.

(Or maybe, Mikey just knows him that well. Something tells him that in real circumstances – Donnie would be the hunter, not the victim.)

Donnie is staring at him from the bottom – a pair of white eyes awaiting his next move.

Donnie wants him to give chase.

And although usually, energy is constantly buzzing somewhere deep under his skin, not allowing him to stay put in one place for too long – today the water is pleasantly warm, the atmosphere sleepy, and his muscles are pleasantly numb from training.

So Mikey just closes the other eyelid, blinking lazily.

For a moment, they only stare at each other.

Eventually, Donnie gives in, shoulders relaxing, narrowing his eyes. And when he swims forward again, it's much slower, more of a drift than a race.

Mikey still expects at least one playful nip on the ankle, but his brother only rests his hands against the shallow edge, pulling his head out of the water.

“Hi.”

Mikey churrs, shifting from belly to side. Donnie accepts the silent invitation, drifting onto the smooth tiles a bit away from him.

He looks funny like that, with only his eyes above the water's surface. Dad once called him a "crocodile", and although Mikey had never seen one in real life, the illustrations he saw in their encyclopedias showed a very blatant resemblance.

Mikey rolls over on his back, stretching his hands and legs out of the water, feeling the familiar aches and pains in his muscles.

The pool is large enough to stretch out comfortably without disturbing Donnie.

The pool is big, because it was built for four.

The thought makes him freeze for a moment, interlaced fingers raised above his face.

This happens to him more and more often.

Thoughts like these, digging into his mind like a sharp knife.

Extra rooms, carefully repainted, only to stand empty.

Their bedroom, too spacious for just the two of them.

The two other weapons, collecting dust under their father's lab.

“Hey, Don-Don?”

“Don't call me that,” Donnie replies instinctively, but his head pops up from under the water, sliding a little on the tiles.

Mikey chews on the inside of his cheek.

“Do you ever think about our brothers?”

Donnie freezes.

Mikey feels his neck instinctively retreat a little closer to the shell.

Donnie twists his fingers, glancing to the side, thinking it over.

“... Sometimes,” he settles on, and Mikey can tell he's lying. “You?”

Mikey shrugs.

He says nothing, and he's lying too.

Because Mikey dreams.

And there, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the pale, thin outline of someone else's shell, someone else's hand, so similar to his own.

And sometimes, the outline is so clear, he feels like if he just stretches out his hand, he could touch it.

Sometimes he hears laughter, voices; something red, something blue, unfamiliar and so familiar at the same time.

And then he wakes up, his eyelids and cheeks stained with tears, and the images of who his brothers might once have been, blur like watercolors on wet paper.

(Donnie once told him, that the brain can't create new faces in dreams.

Mikey wonders if he was lying.)

He puts his arms around himself, fingers digging into the flesh almost painfully.

“What do you think happened to them?” He asks softly

Donnie winces a bit.

“Logically, probably nothing good. You know how humans are like. I mean, even if they made it to The Surface- Oh no, Mikey.”

Mikey sniffs once, twice.

He closes his eyes, feeling warm tears mingle with the water on his face, falling into the pool.

When he opens them again, Donnie is already sitting up next to him, his eyes big and scared.

“Angelo, please don't cry. I'm sorry, just-”

Mikey sobs.

He wants his brain to stop giving him foolish dreams.

He wants Donnie to take back what he said, to reassure him that everything will be fine.

He wants to know if his brothers smiled the same way they do in his dreams.

Donnie moves towards him, like he wants to pull him closer, but freezes halfway, hesitating.

He bites his cheek – a habit they both picked up from their father.

Ultimately, he reaches with one hand.

His fingers touch his cheek, and Mikey freezes, as long claws slide down to his chin.

His shoulders relax involuntarily, his eyelids drop.

It's an old trick, something their father discovered when they were still little. But it works, and Donnie lets out a sigh of relief.

Mikey melts under his hand, fighting and losing to stop the soft purr of satisfaction, rising from the back of his throat.

“It's okay,” Donnie nods, looking extremely pleased with himself.

And maybe, for now, when his body feels so pleasantly warm and fuzzy – it really is.

***

Mikey is nine years old and feels warm for the first time that day.

Winters in The Hidden City, while usually mild, were still as unpredictable as ever.

And Mikey knew exactly what kind will fall on them this year, the moment he woke up in the morning with that familiar chill, slowly creeping up through his body, cutting deep into the bone.

And like almost every year, he just rolled over with a grunt, drawing the blanket and the arm Donnie threw over him in his sleep tighter around himself.

Their home wasn't particularly warm by nature; cool stone and metal lining the walls.

And while Mikey insisted that he wasn't that cold after all, and the cape Dad always insisted on, buttoned neatly under his chin, kept him warm enough for most of the day – he can feel the chill he didn't realize existed, finally leave his body.

His feet tingle, warmed by the fireplace.

He's curled up in an armchair, sandwiched between the armrest and Dad's side.

Their father is leaned over his notebook; his handwriting is almost illegible, but Mikey doesn't think he would understand much of it, even if he could decipher it.

Donnie always seems to understand.

Or, at least, he looks like he does, when he shows Dad his own notes and sketches.

Donnie's experiments had long since gone beyond pulling toys apart and convincing younger brothers to lick wires, with more or less success. But their father seems to look at all of them with the same pride, as when he pins another one of Mickey's masterpieces on the fridge.

His latest project, something that looks very much like a metal stick but apparently isn't one, judging from the look on Donnie's face when he pointed it out, remains a 'top secret'.

Donnie's still not the best at keeping secrets; Mikey can see him sketch another long outline in his notebook even now.

The notebooks were Dad's idea, not long after Mikey started covering every available, flat surface with crayons.

(And while Mikey spends a lot of time poring over his own sketchbooks, Donnie seems to be going through his own at an almost alarming rate. His current one has a number seventeen, painted over the cover by Mikey.)

Dad shifts a little. The movement causes the hood, already hanging loose on his head, to finally fall down his shoulders. Mikey feels the fur tickle his cheek.

Dad pulls it back on, pulling the cloak tighter around him.

Mikey lets him fuss, but winces anyway, pressing his cheek into the crook of Dad's elbow.

“Father?” Donnie suddenly looks up, shifting a little from where he's lying on the carpet

Dad looks at him questioningly.

“Auntie said I look like Lou Jitsu.”

Mikey remembers that conversation.

He remembers feeling similar to this, snuggled up against his brother's side, dozing off on the couch in her office. He remembers her leaning over them, fixing Donnie's crocked headscarf.

“Sometimes, you both remind me so much of my Lou,” she sighed.

And the way she looked away, adjusting her glasses, didn't do much to hide the sudden melancholy in her eyes.

Father winces, as he does every time they mention her.

Mikey isn't sure why, and it's the only question their father hasn't given him a simple answer to.

“Sometimes, adults don't like each other, even when they're stuck together. You'll understand when you're older.”

Mikey doesn't know how anyone could dislike their aunt, with her warm hands, bright smile, and open affection, but apparently, even their dad wasn't without a flaw.

“Big Mama says a lot of things,” he answers. But then he looks at Donnie more closely, frowning, like he's seeing him for the first time. “But I suppose... In a way, yes.”

Donnie's face lights up. Just for a moment, before his smile falls again, and he bites his lip.

“Oh.”

He reaches out, scratching on his cheek; another nervous habit.

“Donatello.”

Donnie drops his hand before his claws can leave a mark.

“I'm asking because, like...” Donnie looks at Mikey, like he's looking for answers or help. Whatever it is, Mikey doesn't have it. “Is Lou... You know. A bad guy?”

There are very few questions, that can actually throw their father off.

This, apparently, is one of them.

He raises his eyebrows and Donnie twists his fingers nervously, playing with his pencil.

Muninn, previously curled up in front of the fireplace, now looks up at him with uncertain eyes.

He rises, eventually landing on Donnie's shoulder; a familiar weight that always seems to ground his brother when he starts to feel far away.

When they were younger, especially when sleeping, Donnie would lay his full weight against Mikey's shell, a slow rumble growing him his chest with the pressure on his plastron.

He still does, sometimes, on those days when the world suddenly seems far too big for the both of them.

“I know he was a great warrior and all, but... You know. Our brothers...”

He doesn't finish.

Their father doesn't mention their brothers, not as often as they do, but Mikey can sense the same longing, hidden depth in his chest.

He catches him sometimes, staring blankly at two empty rooms at the end of the hallway.

Father sighs, as if absentmindedly smoothing his hand over Mikey's knee.

“... He was human,” he offers in response.

Donnie and Mikey are (mostly) ten years old, and it's hard for them to connect their biological father, the man who took their brothers from them, and the hero featured in so many murals in their city into one, real person.

But Mikey and Donnie are only ten years old, and for now, that answer will have to suffice.

Donnie nods slowly, looking back to his journal.

Mikey closes his eyes.

He's tired, and the quiet scratching of pencils on the paper slowly lulls him to sleep.

He wakes up three hours later, with a dry throat, numb legs, and a red mark on his cheek.

He rubs his eyes with his hands, stretching out.

The fire has died down, leaving the whole room mostly dim, and Mikey realizes, that he's the only one awake.

Donnie is curled up on the carpet, Huginn and Muninn propped against his shell. Father's leaned back in the chair in a way, that tells Mikey he's going to complain about back pain in the morning; his notebook hangs above the ground, held between loose fingers.

Mikey sets it down on the floor, carefully slipping out of his father's arms.

The floor is cold under his feet, and he shudders, pulling his cloak tighter.

The way to the kitchen is already familiar; his eye adjusts perfectly to the dark, shielded by the white eyelid.

(Dad had once told them that it took some time for him to stop jumping at the sight of pale, glowing eyes, staring back at him from the darkness.)

Mikey's almost tall enough to reach the sink without the help of a stool, which may be one of the greatest achievements of his life.

Almost.

He won't let Donnie rub that one in his face for much longer.

He climbs on the previously placed stairs and, without bothering with a glass, turns on the tap and scoops up fresh water straight into his hands.

He shivers a bit, as a cold drop trickles down his neck.

He wipes his mouth, turning to jump back down to the floor.

He's met with a pair of glowing eyes.

Mikey grins.

“Hi, Don-Don,” he whispers, feet touching the ground.

He's almost sure that Donnie rolls his eyes, as he pulls a blanket tighter around himself. It's hard to tell without the pupils.

“Stop calling me that.”

Donnie knows he won't stop.

Mikey stands next to him, lowering his voice even more.

“What's up?”

Donnie glances to the side, like he's expecting to see someone else there.

But they're alone in the kitchen, and Donnie leans even closer, so that his snout is almost touching Mikey's cheek.

“I woke up, and you weren't there.”

Mikey's face softens.

He doesn't remember the last time he and Donnie slept apart.

He's not sure if there ever was a time like that. Not intentionally, at least.

Their bedroom is a bedroom, in the purest sense of the word – almost empty room, except for a hollow pit in the floor, lined with a mattress, pillows and an impressive collection of blankets.

Their rooms are a completely different space – each cluttered in a slightly different way, covered with graffiti or metal scraps. Chaotic, but in a way known only to them.

Comforting and private.

But their bedroom stays that one, connected element, where regardless of their previous quarrels or workload – one could not be seen without the other.

Sometimes they just fall asleep with their backs to each other, lulled by the silence and the sound of their own breathing.

But more often than not, Donnie will let him cling to his limbs, or pull Mikey close, cheek resting on the back of his shell, tail beating softly against the pillow in silent contentment.

And nothing calms the instincts screaming in his chest as well, as waking up tangled in someone else's limbs. The instincts that make him cling to his brother, that make him check on him in his room during the day, that want nothing more, than to know he's safe.

(He sometimes wonders, how much that call has to do with the ever present emptiness in his chest, left by someone he never really knew.)

“And I had a weird dream. You know,” Donnie adds with a shrug.

Mikey thinks he does.

He reaches his hand, letting it hang between them.

Donnie hesitates only a moment, before taking his fingers in his own, squeezing lightly.

Mikey breaks the silence.

“What do you think happened to them?” He asks, looking up

He asks it so often now, it almost feels like a game.

Mikey asks – and Donnie changes the answer each time.

It's always reassuring, filled with humor and rare lightheartedness.

Mikey knows that Donnie doesn't like to lie. He's grateful he can still do it for him.

(Donatello will lie to him many times, for many different reasons, but this one will always feel the most significant.)

Donnie smiles faintly.

“I think they're fine,” he replies, and strangely, it doesn't feel like a lie this time.

Chapter Text

Mikey is eleven years old and starts to seriously doubts whether or not he actually remembers what New York looks like.

Which, by all logic, doesn't make that much sense.

Their trips to The Surface aren't rare; not anymore. Or at least, not as rare as Father thinks.

By design – it's almost too easy to sneak down the elevator at their aunt's hotel, and discreetly exit through the back door.

But it's not their fault the door stays open, and Usagi's older brother, usually the one in charge with keeping an eye on them, is still really good at keeping secrets.

And he's not the only one, Mikey assumes, after the one time Auntie gave him a knowing wink, as she picked a stray leaf from the collar of his cloak.

(Donnie, for someone exceptionally fond of his own privacy and secrets, never quite got better at keeping them and the fact that the truth still hadn't come out, probably had a lot to do with how hard he pressed his jaws together, whenever their father mentioned anything about The Surface.)

Their little adventures started out quite timidly, being mostly confined to the nearby street, pulling up their hoods and jumping at their own shadows.

But over time, the street grew into the whole street block. Street block into the neighborhood, and from there, the climb to the rooftops and skyscrapers was almost too simple.

Sometimes, mostly at night, when even Donnie's quiet breath wasn't enough to calm his mind, Mikey can't help but feel a quiet sense of guilt.

'What Father doesn't know won't hurt him,' Usagi told them once, the first time his doubts overcame the excitement of breaking the rules.

Mikey isn't sure how much he actually believes in that, but Donnie nodded in agreement, and it did make him a little calmer in that moment.

And all his doubt and uncertainty, no matter how persistent, always seemed to vanish the moment he was above the city.

From the rooftops, New York is an ocean of lights and sounds; waves of people and their strange machines, a cascade of colors, billboards, neon lights. It is an abyss of cement, dirt, noise and smog, and Mikey can stare for hours at its imperfect edges, at everything that makes it art.

(He loves New York in a different way, than he'll ever love The Hidden City, for a ship won't ever fully love the line that keeps it moored, when all it wants is the forward.

He is eleven and takes a Home for granted. He will be proven wrong someday, but not yet.)

Now, he's staring at the line that just came from under his own hand, and doesn't feel that way at all.

The mural looks flat – grays interspersed with occasional pop of color, that doesn't manage to reflect how the night lights flow and blur in his eyes; smooth lines replacing the rough texture of stone and concrete; too stiff to feel the pulse of its life.

Mikey bites on his cheek, growling softly in frustration.

Donnie, leaning over the desk on the other side of the room, looks up at him, one eyebrow raised.

It's a new quirk, as are the eyebrows themselves.

“I want to look like Lou Jitsu,” Donnie stood in the entrance to his room a month prior, clutching a black sharpie in one hand.

And Mikey can recognize a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity when it's standing right in front of him.

Dad, apparently, lacked his brilliant intuition, looking at how wide his eyes grew seeing Donnie right after.

He spent the next hour in their bathroom, fighting a losing battle between Donnie and an alcohol-soaked swab.

“Spirits,” Dad gasped, clearly trying to find a balance between actually trying and controlling his own strength. “Donatello, please-”

“But I like them!” Donnie repeated, once again slipping out of their father's embrace

“Me too!” Mikey parroted, happily watching the whole spectacle from the safety of the bathtub's edge.

Objectively speaking, the eyebrows didn't look bad at all, even thinking back. Straight and even, carefully formed under an artist's hand.

“Do you know how many toxins are in this? You're going to get a rash, or- Donatello, I swear, if you bite me now, you're grounded for the next year.”

Donnie eventually gave in, but not before Father promised to get him something more skin-friendly for the next time.

And just like that – Donnie and Mikey became proud owners of one, black eyeliner.

And it's only been easier from there, really.

Creating even lines on his own eyelids wasn't that much different from doing it on the paper, after all, and Donnie's hands quickly got accustomed to the new tool.

It took two weeks for Mikey to whine his way into a highlighter as well. Another one - before he managed to convince Donnie to let him put some on his snout.

But as soon as their Auntie, fondly tapping the top of his nose, called him "a handsome young man", his brother didn't seem so reluctant anymore.

Funny, how far a little praise went with Donatello.

“Artblock?” He asks, returning to his work

Mikey isn't sure what he's working on exactly, but the long piece of titanium under his hands looks familiar.

“No,” he replies, rubbing his cheek with the end of the brush. “Tough muse.”

The idea for the mural came to him a few days earlier, after hours spent on the roofs of skyscrapers, filling the pages of his notebooks with sketches of the city.

(Now that they're older, Mikey goes through journals almost as fast as Donnie. He will never quite catch up to the number painted over his brother's book, but it will never stop him from trying.)

The idea buzzed under his skin until the next morning when Dad gave him the go ahead.

Mikey wasn't very precise with his question, and he isn't sure how much his father would actually like something so undeniably human painted on his lab's wall, but that part of it is more Donnie's anyway; cluttered with his junk and scraps of metal, rejected projects.

Mikey sighs, looking down at the palette in his hand.

He frowns, lifting it up a little and comparing it to the wall.

The gray color on it is slightly different from the one on the mural. He presses his lips together, instinctively reaching for his white paint.

His fingers find the empty tube.

This time, the sound he makes, makes Donnie turn so quickly he almost drops the blowtorch he's holding. His tail's raised high, alarmed.

“You're okay?”

“No.” Mikey resists the growing urge to throw the palette on the floor. “The colors don't match. And I'm out of white paint.”

“Father mentioned he left you some in the storage room, remember?” Donnie relaxes now, as Mikey's growl dies down

His tail bounces up and down, once, twice, amused.

Mikey feels his stomach drop.

“Oh, right.”

He looks back at the wall, the palette on the floor, then back to his brother.

The shadow of a smile disappears from Donnie's face.

“Don-”

“No.”

Mikey puffs out his cheeks, resisting the sudden urge to stomp his foot.

“But-”

“You're a "big boy" now, you can get your own paint.”

Mikey clenches his fists at the hint of mockery in his voice.

“But it's scary there!”

Donnie sighs, long and hard, rubbing his temples with his claws.

“Angelo, our house is not haunted.”

Mikey puts his hands on his hips, narrowing his eyes.

“I know what I saw, Donald.”

“What you saw, was Huginn tangled in a bedsheet.”

“That's what they want you to think.”

“Who?” Donnie spreads his arms. “Who's they, Mikey?”

Mikey doesn't answer.

Instead, he hisses softly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Donnie raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. He slowly turns around, returning to his earlier work.

Mikey reaches out, tugging on his tail.

Donnie spins on his heel, a warning hiss on the tip of his tongue as Mikey throws in his last offer.

“If you come with me, I'll paint your new shell.”

Donnie's face softens.

His new shell, much thicker and futuristic than the simple model their father had made for him all those years ago, rests on his shoulders, and Donnie instinctively raises a hand to run his fingers along the harness keeping it up.

In recent years, he has gone through exactly six different models – each of them a little more efficient, equipped with more or less necessary gadgets (“When are you going to need a portable cooler?”). Each of them – carefully painted by Mikey.

The last prototype was his favorite – ivy branches overgrown with flowers; two of them: orange and purple, huddled together in the very corner.

Mikey knows this may be a weak bribe. After all, he would do it for free in the end.

Donnie must know it too, but he just sighs, as he pulls off his thick gloves.

“Fine.”

Mikey raises his hands in triumph.

He earns a nip on the cheek for it, but he regrets nothing.

The way to the storage room is short, with Donnie, muttering words that Mikey knows he would never dare say in front of their father, providing him with enough entertainment.

The door is closed.

It happens surprisingly rarely, much less than it should, looking at the contents of the room itself.

But the only people who use it on a regular basis are Donnie and Dad, both with a tendency to immerse themselves in work to such an extent, that trivial tasks like closing doors become meaningless.

Mikey knows all too well the feeling of leaning over a project, only to 'wake up' hours later, with a dry throat and a numb neck. Still, sometimes he wishes it didn't always have to end with him dragging hissing and biting Donnie out of his room by force.

Donnie reaches out his hand, resting it on the scanner.

The store room existed even before them, always opening with a simple lever, which changed only after Donnie's two-hour long presentation on security and primitive technology.

Mikey got very little out of it, too distracted by the hole in Donnie's pants, just above his knee, to pay any real attention.

He fixed up the hole later with his own, custom patch, because needlework always came easier to him, than anything relating to Donnie's technology.

But all the new security looked cool as fuck, and Father seemed especially pleased with Donnie, so Mikey wasn't going to complain.

The door opens with a soft hiss. Donnie adjusts the harness holding his shell, clearly waiting for Mikey to take the first step.

He reaches out, groping for the light switch, when a hand lands between his shoulder blades, pushing him forward.

He barely keeps his balance, tripping over his own feet. He turns around, giving his brother the deadliest look he can muster.

“Oops,” Donnie shrugs, trying hard not to smile.

When they finally turn on the light, the room looks just as he remembers it.

Big, cluttered, but surprisingly lacking any traces of ghosts.

“Oh no.” Donnie puts a hand over his chest in a dramatic gesture, “The ghosts are invisible.”

Mikey sends him a bored look.

“Oh, look behind, is that a beach ball?”

Donnie's eyes widen for a moment before a wave of understanding flashes across his face, quickly replaced by deep annoyance.

His red eye twitches.

“Ha. Very funny, he said without an ounce of sarcasm.”

Mikey, snickering under his breath, quickly flees to the other side of the room to avoid another close call with Donnie's teeth.

The shelves are as dirty as he remembers them; he instinctively winces when a large dust cloud rises in the air whenever he moves one cardboard box.

“We've got to clean up here sometime,” he says.

“Do what you want,” says Donnie, leaning over the bottom row of shelves. “I don't mind. Oh hey, I found your paints... Oh, huh.”

Mikey turns to his brother.

He knows that tone almost too well; the clear intrigue that could mean anything from a peculiar piece of tech to an actual, ticking bomb. And Mikey would definitely prefer to avoid the latter.

(Never again.)

Donnie's tail twitches a bit. Mikey steps closer, taking loud steps to not startle his brother.

“What is it?” He asks, just a hint of panic in his voice

He crouches behind Donnie, resting his chin on his shoulder to look over his arm.

Something in his chest relaxes a bit at the sight of a plain, plastic box that looks nothing like a bomb, maybe except for the big "DO NOT TOUCH", scrawled across its side.

Mikey recognizes the handwriting.

“I think it's your birthday present.”

Donnie's eyes open a little wider.

And before he can say anything else, Donnie grabs the box with both hands, quickly tearing off the lid. Mikey just sighs, crossing his arms over his chest.

Mikey doesn't remember if there ever was a time Donnie didn't manage to sneak a peek at any of his 'surprise' gifts.

He claims he's just too good too beat.

Mikey thinks he just hates fun, seeing that 'Mr Observant' still hasn't noticed the old sock Mikey taped to the top of his closet a month ago.

Donnie stares inside, and his eyes go wide.

Mikey looks over his shoulder.

“It's... Cool?”

He's not sure what he's looking at, honestly, or how the seemingly random jumble of wires and metal is supposed to come together in any kind of coherent way. But his brother clearly does, because he looks at him with a wide grin, the one that makes his eyes crinkle in delight.

“Cool? Mikey, this is-”

The word vomit that comes out of his mouth doesn't make much sense to Mikey, but he likes the way Donnie's whole face lights up, as he flaps his hands in excitement.

It makes the energy under his skin buzz a little louder. He bounces on his heels, trying to vent it out.

Donnie pauses to take a breath.

“You can only get this kind of stuff on... The Surface,” he says a little calmer, and Mikey looks back at the box with a bit more appreciation.

“It's a good present,” he replies, standing up and placing his hands on his hips. “So you'll put it back and pretend you didn't see it.”

Donnie rolls his eyes.

“Scoff,” he mumbles under his breath.

Mikey takes the box from his hands, pushing it back onto the shelf.

Something behind it falls to the floor with a loud thud.

Donnie squeezes his eyes shut, instinctively covering the sides of his head with his hands.

“Sorry.” Mikey gives him an apologetic look. He walks around the shelf. “I'm gonna-”

And he freezes, staring at the floor.

It's a box. Objectively speaking: it's nothing impressive.

Plastic, blue, interspersed with white lines of stretched material, dangerously close to breaking off.

There's a blanket lining the inside of it, covered with dust and soot to such an extent, that the original color is almost unrecognizable.

And Mikey...

Doesn't know.

He doesn't know why his breath suddenly stops in his lungs, why his eyes suddenly go out of focus, why his limbs burn, urging him to hide in his shell from a threat he can't recognize.

“... Angie?”

He feels, more than hears, Donnie stand behind him; his closeness calms his sudden nerves a bit.

Donnie follows his gaze and Mikey spots the exact moment, when it hits him too.

He leans forward, slowly, taking the box in his hands.

Mikey feels himself reaching out; his fingers instinctively tighten on the fabric of Donnie's pants, like he used to do before the first growth spurt, and his big brother towered over him even more than now. He remembers Donnie picking him up sometimes, letting him climb onto his shoulders, where Mikey felt as safe as nowhere else.

Donnie runs his finger across the plastic. His face is blank, but Mikey knows him too well not to notice the way he's biting into his cheek.

He mindlessly spins the box in his palms.

And freezes once more.

Mikey looks at the letters, scribbled in a thick felt-tip pen, on the other side.

''20XX – THE MT EXPERIMENT - ATTEMPT #1''

They both stare at them in silence.

Until Mikey, slowly, reaches out, his fingers tightening around the rough material of the blanket.

It's dirty, leaving soot marks on his skin, but he still wraps both hands around it, pressing it close to his chest.

After all the years, the material smells only of soot and old age.

But some subconscious part of his mind tells him that it wasn't always like that.

Something in his chest wants him to feel something else, the smell of someone else.

Of a family.

Because there were once four of them.

And Mikey knows he'll never let himself forget that.

(And he's not sure if he should consider this a good thing.)

“Is it weird?” He asks quietly, because Donnie still hasn't said a word. “Missing someone you've never met?”

Donnie stares at the blanket in his arms. He tentatively reaches out, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

“… No,” he answers.

But his voice is distant and timid, like he's not entirely sure which one of them he wants to reassure more.

“What do you think happened to them?”

Donnie doesn't answer.

The blanket, neatly folded in a box, ends up in the bottom drawer of Mikey's dresser, where no one else will look, covered by an old coat.

And Mikey pretends not to notice that the blanket starts smelling like Donnie.

He knows Donnie is pretending for him, too.

***

Mikey is twelve years old and already knows how to recognize a Bad Day.

To some extent, he always knew.

The way Donnie stretches in the morning; with a wrinkled face, stiff limbs, as if the very sensation of being alive made him shiver. The way he plays with the food on his plate more than he actually eats it, clenching his teeth. The way his claws rub nervously on the chair – knees pulled closer to his chest, obsessively wiping his hands on the fabric of his pants.

All the subtle signs in which his brother asks for help.

Mikey knows this.

Which doesn't make it any easier.

He watches Donnie flip the meat on his plate.

He's been on the edge since morning; Mikey felt the tension in his muscles, saw the dark circles under his eyes.

Over the years, Donnie has developed a habit of avoiding sleep like the plague, so immersed in his own work and study that Mikey can't count how many 'interventions' ended up with him dragging his biting and hissing brother back into their bedroom, or how many times he found him already passed out, his cheek against his desk and his neck painfully bent.

So maybe, the spots under the eyes are the most normal part of this situation.

(Even tho he's pretty sure Donnie got even more sleep than normally last night.)

But the way his eyes seem distant and pensive – isn't.

His eyebrows are drawn together, like he's constantly thinking about something. He raises his free hand, claws scratching at the skin near his neck.

“Donatello.”

Donnie flinches at the sudden sound, looking up at their father absently.

He doesn't answer, but obediently drops his hand. There are subtle but visible scratches on his skin.

Mikey instinctively reaches out, running his hand down his own neck, wincing in sympathy. His fingers meet hard metal.

It's a new gadget, something Donnie called an "optimal, flexible and customizable, protective mask". Huginn and Muninn called it a "dog collar".

It's actually more of a neck brace; cold sheets of fine metal lying flat, almost flush with his skin, but extending to cover his entire face at the push of a button.

Mikey has a quiet feeling that it's a way for Donnie to apologize for that one time he cut his cheek open during training.

The scar healed a long time ago, but the relief in his brother's eyes every time he sees the glint of metal under the collar of his cloak is hard to miss.

So Mikey paints a face on it and pretends not to notice the smug smile, tugging at the corner of Donnie's lips.

But now, his brother's face stays blank.

“Everything's all right?” Father watches him carefully from the other side of the table

Although his face appears neutral, Mikey was always good at picking out all his little giveaways, the way his eyes wrinkle slightly, the way his fingers tighten around the fork – small signs of concern.

Donnie holds up a hand to his chest, like he's feeling for something. A beat passes. He shrugs.

He hadn't spoken since morning.

Mikey bites his cheek nervously, fidgeting in his own seat. He looks over at Dad, seated in his usual place at the head of the table, in a silent question.

Father doesn't look at him, focused on Donnie.

His brother stares stubbornly at his own plate, not so much ignoring their presence, as clearly just forgetting about it.

“Don?” Mikey tries. Donnie doesn't look up, but he knits his eyebrows slightly. “Can you pass me the water?”

It's more of an attempt to bring his brother closer to reality, than an actual request.

Donnie has a tendency to do that sometimes; to disappear in all the ways but physical, to almost completely detach from reality. When for a few hours, nothing mattered, but the work under his hands; when sleep, hunger or fatigue gave way to his insatiable drive and passion.

At times like those, all Mikey could count on are short, simple activities, in the hope that his brother will find his way back to them at his own pace.

Donnie raises his head, looking straight ahead.

He reaches out, but he's clumsy, unfocused, as his fingers miss the jug by inches.

Glass falls on the table with a shatter, soaking the tablecloth, the wood.

Donnie's hand stays frozen in midair, his eyes suddenly wide and aware.

Mikey exchanges a quick glance with their father.

“Donnie, it's okay-”

He doesn't finish, as his brother gets to his feet, staring at the growing stain with panicked eyes.

Mikey wants to grab him by the arm, shake him hard, and then pull him close and hold for a very long time.

Instead, he lets him back away from the table, out of the room, disappearing into the hallway.

Father stares after him; his lips tremble slightly. He rests his hands on the table, like he wants to get up too, but Mikey beats him to it, quickly coming to his side and resting a palm on his.

“I got him,” he says, and Dad just nods; his shoulders relax.

They both know that their father falls definitely into a small circle of people Donnie actually trusts, in any real way.

They also both know, that their father is not Mikey.

That no amount of trust and love can replace the endless devotion that Donnie shares with his brother. That even if he doesn't always let him touch anything in his lab, if Mikey were to put a knife to his throat, Donnie would just tell him to be careful not to nick himself.

That Dad's trying, but when dealing with emotions, he's still not much better than Donnie himself.

So he just nods.

Mikey walks down the hall.

He stopped asking for a permission a long time ago, and his paintings fill nearly every flat surface of their house. Mikey runs his fingers over them now, as he stops outside their bedroom door.

It's locked, as expected.

He leans against the wall, counting down the time.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes.

Only then he reaches out, knocking on the door.

“Hey. Can I come in?”

He knows he can.

If Donnie didn't want him here, he would lock himself in his own room, slamming the door shut and playing dead for the next twenty-four hours.

But Donnie is here, so he gets a faint murmur for an answer.

The bedroom lights are off, leaving the room in dim darkness.

There's a mass of rolled-up blankets, pillows, and sheets, that may have once been his brother, lying in the center of their bed. Mikey closes his eyelid to see better, tilting his head.

He walks slowly, making sure Donnie can hear his footsteps.

“Hi, Don-Don.”

The mass moves slightly, and in a moment, his brother's familiar snout emerges from between the layers of fluffy skin. A pair of mismatched eyes stares back at him.

“Don't call me that,” he mumbles.

Mikey is just happy to hear him.

He crouches down, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“Do you just want me to sit with you, or can I hug you?”

Donnie rolls his eyes.

Mikey just gives him a genuine, patient smile.

Donnie sighs, pushing aside the blanket and spreading his arms.

“Come here.”

Mikey feels his smile grow even wider.

He slides under the covers with practiced ease, wrapping both hands around his brother's neck.

“More pressure?” He asks

Donnie buries his snout in his shoulder, nodding.

He allows Mikey to hold him with almost all his strength, running his fingers over the cold metal of his shell.

“Do you want to take it off?” Donnie shudders, which Mikey takes for an answer. “Okay, that's fine.”

They're silent for a very long time, so much so that Mikey almost assumes Donnie feel asleep, until his brother shifts slightly, muttering something into his shoulder.

“What?”

Donnie pulls back just enough to look at him.

His eyes are a little red.

“Sorry. I don't know why I-”

Mikey reaches out and tightens his fingers around his snout, closing his mouth.

“Don't apologize. We talked about this.”

Donnie growls teasingly, pushing his hands away.

Then his face falls again, and he rubs his arm with his fingers.

“Can I tell you something?”

You already did, is on the tip of Mikey's tongue. He stops himself, nodding instead.

Donnie twists a bit, slipping out of his brother's arms. But he still grips his hand, almost mindlessly running his claws over his palm.

“Sometimes...” He frowns, grimacing, as if disgusted at the thought. “It's... Stupid.”

Mikey opens his mouth, but Donnie stops him right away.

“It is. And that's why it frustrates me so much. Because it doesn't make any sense and it's so... Frustrating.” He runs a hand over his snout. “Sometimes I feel like I'm dreaming about our brothers.”

Mikey's eyes widen.

Donnie rubs his neck, flustered.

“I mean, I don't know, I don't even remember what they looked like, but I just... I just feel like it's them, you know?”

Mikey knows.

Oh, Mikey knows very well.

And after all these years, one old, forgotten memory finds its way back into his consciousness.

He is seven years old, and he's sitting at a table, tapping his fingers on the wood.

It's usually a nervous habit, something to release the energy that seems to always be bubbling just beneath his skin. But now, his thoughts are surprisingly calm, his muscles relaxed, and the rhythm he taps sounds suspiciously like that one song Dad has been humming for the past week.

The place looks familiar, in a vague way. The edges blend together a bit, some colors clearly stand out a bit too harshly, it still forms that deep sense of security.

He stretches his fingers, feeling the rough texture of the tablecloth.

He's I'm pretty sure it wasn't here just a minute ago, but it fits in surprisingly well.

“Hi.”

Mikey looks up.

The other Yokai looks back.

Despite the deep, red markings on his face, he looks surprisingly young, maybe not much older than Mikey himself. His face is patted with baby-fat and a shirt that seems to swallow his thin form almost entirely, in a way that reminds Mikey of his own cape.

And it's not the only thing they seem to have in common.

Not at all.

Mikey has never met another Yokai who looked so much like him and Donnie. But this one has the same amount of fingers, green skin, and Mikey's pretty sure he can make out an outline of something rounded covering his back underneath his T-shirt.

His dad once told him, that there was no one else like them in the whole world.

('Not anymore,' he said, but Mikey preferred not to focus on that part.)

Apparently, he was wrong.

Mikey blinks.

“Oh, it's you again.”

There's weird recognition on the other turtle's, along with an easy smile, which, combined with his words, makes almost zero sense because Mikey is pretty sure he would remember if they ever met before.

Almost. Because some quiet, subconscious part of his mind tells him that, his eyes seem oddly familiar.

But maybe he's just focusing too much on the single, red one, almost identical to Donnie's.

“Hi?” Mikey says because "Do I know you?" and "Dad said not to talk to strangers" don't feel quite adequate

“I'm looking for someone,” the turtle tells him, not bothered by the clearly confused tone of his voice.

He reaches out a hand, scratching on his face. And while his claws aren't as sharp as Donnie's, filed and clipped down to an almost painful level, the gesture itself is oddly familiar.

His markings are so red. Mikey wants to ask about them.

“Who?” He says instead, because that seems more polite

But he doesn't answer right away, looking around like he only now became aware of their surroundings.

“Where are we?”

“Um...”

Mikey follows his gaze, realizing that he's not really sure himself.

“... At my favorite restaurant,” he concludes, noting the familiar color of the walls, the pattern on the tablecloth. “We come here every other week.”

He can't help the smile that breaks onto his face.

Run Of The Mill looks a bit fuzzy, maybe bigger or smaller than Mikey remembers. No matter how hard he strains his eyes, he can't see the entire room.

“Cool.” The stranger puts his hands on his hips, clearly satisfied with the answer. “I like it. I like the... Stains on the ceiling.”

Mikey looks up.

“Oh, yeah. That's my bad.”

They're silent for a moment, their heads tilted up.

Finally, Mikey lowers his gaze, leaning over the table and pointing to the frames hanging on opposite walls.

“I drew them myself,” he tells the stranger when he follows his hand with his yes, right to the familiar drawings.

They are a bit old now, his artistic talent has clearly increased over the last year, at least in his own opinion. But Señor Hueso refuses to remove them, so there must be some sense of pride still left in them.

“Wow, really? Good job, buddy.”

Mikey grins.

The stranger smiles back.

“Look,” he says, resting his elbow on the edge of the table in an obvious attempt to strike a cool pose. Maybe it would look cooler, if he was just a little bit taller. “Have you seen another turtle around here?”

Mikey's eyes widen.

He'd never met anyone who looked like him or his brother, so the possibility of meeting not one, but two, makes something warm pulse softly beneath his skin.

“A turtle?”

“More or less,” the stranger holds out a hand slightly above his head, “this tall. Green with purple spots. He has glasses and looks like a total jackass.”

Oh.

Yeah, right.

Mikey feels his shoulders drop.

“That's my brother,” he mutters, because even if the rest of the description left any doubts, that last part definitely seals that conclusion. Donnie does look like a jackass, spirits bless him. “And no, I haven't.”

The stranger bounces on his feet.

“Oh, cool. I have a brother, too.” He pauses, scratching his face again. Mikey starts to understand why his claws are trimmed. “Well, kind of. He's a bit of a 'two in one'.” 

Before Mikey has a chance to ask him what that means, his hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“Look, it's been nice talking to you, but-”

Mikey shivers.

His touch is so sudden and so real, like he's actually standing there in front of him, like if Mikey just reached out, he would be able to feel the flimsy fabric of his shirt.

And this one moment, this one element of reality feels so strange to him, because-

Because this isn't real.

He blinks suddenly, looking around.

The walls seem to warp under his gaze.

Oh.

It's a dream. He's dreaming.

The world in the corner of his vision dissolves slowly, darkening and spilling like dirty water and watercolors.

The stranger steps back.

“You're waking up,” he says, like it's a perfectly normal thing to say. “Well, I better get going. Bye.”

He turns around, crossing his arms behind his neck.

Mikey blinks again.

“Wait!” He manages to choke out through his clenched throat

His muscles feel heavy, like he's underwater.

The stranger looks back one last time.

“Who are you?”

The turtle frowns, confused.

“Is this... A philosophical question?”

And before Mikey can answer, the world blurs out through his fingers.

It was one of those strange dreams.

He stopped having those as he got older, quickly writing down vague memories as a part of his childhood imagination, because that possibility still hurt less than any alternative.

He remembers asking Dad what "philosophical" meant, and he remembers crying about them to Donnie a few months later.

He still remembers the faint outline of red marks, and someone else, someone much bigger than him, but that memory is even foggier than the rest.

Now, hearing he's not the only one, he can't help but sigh a little in relief.

“I know,” he tells him. “I know, Don.”

They're quiet for a moment.

Mikey knows they're both waiting for him to ask.

“What do you think happened to them?”

Donnie doesn't answer right away. He rolls onto his back, taking Mikey's hand with him.

His claws trace circles on his palm.

“... I don't know.”

Mikey frowns.

“You don't?”

Donnie winces slightly, shrugging.

“I know it doesn't...” His voice is quiet, hesitant, almost flustered. “But sometimes, it's like I can almost feel...”

“Them?”

Donnie looks back at him, relief painted onto his features.

“Yes, actually. Exactly that.”

The atmosphere changes quickly, from the familiar melancholy to the sudden excitement that always comes from finding solidarity on uncertain territory.

Mikey shuffles his feet, feeling a sudden burst of energy. He whispers, and suddenly he's six again, sharing secrets with his brother under the covers.

“Do you think-”

“Father thinks they're dead.”

Mikey's face falls. He feels something warm sink into his chest.”

“Oh.”

“They're not in the Hidden City, and they wouldn't survive on The Surface this long”, Donnie says, rubbing his arm. “Sorry. I wasn't supposed to tell you.”

“It's okay,” he tells him, though it's not, not really.

He wishes Donnie never told him that.

But Donnie was never quite good at keeping secrets.

He's not sure what hurts a bit more: that they keep secrets from him at all, or that maybe, in this one case, they might have been right to do so.

Chapter Text

Mikey is now thirteen, and sometimes he wonders how him and Donnie are in any way related.

Especially in moments like these, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, face in his hands, watching with tired eyes as Donnie touches up again on his already straight enough brow.

“It's training, not a date,” he teases.

Donnie takes his eyes off the mirror for a moment, just to raise his one eyebrow back at him.

“Says the one with eyeliner.”

Mikey gives him his most charming smile, resting a hand on his cheek.

“I woke up like this.”

Donnie doesn't dignify that with a response.

Mikey sighs as he slides down the edge, into the tub.

He leans the back of his head against the cold tiles, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You know you can just go, right? You don't have to wait for me,” Donnie says, and Mikey knows he doesn't mean it, not really.

He kind of likes these moments, when it's just them, stuck in those in-betweens of normal life.

Even if his brother does take an absurd amount of time to get ready.

“Yeah, but then Dad would make me do... Push-ups or something,” he mumbles, one hand reaching to adjust his slipping sock.

They're not really socks, which will never stop him from calling them that. It is knee-length fabric that provides a stable, soft support for landing; finished with sharp metal claws where their natural nails end, though Mikey is pretty sure Donnie doesn't need any support in that aspect (and he has a few scars to prove it).

Donnie winces.

“Oh, right. And this way, we're both gonna have to do push-ups for being late. Great plan.”

“Exactly.” Mikey ignores the sarcasm in his voice.

Donnie turns to look at him; blinks and raises an eyebrow.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Mikey, fully splayed out on the bottom of the tub, shrugs.

“I'm dying of boredom.”

Donnie rolls his eyes.

“Can you die in your own bathtub?” His markings flash briefly when he waves a hand to his face, his safety glasses manifesting with a purple hue

Mikey shrugs again.

Donnie holds out his hand to make some final adjustments, before he stops, abruptly.

He stares at his reflection for a moment; his red eye glows slightly in the low light.

Mikey tilts his head.

“Don?”

Donnie doesn't answer right away, reaching out to touch his own cheek.

“You think it's weird?” He asks suddenly, frowning

“What?”

“That I still do this.” He raises a hand to his forehead.

Mikey sits up, feeling the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

“Don, you look good-”

“That's not what I mean,” Donnie cuts him off, but he seems more flustered than annoyed. “You know why I started doing this.”

It's not a question, more of a statement.

Donnie frowns and Mikey's eyes open a little wider.

“Oh, Don...”

Donnie places his eyeliner on the edge of the sink, mindlessly adjusting his headscarf.

“When we were younger, I thought Lou was so cool and all, but looking back on it now...”

He winces, still staring at his own reflection.

Mikey gets the sentiment. There's an uncanny resemblance between them, as much as there can be with Lou being only human, and it leaves a lot of conflicting feelings in his own head.

Staring at old videos and photos, there are too many absurd, little things they all have in common. The vague shape of their eyes, the way they wrinkle their foreheads, the way the skin around their eyes crinkles slightly when they smile.

It used to be a thing of pride; when people recognized the Battle Nexus Champion in him, when he slowly grew up into the expectations he left behind.

As he got older, the thought soured on his tongue, leaving him with a slightly more mature view of their reality, when his childhood idol, his biological father, and the one who took his brothers from him, finally merged into one person.

It was only then that he began to view all these little things, habits, as something that connected him not only with Lou, but also his brother.

And although sometimes, looking in the mirror makes his chest tighten painfully, he wouldn't trade the fact that he and Donnie share a smile.

He kind of wants to say all of this out loud, but he's pretty sure Donnie won't find it as comforting as he does.

So instead, he says:

“You know, you've always had a tendency to fix other people's mistakes.”

Donnie blinks, looking at him confused.

Mikey shrugs.

“You can be like him. But better. A new, improved model.”

Donnie stares at him for a moment longer, before looking back at his reflection.

Mikey's not entirely sure if the short, simple reassurances his brother usually needed, worked so well in this situation, but Donnie's shoulders seem a little looser, his face calmer, so he'll count it as a win.

Donnie looks away.

“Do you sometimes wonder what-”

“What happened to them?”

Mikey grins.

The corner of Donnie's lips lifts slightly.

“Well.” Mikey stretches his legs over the edge of the tub, finally standing on his feet. “If they're anything like us, they didn't go down easy. If at all.”

Donnie reaches out, running a finger along his own temple.

“Maybe you're right,” he says quietly, and Mikey's pretty sure he doesn't mean their brothers.

“And besides.” Mikey steps closer, finally breaking the melancholic mood. “If it weren't for those eyebrows, nothing would distract from your forehead.”

He watches with satisfaction as Donnie's face breaks into an instant grimace.

“Don't push it, Angelo,” he mumbles, adjusting the harness of his shell.

Mikey pulls on his tail.

Donnie turns, frowns, and hisses.

Mikey hisses back.

It always starts this way – with Donnie squinting, pupils covered by his third eyelid, trying to hide the faint shadow of a smile, tugging at his lip.

Mikey bends his knees, leaning down. He grins.

One moment, they stand there, staring at each other in silent expectation.

And in the next one, Mikey is already on the ground, pinned down by his brother's weight.

He raises his leg, but Donnie is faster, catching it with his knee.

Mikey grabs Donnie's hands, hanging in the air just above his chest; their fingers intertwine, with Donnie pushing down on him.

Mikey is stronger, but Donnie is tall and fast, more aware of his position and body mass.

“Who's the smartass now?” Donnie smirks, not hiding it any longer

Mikey sticks out his tongue.

They fumble on the floor like they did when they were kids, laughing and hissing, and throwing insults. They've done this so many times, the game is almost as familiar, as they are to each other.

Mikey holds back some of his strength, but it's Donnie who retracts his sharp claws, never cutting the actual skin; he's not pushing too hard, not like he did back in the days, when the two of them didn't even know their own strength yet. And there's something reassuring, about him being able to snap his teeth so close to his face, and Mikey never feeling any less safe than he did before.

Because he knows Donnie wouldn't hurt him.

(He's pretty sure he will never say it, but it's in these moments, that he feels the most loved.)

Mikey laughs, pushing his brother's face away with his hand.

“Yuck! Your mouth stinks!”

“And you stink all over!”

“And you're ugly!”

“I regret not eating you when we were kids!”

“Boys!”

They both fall silent.

Their father, standing in the door, looks at them with a tired expression; Huginn and Muninn crouched on his shoulders.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his temple. “But you can save it for the sparring session.”

“Sorry,” Mikey grins sheepishly, throwing his older brother off him.

Donnie falls to the floor with a low groan, glaring back at him.

Mikey opens his mouth, one more final insult at the tip of his tongue, when their father's eyes widen suddenly.

“Michelangelo, come here.”

Mikey feels his arms tense.

Dad doesn't sound angry, rather surprised, but still throws a quick, pleading glance at his brother.

Donnie smirks back at him.

Mikey stands up, brushing the dust off the cloak. He stands in front of his father, nervously twisting his fingers behind his back. Huginn and Muninn look at each other with equal confusion.

“Just so you know,” he says, when his father squints, watching him closely, “whatever you heard, it was Donnie's fault-”

“Hey!”

But Dad only takes his face in his hand, running a finger across the pale scar on his cheek.

After a moment, a small smile tugs on his lips, and Mikey feels his shoulders loosen.

“Your markings are growing in,” he says, gently touching the skin just below his eye.

Mikey feels something warm bloom in his chest.

“Really!?” He squeals, running back to the mirror.

They are... Faint.

Faint, but visible.

Soft, dark spots under the eyes, with a pale flicker of yellow, that he previously mistook for eye bags.

Mikey feels his lips stretch into a grin.

“Yes!” He turns on his heel, flicking Donnie's snout with his finger. “In your face!”

Donnie, who spent the last year teasing him any chance he got ever since he spotted the first, pale marks on his lower jaw, only rolls his eyes.

“They don't even have color yet. It doesn't count.” Donnie pushes his hand away, deliberately lifting his chin to show more of the light purple stripes on his face.

Muninn lands on his shoulder, and Mikey instinctively raises his hands, feeling a cold cheek against his own.

“Our boys are growing up!”

Muninn hugs his neck, sniffling tearfully. Mikey laughs and extends his other arm for Huginn.

“Aw, come on, guys.” With his free hand, he rubs the gargoyle on the back. “Dad, do you think-”

He turns to look at his father and his smile fades, falters.

Dad is staring at him, mouth covered with his hand. His eyes are wet.

“Dad? Are you okay?”

Father blinks suddenly, taking a deep breath. He clears his throat, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Yes. Of course.” His face takes on the same expression it always does when he tries to hide something.

Mikey looks to his brother. Donnie raises an eyebrow.

In the next moment, they're both crushing into their dad, clinging to his chest and arms.

“I love you,” Mikey says, burying his face in the familiar material of his shirt.

Donnie doesn't say it, because he doesn't have to. Instead, he just squeezes a little tighter.

Dad stares at them for a moment in silent surprise, before slowly resting his hands on their shoulders.

***

Mikey is thirteen when he sees Them for the first time.

(It's a lie.

Mikey has met them many times before, but it will take him a while to connect the blurry, faint images and memories to the real image before his eyes.)

When he was a little younger, but especially in the last years, he wished he could believe his brothers are dead. Fully, with all his mind and body.

That the hole in his chest will never be filled, that an empty casket is the closest he'll ever have to a closure.

Now, he's only grateful it never happened.

Because dead people can't lie by the exit to their armory, their faces contorted in pain.

He doesn't even notice the human by their side, too busy making sure he's not dreaming again.

He tightens his fingers on the skin of his wrist.

Reality stays as sharp as ever.

The biggest of them (spirits, he's really big) rises quickly, rubbing his shoulder.

“Alright, you incredibly, unusually-”

Mikey doesn't remember much from before his mutation. They're not memories, not really.

But he remembers the smell. He remembers small sounds, he remembers quiet breaths, he remembers the beating of four hearts.

He remembers red, blue, prickly shell and long tail.

Their eyes meet.

And the moment he feels their eyes on him, that persistent emptiness in his chest – fills up for the first time in his life.

He can feel something shift, twist underneath his plastron. Something familiar, that he can't name.

Something old, raw, and longing.

“And who's the kid?” The smaller one, maybe not much taller than Donnie, with a blue mask covering the vibrant markings on his face, squint and frowns (the red of his one eye is so familiar), watching him from a distance. “You know, when you told them to bring your sons, I was expecting some baby-goats. Not gonna lie, I'm a bit disappointed here.”

He's pretty sure his dad isn't even listening, staring at them in equal disbelief.

Mikey's hands tremble as he reaches for his neck.

His mask retracts, and his brother's smirk falters.

(His brother.)

He spots the moment when his eyes widen rapidly; his red pupil glows in the dim light in an achingly familiar way.

“Wow.” The human, whose existence Mikey's still trying to ignore, comes closer to the edge. “You're a turtle.”

Mikey takes off his hood.

They just look at him with obvious incomprehension, like they're not quite sure what it should all mean.

“Hi,” Mikey says softly, not sure how he's still standing on his own feet.

The one with markings, the most familiar one, opens his mouth as if to say something, then stops suddenly at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.

“I'm coming, I'm coming.” Donnie's voice grows closer. “You don't have to drag me by force.”

Donnie stands in the lab, fending off Muninn, as he makes another attempt to dig his claws into the edge of his shell.

Donnie looks over at them and his face drops sharply.

“Dad? What's-”

He looks up.

Mikey can tell the exact moment when he feels it, too.

There are so many emotions crossing his face, that Mikey isn't sure he'd be able to name a single one, even if he wanted to.

All he knows, is that their brother, the one with the perfectly mismatched eyes, shifts suddenly, so close to the edge that Mikey isn't sure how he's keeping balance.

There's silence for a moment, broken only by the loud beating of his own heart.

And then their brother's lips form a quiet:

“Purple?”

Donnie's shoulders drop, his chest relaxing, like the relief of waking up from a nightmare.

His voice is low, hesitant.

“Red?”

Mikey's heart skips a beat.