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“Left foot, blue!”
Raphael’s voice carries itself loudly from the pit to where Splinter
had
been trying to meditate in the seclusion of his room, breaking through his spiritual wall as it had been followed by a chorus of gentle laughter and groans.
“You’re cheating– Ow!”
That’s Donatello’s voice, evident in the way that it buckles with his impending puberty, all whiney and pitchy and so, as per usual these days, it’s quickly followed by his youngest’s mocking tone, still clinging to the babyish fat that sits around the edges of his own voice, too stubborn to break just yet.
“How is it cheating?! It’s how the game works, dummy!” Raphael says sharply. There’s the sound of shuffling and then a huff of desperate air.
“Just go.” There is Leonardo, voice flat like he was instead focusing all his energy on keeping upright. “I’m getting cramp here.”
A moment of silence before–
“Okay, right hand yellow.”
More groaning, and Splinter can only picture what kind of knot his boys have found themselves in; a new game he’d salvaged in the trash just days ago as a belated twelfth mutation day gift, it was evident that it was becoming a favorite between them, having spent many of their afternoons rolling out the mat and trying to out-do each other in game after game of friendly competition.
“Ha,” his eldest barks out, his steady resolve quickly dissolving in favor of gloating. “I’m so gonna win again!”
Splinter chuckles to himself softly as he listens out to the sharp inhale of Raphael’s breath, like he was personally offended by such a statement.
“What do you mean again?” He accuses him. “If you remember, I was the one who won the last round.”
Michelangelo makes a pitiful sound, and he can only imagine that his youngest and smallest of sons was perhaps in the most compromising of spots on the games mat.
“Oh yeah?” Leonardo taunts him. “Why don’t you ask your face since it got pretty cozy with the floor during that last match.”
Donatello sighs, clearly unimpressed, the breath whistling past the gap in his teeth.
“Your trash talk seriously needs some work, man.”
“My arms hurt.” There’s Michelangelo, and Splinter can’t help but smile to himself as he listens to his voice. “Can you hurry up?”
Raph snorts a short laugh. There’s no heat to it, he knows. “Not my fault you're short.”
“M’not short!” He says around an audible pout. “Dad says I’m due a growth spurt any day now.”
A chorus of laughter rings out between the eldest three.
“Maybe then you’ll actually win a game,” Leonardo teases lightly.
Donnatello seems more impressed this time. “That’s more like it.”
“Just hurry up, Raph!” Mikey calls out in near desperation.
Raph tells him to shush then he must spin the board because there’s only about three seconds of silence before he’s calling out,
‘Right foot, green.”
Michelangelo whines. “I can’t reach,” he says in a small voice.
Splinter feels his heart swell in his chest; no matter how big his children become, they still have their moments that remind him of times when they fit in the palm of his hands.
“You gotta try, Mike.” Raph encourages him, and again, Splinter feels a surge of pride well up inside him. Despite all their taunting and teasing and arguing and fighting and bickering that siblings partake in on an almost daily constant, they are still each other's best friends, and that is always evident in the way they train and play together.
Michelangelo must attempt to stretch himself out, a series of moans and groans, when suddenly–
He must have toppled over, bringing his other siblings down from on top of him, because there’s a heavy dull thud and for a single, fleeting moment, Splinter’s parental instinct kick into gear, wanting to get up and check that they were okay.
But it’s unnecessary, because the silence is quickly replaced with a heavenly chorus of joyous laughter, from all four boys, giggling together at their collective failure, Splinter listens to their voices overlap each other as they recount the funniest parts of what had just happened.
“Who’s eating the ground now, huh Leo?” There’s no real heat behind Raphael’s words, clear in the way Leonardo laughs at him, using a choice of words that perhaps he wouldn’t use if he knew his father was in earshot, but Splinter feels no need to get up and scold them.
His sons haven’t much in this life, confined to their small, lonely world. Splinter wishes he could give them more – all the things they are deserving of, but will never have.
He can allow them this, at least.
Their voices trail off, still overlapping one another, probably arguing over who won and who gets next play and whether Michelangelo should be allowed to play again, and Splinter decides then he doesn’t need any more time dedicated to today’s meditation.
He knows peace, in this form, at least. And that is enough to quell his worrisome heart.