Chapter Text
Agility-wise, Mikey thought of himself as talented.
His feet had always been his greatest allies in battle. His most treasured moves consisted of a flip or cartwheel, or more simply allowing him to survive long enough as bait. Mikey would bathe in his father's quiet, but appreciated praise when he'd flaunt his quick-pace during training. Splinter would shoot him a smile, or a gentle nod, and Mikey would get all giddy with excitement as his brothers gasped for air after the hardcore training session.
Michelangelo loves running. He likes the speed, the constant movement.
He likes the excuse it gives himself to avoid being truly physical in battle.
Differing from his older brothers, more specifically Raphael, he despises fighting. Friend or foe, he can't ignore the clenching guilt that squeezes his chest when he inflicts pain upon others. Mikey much prefers teasing his challengers until they run out of stamina, crafting them easier to peck down for his siblings' taking. It was his personal style, something that helped him through tough adversaries.
Mikey loves running.
But he hates running away .
He's not talking about tactical retreats or acknowledging when you're totally fucked against your given opponent and making a smart choice to dip. No, he's talking about now.
The type of running away when you hear your brothers screaming after you as you disappear into the star-cloaked night. The type of running away where once you start you can't stop, even when your feet sting under the rough concrete. The type of running when you feel as if you're out of breath before you've even truly begun.
The atmosphere was icy and thin, making each gasp Michelangelo sucked in harder to take. He kept pushing his legs to leap over the concealed rooftops—somewhere over South Street now, his withdrawn mind supplied— his hands dripping with a thick crimson liquid, leaving behind a pattern as he went.
Pinpricks of numbness began to pull goosebumps to his skin, but he knew he couldn't stop. Even when Mikey's vision blurred with tears that had yet to fall, he knew better than to gradually slow and halt, to turn and traipse back to the battle sight which was now blanketed on gore.
It had been a normal patrol. Normal for Mikey, anyway. He'd messed up again (because when has he not?). Michelangelo didn't try to pull the night's memory back. He hadn't a desire to relive Raphael's round eyes, Donatello's parted lips, Leonardo's complete stillness. All he needed to know is that he'd done what he always had: Screwed up. Hurt someone- something?-and dashed when it became too much to bear.
Mikey ran and ran and ran. Something he previously found comfort in quickly altered into a painful, horrible feeling. He couldn't hear his brothers' slamming steps behind him anymore. Mikey couldn't feel their presence, and for the first time, the thought of them far behind didn't feel heavy in his chest.
Michelangelo slipped into a dark alley when he felt his legs couldn't go any further. He pressed his shell to the chill brick wall, letting himself slide down it, pulling his knees tight against his plastron.
It was a mistake, his thoughts tried to comfort him. Nowhere near your fault. But he couldn't shake the way his brothers looked at him.
His gut twisted at the memory. His hand flew to his mouth to hold back a gag, and possible vomit. Mikey could feel a squelch on his freckles, reminding him of the vermilion blood that layered over his hands, forever dirtying them no matter how hard he was able to scrub.
Rahzar had dodged, he was sure of it. The dog had dove out of the way of his blade, ready to recoil for another attack.
But then why did Mikey feel the edge of his kusarigama catch flesh?
Michelangelo's stomach lurched again as he curled more in on himself, the tears he had been holding in finally flooded out like a broken dam. He had killed someone. Hadn't he? Was Rahzar dead, or was he merely unconscious? He didn't know. He didn't care to know.
Sobs racked his frame to the point where he hiccuped and coughed for air, his chest squeezing at the effort.
He'd told himself to think of something else. Something he enjoyed. Pizza. New comic issues. Ice Cream Kitty. But every thought panned back to Rahzar's image, bent over him, his claw a millimeter away from Mikey's doom if it wasn't for the blade plunging into his rib cage. The blade Michelangelo held up.
He hadn't meant to. He'd never, ever mean to do something that cruel. No matter how evil or despicable his enemy was, he'd never…
Not on purpose.
The blood on his palms had begun to dry into an earthy brown, burrowing under his nails and flaking on his skin. Mikey desperately tried to scratch it off, scouring his hands on the filthy alley ground. He hated it. He hated it so, so much, and he hated himself for what he had done. He knew barely anything about his ex-friend's life. If he had children, a family, brothers like himself. He knew nothing about it, yet still took his life. How could Michelangelo be so cruel?
He was nothing better than Shredder now.
The thought made bile burn up his throat, but he forced it back down with another gag, because how dare he feel guilt when he was the one who had murdered?
He sobbed. He cried. He wailed for God knows how long, trying to keep it somewhat suppressed under a dirty hand. His brain started to get fuzzy with fatigue, and a dull ache formed at his temples. The tremors in his hands had yet to cease.
Footsteps echoed through the alley. Mikey didn't realize them until he felt a whisper of a presence before him, then a tight grip on his shoulders, straightening his position. He flailed in a panic, kicking and scraping as tears blurred his vision. His attacker refused to concede, a distantly familiar stubbornness, although he pushed the sensation away. Mikey opened his mouth to wail, but couldn't make any noise anymore. Not with his throat as raw and strained as it was. All that passed Michelangelo's lips was a pitiful whine, rasped and broken, so quiet it was barely audible.
“—just, hey!" A voice shouted nearby. The hands on his shoulders pinned him more against the wall, forcing Michelangelo's thrashing to cease. He looked up. It took an extended moment for his tears to fade, allowing him to see without blur. When they did, he was surprised to meet familiar emerald eyes kneeling before him.
No. He couldn't. He couldn't face them. Mikey shook his head rapidly from side to side. words fell out in blubbered mashes of vowels, nothing truly identifiable. Raphael stilled him again.
"The hell were you thinking, running off like that?!" His older brother's grip tightens again. Michelangelo presumed it was an attempt to conceal his tremors, as he could feel each twitch of his older brother's fingers. "Are you stupid?"
Mikey wanted to endlessly explain that it was a mistake, how sorry he was, and that he'd fix it until Raphael understood. But his mouth was still too dry to speak. He could only shudder and whine. Dots began to swim like koi around his pond-hued eyes.
Michelangelo could hear a faint buzz, and Raphael shifted one hand away to another task, the other's grip loosening slightly. There was, he thinks—a long, drawn-out sigh as Raphael's hand was replaced on Mikey's forearm.
"Stand up, Mikey," Raph ordered, but it came out more similar to 'Can you stand?’
Michelangelo blinked sluggishly for a moment before truly understanding the words. Raphael backed up enough for him to rise, but still hovered like a famished hawk. Mikey had to hoist himself up using the garbage bin that sat beside him. His legs felt as if they'd been blended into one of his pizza milkshakes. He sways. Raphael's hands twitch as if to support him, but hesitates. He only strings his arm under Mikey's when he falters for a second time.
The two began to walk. Mikey didn't know where. He assumes back to the lair, not bothering to lift his head and risk meeting Raphael's eye, which he could feel pointed at him (though his big brother stared dead ahead).
He wishes everything to be forgotten. Mikey hopes that maybe, if he retreats to his room with enough haste, and avoids his brothers completely, it'll all be past recollection by first light. Maybe he would forget it all, too. To mentally label it as another one of his vivid nightmares. His brothers had always pushed him aside to deal with later, why wouldn't they endure that now?
Despite the small flame of hope, it might have well been snuffed. Michelangelo had a growing hunch that the topic of his committed murder wouldn't be delayed this time, rationalizing from how securely his older brother had him tucked against his side, ensuring he wouldn't so much as stumble. When he tried to recoil, Raph's arms only tightened.
"I can walk on my own," Mikey murmured, his voice still sore. His sentence had pulled a humored snort from Raphael, which struck a bit of annoyance inside Mikey.
"No, you can't."
Michelangelo grimaced, dipping his head a little lower so as not to witness Raphael's expression by mischance. "I can! I ran all the way here, didn't I?"
This earns him a pinch to the shoulder, to which he flinches. "You're an idiot." Mikey can sense Raphael's head turn towards him fully. He kept his gaze elsewhere during a brief pause. "One of these days, you'll give Leo a heart attack."
Mikey grimaces again. After what had happened tonight, he didn't want another murder staining his hands.
A heavy sigh finally brings Mikey to tilt his head up.
"Rahzar.." Raph begins, and Mikey can feel his throat close up. "We know you didn't mean to."
"I still did it." Mikey's voice wavers, so he clears his throat to mend it. It's mostly ineffective. "I killed him."
Michelangelo's nose starts to burn. He can see Rahzar's face through the blur of tears gathering at his waterline, and his shoulders begin to tremble. Raphael stops abruptly, grabbing Mikey's shoulders and twisting him around.
"We don't know that."
"Raph, I killed him-"
"He was bleeding." Raphael said sternly, their locked eyes left unbroken, "It'll take more than what you did to kill that mutt."
Michelangelo paused, wetting his parched lips. The brothers simply stare at each other for a long time. "He's alive?" Mikey's vaguely aware of his voice wavering again, but he doesn't make a move to fix it.
"He could be." Raphael drags his eyes down. Mikey follows his trail, finding himself observing his bloodstained hands once more. "Are we going to get you cleaned up, or are you going to stay here, curled up in the corner?"
Mikey can't respond. He can only force his legs forward, beginning to walk alongside Raphael again. A hand falls on his carapace in silent support.
He doesn't know how he feels. He thought being told Rahzar was alive would lift the boulder tied to his chest, but he doesn't feel comforted. Maybe it was because he'd still hurt someone, death or not. Or perhaps it was because it meant his ex-friend was still out there somewhere, promising revenge against the turtles that had almost ceased his existence on several various occasions.
After patrols, Mikey would always rush back to the lair. sometimes even faster than he performed in the battle prior. He wanted to get to the TV before Raph, raid the refrigerator before Casey, Or simply collapse onto the couch for a much-needed nap. This time, he didn't want to go home. Home where Leonardo and Donatello and his father were waiting.
He's sure Leonardo would try to talk to him, instead of scoffing and shaking his head with a soft smile like he'd usually do when Mikey screwed up. Leo was going to separate themselves from his other brothers, maybe drag Mikey to his room or the dojo for a private conversation about the foregoing battle.
Donnie would put it to the side. Distract Mikey. Pull his attention to something else, maybe flaunt a new invention, inviting Mikey to test it for him. He knows Mikey likes testing things. If all that fails, he would explain in the most complicated way possible that Mikey wasn't in the wrong (which he was, lair) with words Mikey didn't understand.
That wasn't what Mikey wanted. He wanted to be alone, tangled in thick comforters with freshly scrubbed scales, clear of bloodstains and/or dirt.
But would solitude solve anything? The quiet would leave Mikey alone with his thoughts, and everyone knows how that turns out. Chaotic.
The hand on his carapace started to trace the patterns on his shell. Mikey side-eyed Raphael, and if it wasn't for the humorless moment, he would've laughed. Raph had the equivalent awkwardness of a hippo on roller skates. Nonetheless, Michelangelo appreciated his attempt at comfort. He was aware of Raphael's... lack of knowledge when it came to emotions. Mikey presumed he was mimicking Leo when he would rub Mikey's head when he was spooked after a nightmare.
Raphael caught his eye and must've seen the ghost of a smile teasing Mikey's lips. He moved his hand to Mikey's head, giving him a noogie, which was considerably softer than usual. "Shut it, kid. You can't blame me for trying."
"I didn't say anything." Mikey grins cheekily, and Raph scoffs and tucks Mikey to his side. "Just focus on walkin', you look like you're about to flop over any second."
Mikey agrees. His legs had begun to shake with exhaustion again. He glanced down at his hands, frowning now, and picked off flakes of dry blood from the pads of his fingers. Raphael doesn't say anything, just pulls Mikey in a little tighter.
They were getting close to the lair. Michelangelo doesn't remember climbing down a manhole, or when his feet touched against the damp gravel of the abandoned subway tracks. It was only when they approached the entrance that he paused, recognizing the distant mutters of his family. Raph ceased as well, shooting a glance over his shoulder.
"You good?"
Mikey parts his lips, but no words roll off his tongue. He closes them again, considering his words before he makes another attempt. "I can't face this."
Raph's expression falls. "C'mon, Mike, you gotta."
Mikey shakes his head rapidly. He couldn't. Rahzar's image manifested in his mind again, bloodied and curled on his gushing side. There's no way Mikey could face his other older brothers with the memory still so clear in his head. But Raphael just takes his forearm, urging him to continue forward. "c'mon."
Mikey steps through the subway gates with a soft clink. Three heads shoot up, and he sees a glimpse of blue, purple, and maroon blobs rushing toward him as his eyes well with tears.