Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Donnie has nightmares.

Which, really, isn't that big of a deal after all when he thinks about it.

During the day, when the doors to his room stay closed, and his other heart beats steadily between his ribs, and the distance between his hands and his staff remains as small as physically possible – they don't seem all that bad, actually.

He doesn't wake up screaming, not like he used to when he was still at the hospital. Not like Mikey does, sometimes.

It's the kind of fear that takes a moment, sinking into his bones when his eyes still feel heavy and he's staring out into the dark. It's slow and lingering, his whole body aching for hours after, like it takes real effort to be this afraid.

(Maybe it does.)

It's all sharp claws and the screech of metal meeting metal, and eyes that follow him no matter where he goes, and when he wakes up – he can still feel that gaze, burning into the back of his head.

He might be getting used to it. Or that's what he likes to tell himself.

This time, it doesn't matter.

Because has a different dream the night before it happens.

The morning seems to come later than it should somehow, but when he turns his head to look at the clock on the wall, it's still early. Barely past what could still be considered 'night'; his room dim and a little cold.

He stares at it for a moment, blinking.

He must've slept wrong somehow; his limbs heavy and face numb.

He sits and stretches, arms raised and muscles in his legs tightening. He closes his fingers around his calf before they can cramp.

There's a strange feeling resting in the back of his chest, pushing against his hearts and lungs, and it takes him a moment to realize it's not fear.

He shifts to dangle his feet off the edge of the bed, mind racing back to just a few moments ago.

And with that, he realizes that he can't recall any of it at all.

The dream feels hazy, like a play he remembers seeing when he was younger, when all that's still stuck in his mind is a distant melody and the way the seat creaked under his weight.

He frowns.

Dreams aren't important – not to him, not in that kind of way. Not when his brothers aren't there.

But this is different. He knows it in an instinctual kind of way, in the way he knows fire burns and blades leave scars.

There's a hint of something there, when he really focuses on it, and he holds onto it in a way that will surely make him feel like a fool later.

It's familiar, in a casual sort of way. Something that Mikey says when he doesn't quite seem like himself, with a distant look in his eye and a strange expression on his face.

Mikey says a lot of strange things in moments like those, and the fact that this one sticks out in his memory like a needle seems peculiar.

'Anata wa hitori ja nai.'

Donnie watches the hands on his clock move for a moment.

It's a particularly odd moment; something making him pause and consider the words more carefully.

They're comforting, he supposes. But there's a strange feeling in his chest, like a shift – right between his hearts, making him think that’s not quite it.

Donnie tilts his head and hums.

Then, he pats at his knees, stands up, and promptly forgets about the whole ordeal.

Dreams aren't real, and they don't matter, except for when they are, and they do. But this isn't one of those times.

Donnie's sure of it.

(He's also a fool, and a lesson he never seems to remember.)

Hours later, Donnie's world splits in half.

And when he looks up, and the red eyes that haven't left his mind since he first saw them stare back, he thinks: 'I am dreaming'.

He is not.

***

“I like fighting together,” Mikey says. “We should do it more often.”

He says it because it's true, and there's a part of him that thinks deep down they must agree. But when they turn to look at him, their faces are tense and bruised, and April narrows her eyes like she wants to yell at him or cry, and he wouldn't blame her for either.

“I'm sorry.” He's not. “I had to say something.”

He knows he's been quiet, and he knows the worry that shows on Donnie's and Dad's faces, even when it's hidden by layers and layers of everything else.

Donnie's eyes dart to Mikey's hands, squeezed tightly together on his lap, and his mouth stretches into a thin line, his expression guarded. He looks like he's going to say something but then doesn't, turning back to watch their father sketch chalk lines across the concrete.

(They're far enough from The Lair for the sewers to feel unfamiliar and rough, untouched by the years and years of Leo's and Raph's presence, and the bare-ness of it all makes his skin itch.)

Mikey often felt like people were treating him like a very delicate bomb, ready to explode at any minute. On some days it seemed unkind. On most days it was warranted.

Right now – he's stretched thin.

Something presses from the inside of his chest; squeezing between his ribs and filling his lungs. It's more awake than ever before, clawing through his chest with some newfound carelessness.

It hurts in a real kind of way, and he holds his arms and shoulders close to his sides, like that's going to keep it buried for much longer.

There's something humming and buzzing underneath his skin, something that makes his arms and legs crawl with goosebumps.

“You're electric,” Usagi says, suddenly.

He's standing closer to Mikey but still as awkwardly to the side as April. It makes Mikey feel just that bit more isolated and a whole lot more nervous about everything that's about to happen.

Leo's sat on the floor next to him, and he must feel the same, because this is the first time Usagi has let go of his hand.

Usagi reaches out a hand like he's going to touch his shoulder, and Mikey has the sudden and unexplainable urge to tell him not to. But Usagi stops before he has the chance, hovering a few inches away.

Slowly, the fur on his arm stands up. Mikey watches it rise, like it's being pulled by a strong magnet – twisted into all directions.

Usagi flexes his fingers, like he's trying to shake off a physical sensation.

“I feel like it,” Mikey says.

He doesn't think there's much of anything in the way he says it, but that can't be true, because Usagi frowns and pulls away.

There's a strange expression on his face now, but Mikey would rather tell himself it's the result of the argument growing right next to them.

It's the first time he's seen Splinter and Dad in the same room together, and there's tension in every inch between the two of them.

Donnie speaks, maybe just to interrupt their raising voices.

“Dad.” He says ''dad'' instead of ''father'', which usually means he's nervous, or afraid, or both at the same time. “Is this safe?”

Dad's face does a complicated thing, all hesitation.

“Does it matter?” Leo says, sounding harsher than he has in months. “We don't have better ideas.”

Donnie's face tightens, like he wants to argue but doesn't know how. It was rare for Leo to push against his ideas in moments like these.

“Right.”

Mikey closes his eyes.

There's a murmur, a rustle, a voice, laced between all of his thoughts. He's noticing it now, but it feels older, like he's been hearing it for a very, very long time without realizing, like the ticking hands of a clock.

It's starting.

He's not sure what, or why, or what it all means, but he knows something is starting.

His chest aches.

He's losing time, and he's losing focus, his mind jumping every time he blinks.

His father speaks, then Splinter says something that makes them all frown, and then there's a surge of energy, like an electrical wire shooting through from the ground.

Mikey opens his eyes.

It all starts here.

***

It's a sandcastle built on a rotten foundation, all of it.

His dad turns his face away, shoulders raised.

Raph had never seen him cry before, not like this, and it leaves him feeling strangely disconnected. It's almost unnatural – the way he freezes, unsure of what to do, what to say, like forgetting his own name, the way to the lair, or the sound of his brothers’ voices.

He's been the stitch keeping his family – his father – together for so long, but now he can't seem to remember how to.

His whole world feels uprooted. Or more so – planted. Finally turned straight, put to rest, and that only makes him realize how dizzy living sideways for all those years made him feel.

“I'm sorry about your mom,” he says, because he has to say something. There's a deep ache in his chest, and he's almost certain he's not lying about that.

Dad doesn't answer at first, his eyes fixed somewhere far ahead.

Raph watches the memory play out, like watching the last bubbles fizzle out inside a drink that's been left open for far too long.

He hesitates for a moment before reaching out, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. Dad feels small and fragile under his touch, older than Raph remembers him being.

But he can't be sure. It's been a while since they last spoke.

“When I was younger...” Dad says, suddenly. His voice sounds scratchy, close to breaking. “Well, I never really expected to have children. Hard to think about stuff like that when you're living how I used to.”

They both wince, maybe for separate reasons.

Raph pulls his arm away to hold his hands together, scratching at the thin skin around his nails. His mouth feels heavy and clumsy, and he opens it once, twice, before giving up, letting the silence linger for just a moment.

“But still.” When Dad speaks up again it's almost like a surprise. “Sometimes I thought- I wanted it to be different. I never wanted this for my kids.”

He finally turns, still not facing Raph, but he can see his face better now. Dad makes a vague gesture with a hand, as if Raph could mistake the 'this' in front of them for being anything else.

“Well,” Raph says.

It's one word, and it's laced with... Something. Something far meaner and harsher than he expected from himself, meaner than his dad ever expected from him.

He looks down, something bitter and regretful spilling inside his chest like blood in the water. He brings his hands closer to himself.

“I wanted to keep you away from all of this,” Dad says despite it all. “From Shredder, this family and their bullshit, and I still-”

He quiets for a moment more.

The fur on his face shines, wet with tears.

“And then I left anyway.”

Slowly, Raph lets his hands fall.

For a moment, it's almost like a play. He's missing his lines, and there's a particular weight to this silence, waiting for him to spin and start the world once again.

He doesn't.

He's not sure what his father wants to hear, and he's tired of guessing.

“Right,” he says, simply.

In all of it, there's a thought that hits him the hardest.

This would've mattered a lot more two years ago.

This – something like an apology, an outstretched hand. He's been waiting for it for so long, for this acknowledgment.

It feels like nothing but a consolation prize.

He wonders if his Dad knows why he always eats like he's not sure when his next meal might be. That his teeth hurt for years before he even thought to tell someone about it. That he can't read. That there's this deep, aching hole inside of him that never seems to go away unless he's making himself useful.

Probably.

“I'm sorry,” Raph says. “About your mom.”

Dad watches him for a moment, then looks away, his gaze distant. He already feels a hundred miles away.

“I'm sorry, too.”

***

There isn't a single bone inside his body that doesn't hurt.

He sits on a rock, jagged and sharp and most likely the result of his family's doing, rather than anything natural, leaning over to stretch out his arms.

They're littered with scratches and bruises, coated with dry blood and dirt.

“You're like a glowstick,” Usagi says.

He's sitting close, carefully picking away at the mud and rocks sticking to his fur. It's lost a bit of its white color, gray and covered in soot, and Leo reaches out a hand to brush away some dust from around his eyes.

The markings around his arms shimmer, illuminating the other boy in a strange sort of light that makes him look both younger, and like he just aged twenty years.

“That checks out,” Leo hums. “I feel like someone just broke me in half.”

With undisguised curiosity, Usagi holds out his own hand, brushing his fingers on Leo's arm, down to his elbow.

“Wow,” he says, a little wistful.

“What?”

But Usagi doesn't finish, his attention suddenly drawn to the side.

“You're gonna make a dent,” he says, and it takes Leo just a moment to realize he's no longer talking to him.

Donnie barely glances at him, his mouth a thin line.

He's been pacing next to them for the last minute, dodging Draxum's fussing and emitting an aura so foul and bitter Leo can almost taste it.

There's a nasty bruise blooming on his knee, and Leo wants to tell him to sit down as much as he's scared that the process might cost him all of his fingers.

“Dee,” he says instead, maybe a little placatingly.

“I'm fine.”

He's lying, in a way that makes it obvious he's not even trying to hide it. There's a certain shift in his jaw, something in the way he clasps his hands, the rhythm of his heart, and the way he holds himself, that rather quickly and rather suddenly let Leo know one more thing.

He's scared.

Fear is a strange thing with Donnie, all twisted like an unfamiliar shape his body doesn't quite know how to mold itself around. It's unbecoming, and it makes Leo's face turn into a sharp frown.

The adrenaline pumping his blood makes it hard to feel anything past distant ache and triumph, but seeing his brother like this makes him pause for a moment.

Sometimes, he feels like too much of their lives consists of close calls.

Donnie isn't looking at him anymore, his attention drawn to the side.

Raph's standing next to April, arms crossed, shoulders relaxed and broad, face brushed with dirt and the red glow from his markings. April's leaning on her bat, her grip so tight it might leave dents in the wood. They're both so tall, so all-encompassing, that it takes Leo a moment to realize they're not alone.

He must've seen her before today, more than once probably, always somewhere in the background, because her face seems familiar, even in this new, strangely sheepish version.

“Oh,” he says. “What was her name again? That Foot girl.”

She's curled in on herself, her jaw tight. There's something in the way she holds herself that gives Leo the very distinct impression of a dog, tail tucked in between its legs.

Pity is the only version of kindness he can bring himself to offer her right now, but Raph's face looks open, honest, even if there's a hint of uneasiness in the way April draws her eyebrows.

There's an air of begrudging peace offering between them, and it's the only reason Leo reaches out a hand, stopping Donnie in his tracks. He grabs the elastic of his pants, quickly pulling him back.

“Stop that.”

“I haven't done anything yet,” Donnie huffs. He swats at Leo's hand. “I'm going to kill her.”

“Please don't. That'd really ruin the vibe.”

The moment when their youngest brother managed to escape his father’s nagging attention and joined their small circle must've been one Leo missed, because Mikey's sudden appearance makes his skin crawl with goosebumps. Judging by others' faces – he's not the only one.

Mikey's radiating, in a metaphorical, literal, and any other '-al' way. The lines running down his hands shimmer with gold, which is slightly concerning, and Leo knows better than to associate his brother's mood with anything grounded in reality.

But Mikey reaches out, squeezing Donnie's arms with both of his hands, and Leo's grateful for his presence anyway.

“I know you're angry,” Leo says. And he does. “But I don't think you're angry at her.”

“You can't know that,” Donnie says.

He means none of it, and Leo takes no offense.

They linger in silence, broken only by hushed conversation and the sounds of their fathers arguing about what to do next, what they should've done before, how all of this is one or the other's fault.

There are a few things that pass through Donnie's face, eventually stopping at a deep, hollow ache.

“She said-” Donnie takes a deep breath, arms crossed over his chest. “He was supposed to be gone.”

“Maybe she thought sticking him inside the basement was good enough,” Usagi hums.

Leo can't quite decipher Usagi's feelings in all of this, but the comment, sarcastic or not, makes Donnie bristle with annoyance. He's keeping his fingers stiff, his claws digging into the singed skin of his arms.

“Well, it fucking wasn't.”

There's a thick wall of knowing distrust between Leo and Big Mama, and out of everyone, he knows best how big of a difference there is between ''taking care of something'' and ''getting rid of something''.

When he imagines himself in her shoes – keeping the ring feels like the most obvious of choices. When he imagines himself as The Foot... Well, stealing seems to be all they do nowadays.

But he won't say it out loud, not to Donnie – not now.

Trust is another, even stranger thing with Donnie, and Leo gets the distinct feeling this is a conversation they shouldn't be having with rest blood under their fingernails and half-broken bones.

“Okay,” he says, pronouncing every letter like its own word. He puts one hand to his chest, right on their beating hearts – a small gesture that makes something soft show on Donnie's face. “How about we get out of this dump first?”

“Fuck,” Mikey says, softly, looking up at the stone ceiling. “I hope there's something still left out of New York after this.”

Leo winces.

“Don't even.”

“Right.” Usagi stands, one hand outstretched towards Leo. “Let's go home.”

Chapter Text

“You know we're not preparing for the apocalypse, right?” Donnie asks.

He’s sitting on Leo’s bed, his legs pulled up to his chest, because 'damn, Leo, do you ever clean this floor?'. Raph could give him an answer to that, but he's pretty sure Donnie doesn't want to hear it.

Their brother snorts quietly, not looking away from the quite impressive jigsaw puzzle he constructed out of his clothes, books, and other junk he’s managed to cram into his suitcase.

“Have you heard of being prepared for any eventuality?” He raises a hand, shaking the colorful cardboard box he's holding onto. “What if I want a slushie in the middle of the night? There’s no 7/11 in the middle of nowhere.”

“Is that my slushie cup?”

Mikey's standing on Leo’s bed, on the tips of his toes, his hands outstretched to touch the posters hanging on the ceiling. He's been hazy and distant the whole morning, and the fact that he hadn't completely shut himself off from the conversation comes as a pleasant surprise.

Leo glances at his own hand, at his younger brother, eventually shrugging.

“It's mine now. I licked it.”

“You are so weird.” Donnie grimaces, crossing his arms over his chest.

Besides the rather nasty expression on his face, he looks carefully put together, just like he always does; the travel bag on his side zipped up tightly. Their brothers visit The Lair so rarely, that his presence in Leo's messy room seems almost unnatural.

Sometimes, Raph feels his life split in half. Into some metaphorical 'before' and 'after' that divide his brothers and The Lair with thick lines.

It used to bring him some odd sort of comfort; like he managed to fit together pieces from two different puzzles, and like it was something to be proud of.

Now, he just feels them breaking apart in his grip.

Donnie glances his way, his brows drawn together, and it's only then that Raph realizes he's been staring at him for far too long.

“You're awfully quiet today,” his brother notes when Raph looks away.

He supposes he should agree. He's in a peculiar mood – not that the past week has been anything but peculiar moods.

“I have nothing to say about Leo's slushie,” Raph hums.

Donnie smiles, briefly and quickly, like some unwelcomed reflex, but his face quickly falls into a distinctly worried expression.

He's been worrying endlessly the whole week, enough for all four of them.

There are thoughts, memories, events playing out in Raph's head that he pushes away, as far as he can. It's an old instinct; self-preservation, from when even his darkest thoughts didn't seem half as important as the current moment in reality, and the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

Donnie clearly doesn't seem to follow the same route. Sometimes, Raph fears it will eat him alive.

“Hey,” Mikey says, suddenly. For a second, Raph's grateful for the change of subject. It doesn't last long. “Is your dad coming?”

In the next moment, two things happen.

One: Leo freezes, one hand clenched around the edge of his suitcase, his knuckles pale.

And two: Raph forgets how to breathe.

And it's no wonder, really. His whole week was filled with emotions that seemed to swallow him whole, and memories that burned into the back of his brain, and he's forgotten more important things under gentler circumstances before.

That first day (evening, night, and morning – in that order) was spent in the hospital, which was one of the best and worst things that had ever happened to him.

The best: because they pumped him with enough drugs to kill a horse, and it was the first thing that finally made him be able to feel anything other than the ache in his bones.

And the worst: because of everything else.

He didn't like the smell of hospitals, he didn't like the muffled beeps and hums of the machines, he didn't like what they reminded him of. The feelings they stirred in him.

He didn't sleep that night, staring at the lines running along the ceiling, the scratches in the paint, and the cracks in the cement.

He knows Donnie didn't sleep either. He could feel that restlessness, his uncertainty, from across the room.

“Are you okay?” He asked, trying to keep his voice as quiet as possible.

Donnie didn't answer, his back turned to him. But there was a sudden pang in Raph's chest, a tug that reminded him of younger brothers tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie, and he felt his heart ache.

That, too, was something entirely new.

He could feel it in his chest, curled tightly around his ribs, echoing. When he rested a hand on his chest, he could almost feel it buzzing, humming like a swarm of bees, brushing against his bones like an animal, starved for attention.

Ninpō – or so they assumed.

In all of it – in all the adrenaline, the gaining and losing of family, and so much fear – neither of them could find a reason enough to refuse when Draxum (with gentle but firm medical advice) decided that they should spend the next few weeks away from the pollution and noise of the city.

The idea clearly breathed some sort of new life into Donnie and Mikey, and the enthusiasm in their planning seemed almost contagious.

Raph's certain that Usagi would follow Leo and their brothers absolutely anywhere, to the point that his presence was never even questioned. Same with April's – in all the few, spare moments of freedom she got from her newly traumatized, half-scared-to-death parents.

In all the planning, packing, all the commotion and giddiness, Raph had somehow managed to completely overlook this one, painfully important issue.

“Oh,” Mikey says, breaking the sudden silence. “I think I ruined the vibe.”

“I don't want him there,” Donnie huffs, sitting up. “And our dad doesn't either.”

“You didn't even ask...” Mikey says, but quietly, like he has already accepted the fact that his proposal will be dismissed and isn't even sure why he's still bothering with it.

Mikey has no stakes in the complicated game that is ''Raph, Leo, and their father'', and sometimes, Raph feels like he's trying to play all possible fronts at once.

“That's...” Leo glances at the bed but falls silent again, clearly hesitant.

After a moment, he turns, looking back at Raph.

Leo's independent to a fault, always pushing his own ideas, and it's been a long time since Raph had last seen him like this. But it's all over his face now, that specific look, full of blind trust and helplessness, waiting for his older brother to steer him in the right direction.

Leo's stubborn with every bone in his body, loyal like a dog.

Raph can almost feel the words on the tip of his tongue, right behind his teeth.

It would feel good, maybe. Cathartic, in a way, if only for a moment.

He's spent a lifetime loving the idea of his father, and he's spending another hating a memory.

Leo's face is fragile, like he's not even sure what he's asking for, and for him, Raph would give up the world.

Just not this.

“That's fine. Leo can always open a portal.”

There's a certain look that passes over Leo's face, something soft but unreadable. His eyes never lie, but it's not always that Raph can fully understand what they're saying.

Leo nods, his shoulders tense.

Donnie sighs, head leaning against the wall.

“Good.”

***

The Farmhouse (with a capital 'T' and capital 'F) is an old thing.

It's all dark wood and crooked roofs, wraparound porch with cracked floorboards; currently in the process of being swallowed by the miles and miles of overgrown grass, trees, and not much else, besides a tall barn, lingering to the side, just at the edge of the forest.

He stands there for a moment while his brothers throw their bags and suitcases, and whatever else they got an armful of through the portal.

He raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, neck tilted. It's not a particularly tall house, but it sits on a small hill, cut off by something that might've once been a road. Raph doubts it ever saw any form of a vehicle that didn't involve a horse.

“Oh, fuck yeah.”

Leo stands next to him, sword still in hand. He's buzzing with energy, the skin of his arms raised in goosebumps.

There's a specific sort of uncertainty that comes with using their powers now; like they might blow a fuse if they do – burn out from the inside if they don't. Raph can feel it himself, his body humming with newfound strength.

He feels something press on his ribs.

He decides to ignore it.

Leo squints in the sun, following his gaze.

“This is dope. How come you've never taken us here before?”

That last part is directed at Donnie, currently pushing some of the luggage aside with his foot rather uncarefully. His eyes are white, and he stares ahead, unbothered by the sun.

“I don't know. I'm not really a countryside type of guy on a good day,” he hums. “Are you?”

“Hell no.” Leo fumbles with the pockets of his hoodie. “Is there signal here?”

There isn't, but judging by Donnie's expression, it's already a 'work in progress'.

Raph wants to say that out of Donnie's sixteen years of living, he's spent at least the first fourteen without a phone, so really, he'll survive a few more days without it. And then he does, and Donnie bickers with him about it while their family maneuvers around them, slowly filling the hallway with more and more bags.

It's good. It's something normal.

The Farmhouse seems bigger on the inside, somehow.

It's all one long corridor, decorated with doors upon doors, and the closed space makes him feel vaguely strange. The Lair was always nothing but open frames and too little privacy, their brothers' home never seemed to quite shake off that distinct ''mad scientist'' look, and it's not often that Raph gets to be inside a real, proper blueprint of a house.

He's not sure if he likes it.

There's a certain feel to everything, aged with disuse but impeccably clean, like a place that was once bustling with life and love, left to linger alone for far too long.

Donnie must notice the way he runs his fingers over the small table next to the front door, because he says:

“We cleaned it up a bit.”

Raph blinks a little, looks down at his hand, then shakes it to wipe the nonexistent dust off.

“Didn't have to. You know our standards.”

He takes the first bedroom he spots, with two beds tucked away at opposite walls.

It has 'Donnie' written it all over it, almost literally, with vintage looking posters, complex graphs, and an astonishing amount of graph paper pinned to the walls. There's a pile of clothes laid under what he assumes is the wardrobe that gives him a bit of pause.

He looks behind his shoulder to catch Donnie's gaze, tilting his head in a silent question.

His brother frowns, then winces, then frowns once again, and that gets his point across rather accurately.

Raph ends up sharing that room with Donnie, because kicking him out of his own old bedroom feels weirdly cruel and unusual.

And there's also that strange sort of air to his little brother now, something that makes him seem wispy and fragile and makes Raph want to stick to him like a shadow, but that's neither here nor there.

As he should've expected, the very complicated process of choosing a place to sleep didn't go as smoothly for the rest of their family.

Leo and Usagi end up sharing a bunk bed in Mikey's room – an arrangement that seems to satisfy their youngest brother's general need to make Leo's life just a little bit harder, and not much else.

(Mikey and Leo sharing a room feels a little too close to a ticking bomb for Raph's liking, but it's not quite yet worth the headache that trying to separate the resident lovebirds would inevitably cause.)

He ends up helping Leo drag an extra bed through the portal, nodding along to his exasperated complaints.

“What a nightmare,” he says, pushing the frame closer to the wall. It's effortless, even with Mikey promptly throwing himself onto it, face first. “Just try not to kill each other, alright?”

He directs that last part at their youngest brother, poking his arm to get the point across. Mikey waves a hand in a vague gesture, humming into the pillow.

“I second that,” Usagi yells from his spot on the top bunk.

He's brought Spot along – sitting proudly on top of his bag like the most precious cargo. Raph doesn't remember them talking about it at any point, but it feels obvious in hindsight, and he can't be bothered to even question it.

“No promises,” Leo teases, pulling up his leg to kick at Mikey's shins.

He's been distracted and upset in that special way of his where he'd rather die than show any of it, and Raph can't exactly blame him for any of it, even if he suspects it might have more to do with their father than either of them would like to admit.

Raph feels stretched thin – equally desperate for fresh air and afraid of stepping outside. Restless at home, nervous at an unfamiliar place.

He crosses his fingers, pushing at the thin skin near his nails with a claw, and hopes none of it shows on his face.

***

“If I tell you to clean this room,” Draxum says, leaned against the doorframe, “are you actually going to do it?”

Donnie raises his head, blinking up at him.

They're all piled onto the floor in the middle of his old bedroom, the rug under them a mess of cards, empty soda cans, and stretched-out legs.

Raph's rubbish at cards on a good day, but there was a particular kind of air around Leo when he pulled out the deck from his bag, and it smelled an awful lot like distraction.

Leo must've felt the same, because he's sat across from him now, half-leaning into, half-lying on Usagi's arm, giving Donnie a deeply amused look, and it's only the hard line settled in his shoulders that betrays him. Raph watches him curl his fingers; scratch at the back of the cards in an involuntary reflex.

Donnie looks around the room, silent for a moment, like it's a question he really has to think through.

Raph's bag stands next to the bed, unopened and untouched. As far as he can see, neither of them had done much in terms of unpacking, but he's been a little too busy trying to find some corner to fit himself into to even think about it.

“Probably no,” Donnie says, finally.

It's a common exchange between the two of them; honest to the point it's almost funny.

Raph's never quite sure what's a deliberate choice in parenting on Draxum's part, and what's just the result of who he is as a person. He's not strict but formal, rough around the edges, always leaving room for the sort of independence Raph desperately wishes someone would've taken away from him when he was younger.

His brothers are kind kids at heart, and he can't help feeling that growing up like this would've turned out a whole lot worse if they were anyone else.

But they weren't, and there's a softness to them that only comes from filling up on the kind of love Raph used to starve for, and he supposes he shouldn’t be the one to judge Draxum on this either way.

He'll brag about Leo to anyone willing to listen, but he always feels like the best parts of his brothers are the ones he carved out himself.

Draxum crosses his arms over his chest; taps his fingers against his forearm.

“Right,” he says. Then he raises his head, pointing to the pile of clothes and boxes littering the other side of the room with his chin. “I saw a mouse in there earlier.”

Donnie follows his gaze, cards pressed against his lips in thought.

Then he sighs, tilts his head, and like it's causing him a great deal of pain:

“Whoever cleans that up can keep whatever they want.”

It takes them less than a second.

Raph tilts to the side when Leo pushes at his arm to get past, more out of surprise than anything else. He blinks, looking at the empty spots that his two youngest brothers occupied just moments ago, before he turns his head, just in time to watch Mikey try and fail at tripping Leo.

“Dibs!” Leo moves over Mikey's leg, hands raised in a rather rude gesture.

“Not how dibs work!”

Raph sits there for a moment, more temporarily disoriented than anything else.

“You have clothes at home,” he says weakly.

He's talking to Leo, but both of his brothers raise their heads, already elbows deep in a box.

“I can have more,” Leo says, then turns his head around with an air of finality that quickly lets Raph know he shouldn’t even bother.

“You can get more clothes at home,” he says anyway, too quiet for his brother to hear.

“I think it's more about the principle of the thing with these two,” Usagi says.

“Principle of what?”

“I don't know.” Usagi leans over to pick up Leo's abandoned cards. “The principle of being dicks to each other. Damn it, he was bluffing.”

From the other side of the room, Mikey lets out a sudden cheer. He's standing in front of an open wardrobe, which Raph has a sneaking suspicion isn't exactly what Donnie had in mind, and there's something held out in his hands.

“I've wanted this for ages.” He shuffles in place, unhooking the clasps on his cloak and pushing it aside with his foot in one gesture.

It's a leather jacket, orange-y in color and smooth with a fur collar. It looks a few sizes too big, even for Donnie or Leo, and Mikey's drowning in it when he puts it on, but he does in most of his hoodies and shirts.

Raph has to admit it's a pretty thing, in a ''nonchalant-douchebag'' kind of way, and he thinks it looks exactly like the sort of jacket Leo would love. Judging by the souring expression on his brother's face – he's right.

“Are you really fine with them taking your stuff?” Raph turns to Donnie now, face drawn into a frown.

He trusts his brother's judgment, and he knows better than to question most of his decisions, but he also knows touching his things usually comes with a very real threat of losing all fingers.

“I don't really care about those things,” Donnie says. “They've been sitting here for ages.”

“Just so we're clear,” Draxum says, rather suddenly. Sometimes, he talks so little that Raph tends to forget he's even in the same room. “I don't approve of you exploiting your brothers.”

“He's showing entrepreneurship,” Usagi jokes, shuffling a few cards in his hands.

He's been learning some card tricks recently, which Raph suspects has very little to do with his interest in cards, and a lot more to do with his interest in Leo.

“I'm not exploiting, they're just dumb,” Donnie says, like they can't hear him standing just on the other side of the room. But judging by their loud arguing – maybe they can't. “I would've given Mikey that jacket if he asked.” Donnie watches Leo shake out the insides of another box. “But I think Nardo is looking for that special first edition of a Jupiter Jim comic. I told him I had it a while ago, and he's still not over it.”

Raph perks up at that.

“You do?”

Donnie looks over his cards, then at the hands Leo and Mikey left behind.

“No, I lied.” He throws his cards onto the carpet, dusting his hands off. “Also, I win.”

From the other side of the room, Leo gasps suddenly, holding up a box.

“Found the mouse!” He sounds oddly cheerful, both for someone carrying a rodent, and someone who was screaming at his brother just a moment ago.

Mikey laughs, that strange and inappropriate thing, like he's the only person in on some inside joke. Then his face falls, and he looks straight at Donnie, face sharp.

“If you eat it,” he warns. “I'm walking into the forest and never coming back.”

Donnie doesn't.

They let it go at the edge of the forest, and Raph watches it disappear into the underbrush.

The sun is setting, and it paints the trees in that sort of orange hue that seems to stick to everything this far away from the city.

It's pretty and unfamiliar, and he can't help staring at the long shadows forming on the grass.

“I really could walk in there and never come back,” Mikey says, in a way that almost makes it sound like a reasonable suggestion.

“Oh, we'd miss you so much,” Leo teases. “We'd put out a bowl with food, so you'd come back.”

“What about missing posters?” He says it in a mostly lighthearted way, but there's that distracted kind of look on his face, eyes a little far away.

“I don't know.” Leo hums and pretends not to notice. “You're not very photogenic.”

“Hey!” Mikey scoffs at that. “I'll have you know-”

He stops.

He blinks, turning back his head to look at Donnie.

“What did you say?”

Donnie looks up from his phone, blinking.

“What?” There's a genuinely baffled expression on his face; a rare look on him. “I didn't say anything.”

“Oh.” Mikey goes quiet for a moment, his face unreadable. He looks back at the forest. “I look great in photos.”

Above his head, Donnie and Leo share a look.

Raph takes a breath.

They walk back to the house.

Chapter Text

There's a moth in the room.

Raph watches it climb over the windowsill, twitch its wings against the glass. It stills when the sky shifts into a lighter blue, gray, and hazy with fog.

He doesn't sleep.

There are a hundred different reasons he could pin the blame on. Between the Shredder, the hospital stay, and finally shifting into a diurnal lifestyle (some of that seeming more important than the rest, in hindsight) – he really shouldn't be surprised.

Thinking about it doesn't seem to be helping, either.

Exhaustion sits on every bone in his body. He's heavy with it; his arm numb where he's been laying on it for too long, and he's been staring at the window for so long he can see it even when he closes his eyes.

He shifts on the unfamiliar bed, in the unfamiliar room, holding onto a teddy bear with all the strength needed for restraining a real one.

It's an old thing, well-loved and mended so many times there aren't many parts to it that he hasn't added himself. He brought it along on instinct and felt rather silly pulling it out of his bag, which was weird. The walls of his room in The Lair are lined with plush animals and other soft things, and he never thought to feel embarrassed about it before.

He thinks about it now, watching the soft outlines of shadows behind the window.

There's a strange sort of vague sadness to so many things now that it's hard to untangle it from the web of emotions he's weaving at the bottom of his stomach, and he's only now starting to consider that the feeling wasn't embarrassment at all.

There's a small corner of old plushies in his room – all things he received from his father a lifetime ago. He used to put them on the middle shelves where he could see them, like a reminder. Like a lifeline.

He didn't even glace at them when he was packing.

Or maybe, he's just growing up.

He hopes that's not true.

He curls in on himself, the plush pressed into his neck. It makes him feel his own heartbeat – drumming in his head, under his hand.

He can hear Donnie breathing on the other side of the room, still and tense in a way that makes Raph think he'd probably rather be awake, too.

The moth flaps its wings.

Raph gets up.

It's a slow process, made even slower by his heavy limbs and the squeaky floorboards he's forced to maneuver around; more hassle than it's worth, probably.

But he can't sleep, and there's no point in watching the sunset from behind glass.

The door to the bedroom closes behind him with a quiet creak, and he winces a little at that.

Raph steps away, rubs his hands together, turns his head to the side, and in the same second – locks eyes with his brother.

It doesn’t so much scare him as it catches him off guard, and he fumbles for a moment, suddenly unsure on his own feet.

“Oh!” He says, because it needs to be said.

Mikey's sat on the kitchen counter, visible through the archway at the end of the hallway. The kitchen's next to the bedroom, and Raph wonders how he didn't notice the light spilling from it sooner.

Mikey raises a hand, rubbing at his face with the heel of his palm. He opens his mouth, closes it, mouth thin.

There's a moment of silence, and it breaks with a soft footstep from the other side of the kitchen. Draxum comes into view, two mugs held in both of his hands, then he staggers in place, visibly equally surprised. It's not an expression he wears often, and it looks ridiculous on him.

“Oh,” he says, because it needs to be said. Then: “Good morning.”

He puts the mugs on the kitchen counter, next to his son.

And in the next moment, Raph gets the very sudden, and very distinct feeling that he's interrupting-

Something.

Because this has to be something.

The air in the room feels heavy, and there's that wide and timid expression on Mikey's face – something he puts on only when the occasion really calls for it. He's hunched where he sits, his shoulders raised high to his cheeks.

He looks small like this, for someone who so often feels like the gravitational center of the entire room, and Raph staggers where he stands, struck with a spark of old instincts.

Draxum watches him for a moment, face unreadable, then turns his eyes back to the kitchen counter. He's very good at pretending to keep busy, and it's something that struck Raph as particularly odd in a man who so often seems like he has a million places he should be at.

The silence stretches before snapping like a rubber band, with Mikey clearing his throat.

His brother clasps his hands against his lap, squeezes them once, twice, and then gives him a thin smile. It's an honest looking thing, as much as it's undeniably bittersweet, and it makes Raph's chest ache.

“I'm sorry,” Raph says, mostly because it's the first thing that comes to his mind.

It's a specific sort of awkward, his whole chest full of it with every breath, and it's already making his legs itch to turn around.

It's an old and familiar feeling, which doesn't make it sting any less, but it does make him want to bite his own fingernails off. Which is probably not a good sign.

Raph always feels like he belongs in fewer places than other people – in all the different ways. That he's something that needs to be accommodated for, like he has to carve out every space he wants to have himself.

It's different with his brothers.

There was a time when he was hesitant to call them that, and the memory feels almost absurd now.

He's half a person without them, carved out and hollow, and they're the only thing that ever makes him feel like he belongs – truly and all the way through.

Raph has spent countless hours lying wide awake – stuck in a dreamless nightmare about tens of millions of bad things that could possibly happen to them.

Mikey tilts his head a little, eyes dark and red in the low light.

“We were just making tea,” he says, bringing up a hand to tap one of the mugs with a fingernail. They’re short, but jagged and sharp, which makes Raph think he's been chewing on them. “Do you want some?”

And so, if it were anyone else, Raph would assume it's at least a little bit forced – habit of social creatures. But it's not, and he knows Mikey too well to believe he'd ever bend for something as simple as politeness, and he knows his brother would give up a lung just to make Raph feel like he fits in.

He doesn't answer for a long moment.

Because it's also different with Draxum.

He's not sure Draxum is the type of person who could be described as ''friendly'', under any circumstances, but they're cordial, which is more than he can currently say about his own father.

He can count all the times they've talked one-on-one and not run out of fingers. There's an air of familiarity around them, but it's not enough to make the uneasy feelings lay still in Raph's stomach.

It's a different kind of game – ''Raph and his brother's father'', and he's still not used to all the rules. Not used to the nonchalance of it all, the way he puts Raph and Leo in the same spot as his sons. How light his shoulders feel without the weight of all the things he convinced himself were his to carry.

Raph hesitates.

Mikey's smile falters. He traces the edge of the mug with a finger, absentminded.

“I'd like it if you stayed,” he says, voice small.

It's a cheap trick and they both know it, judging by the way Mikey's face pulls into a frown – a little ashamed.

Not that it matters, because it's working either way.

Raph shrugs, sighs, then shrugs again.

“Do you have anything fruity?”

***

It's warm outside.

The kind of warmth that already makes him dread the coming heat, and he sinks into the chair with a sigh.

Mikey walks past him, resting his elbows on the railing and leaning over it. The porch light and the rising sun make him look a little brighter – face bathed in oranges and yellows – and it's only then that Raph realizes how pale he looked before.

When Mikey's smile falls it breaks into pieces, and there are still some traces of hurt on his face.

Raph doesn't know if he should ask.

“Don't go into the woods,” he jokes instead.

Mikey's still for a moment, then blinks, looking back at him. He doesn't smile, but his lips pull into something close to it.

Draxum sits down with a bit more grace, which is quickly overshadowed by his son gracelessly pulling himself up on the railing.

“Can you sit like a person?” Raph sighs, reaching out to grab his brother's ankle out of habit.

Mikey kicks at his hands.

“I am,” he says, and there's suddenly an edge to his voice that makes Raph pull away.

He seems scattered and a little all over the place, drifting between tens of different emotions at any given moment. There's tension in his shoulders, on his face, something bitter and ready to hiss and bite at any wrong move; quick and unexpected. It's rare to see him like this, and it sting all over every time it happens.

Raph hands him his mug.

“Can I ask why you're not sleeping?” Draxum nods, pointing at Raph with his chin.

Raph rubs a thumb over the edge of his mug, gaze dropping to the floor.

A few months ago, he would've said no.

(In a few weeks, months, years – he might say yes.)

Now, he just says:

“I've been thinking.”

Which is not a lie exactly, but it makes Mikey's mouth pull into a half-smile, half-wince, the kind that shows on his face when he realizes more than he's willing to admit.

“Lots of things to think about,” he says.

“Yeah.” Raph raises his mug. The tea tastes bitter, and he supposes it's too late to ask for sugar now. “I've been thinking about Karai.”

He's not sure why he says it exactly, but it's not a lie.

He's been thinking about her. Sometimes, he feels like he's been doing it too much. Other times – too little.

It's a strange sort of grief, if he can even call it that.

He hasn't been letting himself feel it, not truly; scared it will turn out small, unimportant, and entirely inadequate. A pathetic thing for someone like her.

“Oh,” Mikey says.

Raph tilts his head up, suddenly very aware of the quiet look his brother and Draxum share.

“What?” He raises his mug, mostly just to keep his hands busy.

“Nothing,” says Draxum, too fast and slightly awkward.

“I'm sorry about that,” says Mikey, which feels a bit more appropriate. “Shame she didn't have more time.”

And there's something in the way he says it; something that makes Raph want to sink his teeth into it and prod.

Mikey's so strange sometimes, wispy and blurry; something undecipherable stuck between the lines.

“Well.” Raph puts away his mug. His hands feel shaky now, and he's not sure why. “It wasn't much, but she was family.”

Suddenly, he doesn't really want to talk about this anymore.

The frustration boils fast; one of the things that's been keeping him away from mentioning any of this before.

“She'd be proud of you, you know?” Mikey says, voice a little distant and dreamy. “I mean, of us.”

Raph feels his mouth pull into a thin line.

There's always anger, lingering somewhere inside of him, and he hates the way it pushes itself to the surface even when he doesn't call for it.

“How do you know?” He asks.

It's a mean thing to say, but the look on Mikey's face doesn't show it.

“... Oh, I'm just guessing,” he says, and it's a lie.

A strange and unnerving one, and Raph's not sure what to make of it. There's a sudden urge in him, the need to grab Mikey by his shoulders and shake him until he explains himself for once.

Mikey shifts where he sits; head tilted back to stare up at the sky.

“You know, I got this book,” he says. “It's about this kind of stuff, I could-”

“I can't fucking read.”

For a moment – Raph stills.

There are more words sitting just at the edge of his tongue, and he doesn't say any of them.

He feels raw, like all the air in his lungs left with this punch, like all the anger simmered out, leaving him hollow.

He can feel Draxum's stare like a burn, but he only meets his brother's gaze.

“... It's an audiobook,” Mikey says, slow and unsure. Then: “Sorry?”

“No, Raph's-” He rubs a hand over his forehead, suddenly very aware of every hour of sleep he missed today. “Shit, I'm sorry. I'm just...”

He doesn't finish. He's not sure how he would, even if he wanted to.

It's not like him to snap at his brothers like this, but he's tired and hurt, and there's something aching in every part of his body, and he doesn't want to talk about this anymore-

(He's not sure what's 'like him' anymore.)

“It's okay,” Mikey says, still a bit unsure. “I've just been reading some stuff April got for me. It's interesting.”

At that, Draxum hums.

He hasn't said anything yet, and Raph's not sure he's going to.

There's a part of him that sighs with relief. There's a part of him that bristles at dismissal.

“I'm glad it's helping you,” he tells his brother, because that's the easy part.

Mikey sucks on his teeth, thumb smoothing over the surface of his mug.

“Oh, I don't really think it's doing what Leo thought it would.”

Finally, Draxum shifts his gaze, something new etched into his face.

“And yet you're still reading that?”

Raph blinks at that.

There's nothing particularly upset or sharp in Draxum's voice, but it's a strange question, and it's a strange expression, and the way Mikey's face breaks apart makes his guts twist nervously.

“What's wrong with it?” Mikey asks, voice cold.

It feels like stepping on a nail.

Anger always looks foreign on Mikey, like he needs to tear himself apart to make space for it. It's something ugly and bitter, spilling out from him like venom, and there's a split second where it reminds Raph of Leo.

Of himself.

It's the kind of anger that comes with hurtful words, claw marks, many sleepless nights and even more regrets – the kind Raph already knows too well.

He wonders if it's something in their family blood that makes all of them rot like this.

“Nothing. I'm not telling you what you can or can't read,” Draxum says, sounding like he's doing exactly that. It's so rare that he's this firm with his sons, and Raph wants to tell to stop. “I just think it's strange you'd rather listen to some human books then-”

Mikey's mug hits the railing with a rattle. There's a look on his face that makes it seem like he wanted it to break, and he's angry that it didn't.

“Are we doing this again?”

“We're not 'doing' anything.”

Draxum hasn't raised his voice, but Mikey's dangerously pitched, like he's going to scream. Or cry.

“You always do this. Why won't you just listen to me?” He pulls himself down from the railing, knees shaking. “I'm not going back there.”

“Back where?” Raph asks.

No one answers him.

“Why?” Draxum stands. He's frustrated, and it shows in a way that makes Raph curl in on himself. “You never said why.”

“Can't you just trust me?”

There's something deeply frightened and hurt in his voice, like he's desperate for comfort but will shy away from it regardless.

Draxum raises a hand then lets it fall, like he doesn't know where to place himself.

“Mikey,” Raph tries. His brother raises a hand to his face, shying away, like he forgot he was there and wishes he wasn't.

He shifts, like he's ready to run.

“Wasn't it helping you before?” Draxum says.

And it's the wrong thing to say. Raph knows it even before Draxum does, even before Mikey's face crumples, eyes big and red.

His brothers' eyes are always the clearest parts of them, and the hurt in Mikey's feels infectious like a disease.

“No!” He raises a hand to wipe at his cheek, voice thin and wet. “I'm not getting better! I'm never getting better. This is the best you'll get!”

He brushes past Draxum, eyes fixed on the door. He looks small and fragile, drowned in an oversized jacket.

He doesn't look at Raph.

“Take it or leave it.”

The door slams behind him, rocking the wall like thunder.

And that's that.

For a moment they both linger, silenced and unsure.

Then, Draxum swears, quiet and elegant, falling back into his chair with a sigh.

He leans over – fingers locked; forehead rested on his hands. He rubs his temples with his thumbs.

Raph watches him, shaken and coldly numb.

“I don't know how to talk to him,” Draxum says, “without it turning out like this.”

It's a strange moment, Raph realizes. It's rare to see Draxum as anything other than ten feet tall, unapologetically posh, and put together.

Raph shifts in his seat – familiar with messy adults and always uneased by it.

“I think that's just how all teenagers are,” he says, because it feels like the right thing to say.

He's not sure he agrees with it, or to what extent, but there's anger and frustration sitting on his bones that didn't used to be there, and he hopes one day it will disappear again.

“You're not,” Draxum says, despite it. “You're an easy kid.” He quiets for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. “You and Donatello.”

For a moment, Raph just stares.

It's the odd moment between tripping over your own feet and realizing what happened, and he's not quite sure what to make of it.

Easy kid.

He's spent a lifetime trying to be just that, and somehow, the words only make him feel worse.

“What about Leo?” He asks, a little cautious.

Draxum winces.

At that – Raph bristles.

He's half-sure Draxum's not being serious, and if he is – he doesn't mean it. But it's a habit that he never quite managed to squash down (not that he ever really tried), and he's nothing if not defensive when it comes to his brothers.

“Well,” he says, “Raph thinks he's doing the best he can.”

His voice comes out rough and edgy – cruel than he intended, and he's not surprised by the frown that pulls on Draxum's face.

Draxum straightens in his seat, hands raised placatingly.

“It's- No, of course it is.” He sounds equally timid and panicked, like he's scared Raph might start yelling too, and he supposes that's fair enough. “You're all good kids, I's proud of all of you, just-” He sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “Spirits, give me strength.”

Raph feels his anger quiet for a moment.

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

The words stay in his mind, in his hands, and he's unsure what to make of them, no matter how he turns them.

Pride is a strong word, and not something he'd expect someone like Draxum to take lightly, and having it thrown his way so casually leaves him a little breathless.

He takes a moment, then another.

Then, he shifts in his chair and promptly shoves the thought into the very back of his mind.

“What was that about anyway?” He says, just to fill his mouth with something else.

Draxum sighs again. He seems a lot older like this, and it's not the best look on him.

“Michelangelo doesn't want to see his Doctor.”

“His therapist?” Raph frowns. “He stopped going?”

The understanding he has of Mikey and his doctors is thin, scraps of loose threads he heard from Leo, and it's still enough to mark that as 'good news' in his book.

Draxum winces.

“Yes, and he won't talk about that, either. But I thought going back might be good for him, given the...” He spreads his arms, a little helpless. “Everything.”

Raph frowns.

Draxum makes an odd sound, something between a laugh, a sigh, and a whine.

“So, you're with him on this, I'm assuming?”

Raph clasps his hands together, mostly just to keep them busy.

He is, he supposes.

He doesn't know much – about Mikey's health, his doctors, and what they're doing – but he knows it's a part of his little brother's live, and he knows it makes him genuinely, deeply unhappy.

And there isn't a lifetime where he doesn't set himself on fire, just to keep all of his brothers warm.

“Mikey's difficult on propose, sometimes,” Raph says, finally. He rubs a thumb over his palm, tracking the lines and scars on his skin. “I think it's... Actually, I've got no idea. But Leo can be like that, too.”

“I've noticed.”

Raph huffs, which is as close to a laugh as he can bring himself to at the moment.

“But I really think you should let him be, at least with this. No point forcing him.”

Draxum runs a hand over his mouth, eyes turned to the sun.

“Perhaps you're right,” he says. There's an odd expression on his face, and if Raph hadn't spent so much time around Donnie, he might've mistaken it for indifference. “Hum.”

“What?”

“You're speaking from experience?”

The look on his face changes, and now Raph feels completely lost in it.

He blinks; sits a little straighter, frowning.

“About what?”

“Raising kids.”

Raph stills.

He feels his claw press into the skin of his palm; hands a little numb.

And, because it’s different with Draxum, he says:

“... That's a topic for another day.”

His throat feels dry, and he can feel the way his voice breaks when he speaks, like he hasn't used it in a very long time. He hasn't – not for things like this; things that sit uncomfortably close to honesty.

“And about the...” Draxum makes a weird gesture, like he's not sure what he means himself. “Book. That's for another day, too, I assume?”

Raph looks away, over the railing and distant trees.

It's warm, the sun hitting his face.

The back of his mind is a tangle of knots and secrets, things he never spoke out loud, and things he never dared to even think, and it would take ages to unravel it all – one by one.

And the time will pass anyway.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

Chapter Text

It takes him a full day.

Which, under any other circumstances, would be some cause for concern.

(Maybe it still should be.)

No one asked him to fix the lack of signal, but there's only so much internet deprivation (and his brothers' whining) he can take, and it seemed like an easy enough job, for the most part.

Leo told him once he was ''like a circus trainer of techbros'' – a sentiment Donnie didn't fully understand but appreciated either way.

He doesn't feel much like it today.

He's distracted and unfocused, his own skin and power foreign. There's a new kind of energy, pushing at his hands from under his skin like a current.

He finds himself holding back, pushing it down, like it might blow up in his own hands at any given moment.

It's overwhelming, and he's not used to it; to feeling this clumsy and useless, to the constant feeling of something pushing into the space between his ribs.

To finally realizing what Mikey must've felt all this time.

They're not talking about it, not really, not for now, and he's not planning on being the first one to bring it up.

(Sometimes, Donnie really wishes stubbornness didn't run so deep in their family.)

He spends the day locked in his room, tinkering away at scrap metal and loose parts, late into the night, before he finally gets it to work. Raph doesn't ask what he's doing.

It makes him feel bad in a way he doesn't quite know how to describe.

Now, he's sat on the roof of The Farmhouse, pushing in the last screws. The morning sun warms the back of his neck, and he wipes it with his hand, absentmindedly.

The dreadful heat and dry air (and possibly Donnie's rather visible nasty mood) firmly pushed all of his brothers into staying indoors for the morning. He tells himself that it will make it a nice surprise.

(And there's a small, selfish part of him that feels a little grateful for the moment of silence.)

Finally, he straightens, pulling out his phone.

He sits for a moment, watching the bars in the corner slowly fill up. There's a spark of satisfaction deep inside his gut, even if it feels more like finally guessing the right crossword answer than really solving anything.

Then – he dials the first number he can think of.

He chews at his nail absentmindedly, Kendra's obnoxious ringback tone blasting in his ear. He feels his tail shift up and down, beating against the roof tiles.

Finally, the song cuts off.

There's a shuffle, a strange noise, and then a quiet:

“Hello?”

Her voice makes Donnie still.

She sounds a bit muffled, like there's still something wrong with his machine (unlikely), or like she just woke up (probable).

He checks the time, just to make sure. It's noon.

“Hey,” he says. “It's me.”

“Yeah, I know it's you, dumbass, I've got your number saved.”

There's a rustle on the other side, her voice suddenly clearer.

It's the little shift in her tone – something unassuming and unnoticeable to others, that he's learned to read like a favorite book.

“You got my number?” He says, not trying to hide the smile that pushes into the corners of his mouth. “Wow, you're, like, obsessed with me or something?”

“You wish.”

It's an old song and dance, a familiar rhythm to fall into.

She's happy to hear him, and he knows it by the way the words fall out of her mouth, by the way she lowers her tone into that scratchy pitch.

And without any hesitation, he says:

“I do.”

It's raw and honest, not something he would’ve normally said in a moment like this, and he almost surprises himself with it.

But he missed her, and there's still a numb ache in his stomach, and he wants to hear the way her breath falters, for just a moment.

“Right,” she says. Then: “What's up?”

She sounds a little bitter, like she's mad at herself for not being able to find better words.

Sometimes, she sounds almost a little unnatural, like she wanted to say something else but changed her mind at the very last moment.

It's easy to spot after a while.

It's effortless to decipher when she occupies so many of his thoughts.

“Are you alright?” Donnie asks.

It's a question he already knows the answer to, at least in part. It's their first talk since everything, but texting her was the first thing he did that night at the hospital.

There was an unreasonable part of him that feared the worst, and an even stupider one – that only wanted to see the screen of his phone light up with notification.

“Jason started digging a bunker in the neighbors’ yard,” she says. “Mom already grounded him for it, tho.”

“Right.”

Donnie shifts, pulling his legs up to wrap his arm around his knees.

“So, about as good as I can be after... How did you say it?” Her mattress creaks a little. “After a sentient piece of armor, which may or may not have been your grand-something-father, demolished a few buildings?”

Donnie makes a sound, something between a whine and a drowning cat, his tail curling under his thigh.

“How about we don't talk about that?” He suggests.

On the other side, Kendra scoffs.

“That's not even the elephant in the room, Othello, that's a whole herd.”

Donnie winces.

He pulls his legs up higher, curling in on himself.

It's hot and humid, hard to breathe, and he can feel his skin grow sticky with sweat.

“I know, Kenny,” he murmurs, scratching at his leg with a claw. It leaves a pale mark. “Things are just really weird right now.”

“Well,” she says, “what's going on then?”

There must've been something rather pathetic in his voice, because her slight annoyance seems to ease.

He hates that.

There's a strange sort of carefulness his family treats him with nowadays, like he's a delicate machine, one step away from breaking down.

He's an older brother, he's their keeper, and he'd die for all of them – then, now, and always.

There's real concern and care in everything they do, in every 'are you okay?', in every careful gesture, in every soft whisper.

He just wishes he could see it as anything other than 'you used to be strong'.

“Mikey's being weird again,” he says, finally. “Weirder than usual. He's been fighting with Dad, and I don't know what to do with him anymore, he won't talk to me.”

“... Oh.” Kendra audibly shuffles in the place, like she wasn't really expecting him to answer, and he caught her off guard. “That's-”

“And Leo's acting like nothing happened, and that's even worse, honestly.” He runs a hand over his face, pushing sweat away from his eyes.

He sits up straighter, shifting in place. He pulls one leg close to his chest, claws digging into the skin on his knee, tracing the bone under it.

He started now, and suddenly he doesn't know how to push back the anger boiling inside of him. It's taking a lid off a pot – the steam hot, heavy, and spilling out everywhere.

“And I don't think Raph wants to be here. Which is stupid, because I know he doesn't want to be home either, so what's his issue?” It's mean and cruel, unfair and ignorant, and he hates that it's coming from him. “And then there's the whole thing with my aunt, and I don't even want to-”

He takes a breath.

It feels like running underwater.

It's strange, because he doesn't act like this, not like his brothers, but he's afraid if he doesn't get angry, he might do something stupid, like cry.

It lies on him like the skin of a stranger. He doesn't like it.

“I just want-” He stops for a moment, swallowing hard. “I want things to be normal.”

It's a lie.

He likes to imagine, sometimes, that there is a different world out there, somewhere, where he is young and small, and he's building towers out of blocks with Leo, lying down on the soft carpet of their living room.

Where Raph carries him on his shoulders when he's too short to reach the tallest shelves. Where Leo and Mikey are best friends more often than they are enemies. Where there are less lines aging Raph's face.

Where death is a thing that will never touch them, where life is an open road he'll never be scared to walk.

That, for what it's worth, is what he wants.

“Well,” she says after a beat. “I don't really know how to break it to you, but you kind of sound weird, too.”

That makes him pause.

He breathes, his skin rising and falling in goosebumps.

He takes a moment trying to decipher the tone of her voice, and it takes him far too long to realize she sounds timid.

Which is ridiculous, really.

His girl is bold and loud, unabashed and taking everything she wants in fistfuls, and Donnie would sooner bite off his own fingers than call her anything close to timid.

“What does that mean?” He asks, because he wants to know, and it sounds minutely better than 'Please, not you too'.

“I don't know.” There's a rustle on the other side, like she's shifting in place. Donnie can imagine her lying down on her bed, hair spilling onto her pillow. The color might be faded now; he can't imagine she found much time for haircare. “Is everything alright?”

“I just told you it wasn't.”

“Not with your family, idiot.” The way she says it makes it sound almost soft. “With you.”

Oh.

He takes a moment, considering.

There's a deep ache in his chest, like something cold and vile, filling up his lungs with fluid. He's numb in all the wrong ways – stiff and achy.

He flexes his fingers, claws dragging over calluses.

“Yes,” he says.

“Do not fucking lie to me.”

“Okay, no.” He raises a hand, running it over his face. “I don't know.”

Donnie, for all intents and purposes, is a man of logic.

Or: that's what he likes to tell himself.

His thoughts fall into his hands like bits of strings, and he follows them down, and up, and wherever else they lead him; straightforward line of thinking.

He's just not sure why he's now finding so many knots.

“What does that mean?” Kendra questions.

She sounds a little different now, not quite breathless but close, probably pacing around her room; whatever space she has left that's not currently occupied by electrical wires, machine parts and piles of everything metal and possibly flammable.

For a moment – he doesn't really know how to answer her.

It's stupid, and he feels like a fool for even bringing it up, like if he just turns the other way, all of these emotions will stop feeling so real.

It doesn't seem to be working so far.

He shifts his hand, rubbing at his chest. There's pressure building behind his eyes, and he feels dangerously close to clawing his own brain out.

“I don't feel like myself.”

For a moment, they're both silent.

Donnie watches the horizon, eyes and thoughts far away.

“Wow,” Kendra says finally, pronouncing every letter like its own sentence.

Donnie laughs, mostly to stop himself from doing anything worse.

“I know. I just-” He rubs his chest with a hand – an old, comforting habit. “I'm so stressed out, all the time. I don't know why, I just feel like something bad is going to happen, and then it doesn't, and somehow that makes it worse.”

It doesn't make sense, not even to his own ears.

He knows this place. He knows the people in it; he loves the people in it.

He loves every corner of this house, every sentimental object, every chipped plate, every dry spot on the grass.

Almost all the objects of his ceaseless affection – stuck between four walls.

And yet – he's a starved animal, aimless with want, and utterly, completely lost.

“... I don't know what to say,” Kendra tells him, almost apologetic.

“Me neither.”

He's been feeling death in every step, in every breath, in every layer of scars on his back.

He doesn't know how to convince himself it won't follow them here.

It's a knot in his stomach, a constant ring in his ears, a sudden squeeze of his hearts; it's loud and pushing into every corner of his mind.

He's a man of logic.

And that, as he's starting to realize, does not make him fearless.

“I'm sorry,” Kendra says.

He wishes she were here. It's a sappy and painfully sentimental thought, but he can't find it in himself to care anymore.

“I don't want to talk about this,” he decides.

“... Alright.”

For a moment, they're both quiet.

He's raw and vulnerable, shying away from the sting of a fresh wound.

Kendra seems just as lost as him, which feels like cheap consolation, all things considered.

“Can he talk about something else, please?” He asks, finally.

She doesn't answer right away.

He can imagine her twisting a strand of her hair around a finger – a nervous habit she never seemed quite aware of.

She's so pretty it hurts.

“You know,” she says, a little hesitant. “My dad's been asking about you.”

For a moment, Donnie falls silent.

“Really?” He says finally, not hiding his surprise.

Kendra's father was a man of few words and no nonsense – apparently all very desirable traits in a car mechanic.

His workshop was a building Donnie didn't dare to linger in uninvited, and a place of true machinery worship. Cars were complicated and wonderful creatures, and the presence of someone who handled them with such casual precision made him equally giddy and all kinds of nervous.

The excuse of waiting for Kendra gave him a few opportunities to try and show off, most of which were met with a vaguely pleased, slightly distracted nod.

For the most part, he counted that as a win.

“I wasn't sure he remembered I existed,” Donnie confesses.

“I know, me neither,” she says, so plainly it makes him laugh. “I think he likes you? In a way.”

“In a way?”

Donnie shifts, stretching out his legs. The skin under his knees feels sticky with sweat, his muscles stiff.

“Well, we're going out, so he can't like you too much, you know?” She says, like it's obvious and something he should already know.

“Sure,” he says, like it is.

“School's closed, and he's got...” She pauses for a moment, once again changing her mind at the last moment. “A lot of work. He's looking for free labor, basically.”

“And he wants my help?” He makes sure, still a little disbelieving.

There's a smile in her voice, a little teasing, a little sincere.

“Don't let that get into your head, kitten.”

“Do not call me that. I'll see what I can do.” He shifts, laying down flat on the roof; the sun-kissed tiles hot on his arms. “I have to ask Leo.”

“That's good. Go and talk to him, you-” She doesn't finish, suddenly silent. There's a creak on the other side, a soft voice, and then an exasperated: “What do you want? Get out of my room.”

“Is that Jason?”

Kendra's relationship with her brother stood firmly between a line of things he didn't fully understand but knew better than to question.

She doesn't answer him, seemingly too busy trying to close her bedroom door in her brother's face.

“No one, I'm not talking to anyone. It's not Donnie.” He can't make out Jason's response, but Kendra's voice raises a few pitches. “What do you mean I ''don't have any other friends''?” Donnie raises a fist to his mouth, biting on his knuckle to stop himself from laughing. “No, he doesn't want to look at your stupid project, right?”

It takes Donnie a moment to realize she's talking to him now.

He's not sure he'd call Jason a friend – a privilege reserved for only a selected few. But there's energy to him, some kind of spark on his face that painfully reminds Donnie of his own little brothers, and he finds it hard to tell him no.

“I can look at it,” he says.

She doesn't seem happy with that.

“Oh my God, you're useless. No, not- You know what, yes, you too.”

Donnie listens to them bicker for a moment longer before the door finally slams shut. Kendra swears under her breath, something loud and crude, and rather impressive.

“Younger brothers, am I right?” Donnie jokes.

Kendra sighs, her voice a little breathless:

“Shut up.”

***

He finds Leo and Mikey in the living room.

They're occupying the whole couch – loud and larger than life, and always in need to show it. There's a metal box balanced on Leo's lap, and he's hunched over, his hands busy with something.

It's strangely rare to see the two of them together in relative peace, and it makes Donnie pause for a moment.

They're like water and oil, or a chemical reaction, and Donnie can never be sure what kind of experiment he will get on any given day.

He feels like he missed something – some big, important shift that made his little brothers like this – angry and starved. It's tough love, affection that comes with rough words and biting where it'll hurt, and the kind of loyalty that turns a wolf into a hound.

He feels like he's still missing the parts that make Leo and Mikey seem okay with all of this.

Leo looks up when he hears Donnie enter, leftover laughter spread across his face.

His smile drops the moment their eyes meet.

Donnie's not sure what his face looks like, but whatever it is, it makes Leo frown.

“What happened?” He asks. Then, a little less kindly: “What is wrong with your face?”

“Nothing,” Donnie answers. Then, a little less honest: “Everything is fine.”

Leo's expression hardens, and he squints a little, like he's thinking deeply and trying not to show it.

Donnie raises his arms in something like a shrug, then lets them fall to his side again.

“I don't know what you want from me,” he says.

Rather unsubtly – Mikey nudges Leo's thigh. He glances at Donnie, then again at Leo, his face unreadable.

It's strange, knowing they're talking about him in a way he can't understand, and it makes Donnie feel sticky all over.

Leo's gaze softens, just a little.

“I mean, you can't be worse than Mikey.” Leo leans forward, lowering his voice to a very considerate whisper-shout. “I saw him talking to a wall earlier.”

Mikey stills, just for a moment, before laughing – that breathless, strange thing.

“I was not.”

“You totally were. You're such a weirdo, man.”

Leo's grinning, and then he's not, his face changing to something a little more serious, just for a moment. Donnie knows how concern looks on Leo, even when hidden under layers and layers of good humor and lightheartedness.

He feels scattered, a little too distracted to take this in right now, but he still feels his mouth pull into a thin, worried line.

He knows this is no different than Mikey's and Leo's silent exchange.

He's a hypocrite at heart.

Mikey huffs, sitting up straighter.

“I was thinking out loud.” He puts a finger to the side of his head. “Thinking. You should try it.”

Sometimes, Donnie feels like all the problems in his life stem from having brothers. This will age him thirty years.

“Are you two going to fight?” He asks, voice tired. “I'm leaving if you're going to fight.”

Mikey looks at him like he's being difficult on purpose, then tilts his head to add more flair to his sigh.

“Oh, man,” he says, dragging out each word, “whatever.”

Leo gives him a strangely apologetic look. He reaches to pat the couch next to himself, moving to the side (and making sure to sit down on Mikey's foot in the process).

Donnie hesitates, just for a moment, before walking up.

He curls his legs close to his chest when he sits, tired and aching from the sun. He wants to grab Leo's arm, too – something warm and familiar to hold onto, but the bright fabric in his brother's hands makes him frown.

“What are you doing?”

Leo grins, something a little more honest.

He holds up the fabric, presenting it in all its frayed-edge, crooked glory.

“I'm making a mask for Angelo,” he says, pointing at his face. “Like we have. Want me to make you one, too?”

It's an odd gesture.

It's so sweet and unexpected, honest and a little vulnerable, and it makes Donnie's hearts ache.

He wants to grab Leo's shoulder, then hesitates, then does it anyway – an awkward and clumsy gesture.

Leo blinks a little, reaching out a hand to cover Donnie's.

“Are you-”

“Yeah.” Donnie turns his head, hiding his face in his shoulder. “I want one.” He's already half broken, and he feels a push away from screaming, or worse – crying. “Are you into sewing now?”

He doesn't mean to mock, but he's desperate for any kind of distraction.

He must look pathetic.

Mikey and Leo share a look.

“Hey, Dee?” Mikey asks, hesitant.

He reaches for Donnie's hand on Leo's shoulder, taking it into his. He pulls it closer, curling Donnie's fingers into his throat, resting his chin on his knuckles.

There's a strange look on his face – worry, for sure. And something else, something a little distant, something that always makes him seem miles away, even when Donnie can feel his every word.

“Thanks for fixing the signal,” he says.

I didn't tell you that, Donnie thinks.

He feels his mouth tighten.

“Not like it's hard,” he says, because if he doesn't, he might say something worse.

Mikey tilts his head a little.

That jacket is too big for him.

He looks small.

“You make it look easy.”

He says it like it's supposed to mean a million different things.

Donnie doesn't understand any of them.

(fanart by @vulstare (tumblr))

Chapter Text

The next two weeks pass in what Leo has started to call an "uncertain calm".

Lately, the list of things he didn't feel worried about has shrunk to an exceptionally small, record-breaking size, and the fact that anything from The Farmhouse was on it could be called a success in his eyes.

Time passed in relative silence.

The summer was promising to be sunny, hot, and stifling at every turn, in a way that seemed to gracefully capture most of their attention. It's not the kind of summer he's used to.

Leo had never spent so much time outside of New York, away from the familiar noise and lights, and the stillness so far from civilization still feels like something fundamentally alien.

He spends days outdoors, drowning in the sun, busying himself with unimportant things.

It's not so much the quiet before the storm but the calm right after – when the world still seems gray, dark, waiting with bated breath.

But the days pass anyway, even if Donnie still avoids simple questions; even if Mikey's gaze seems distant and fragile; even if the shadows under Raph's eyes look as dark as ever.

His whole world – carefully carved out over the years in this small handful of people – moves forward.

And all of this, every nightmare, every stray thought, every ''what if'', could be neatly folded and tucked away under his newly discovered label of "uncertain calm".

All of it, if it weren't for Usagi.

Leo knows him like the palm of his hand. Like every line on it, every callus, every scar. Like the shape of their fingers, carefully woven together.

Usagi wears her heart on her sleeve, right where Leo can reach it.

So Leo's not used to this.

To the sudden and unmistakable feeling that he's being lied to.

Leo's not sure what could've possibly happened overnight, but he knows that one day Usagi held him like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and the next, like it would be the last time.

His laugh sounds different, the way he leans into Leo feels almost desperate, and there's a new, alien uncertainty in every gesture he makes.

He has the right to keep secrets – Leo has never claimed to be anything other than a complete hypocrite, but even that had its limits.

But there's something vague about Usagi, something tense, stretched to the limit. Something that stops him from saying anything directly, pushing him into a vicious cycle of need and avoidance; a dog chasing its tail.

Leo knows it all too well.

And watching Usagi tear himself apart like this is the last thing he ever wants to experience.

He looks up from his phone, studying the other boy once more.

The sitting room by the entrance to the house seems much quieter, at least compared to the familiar chaos of his brothers, coming to them from the living room in muffled screams and laughter.

He's deliberately pulled Usagi away from the rest of their family, and it leaves him with a very shallow, weak sense of guilt.

But he's been biting his tongue for far too long now, and it's not like him to turn back this far in.

Usagi avoids his gaze.

He seems lost in thought, shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly trying to hide the nervous tic. It's painful in a way that Leo can't quite describe.

Like a knife between the ribs.

“Okay,” Leo finally breaks. “What's going on?”

Usagi, previously very busy pretending to pointlessly leaf through the bookcase in the corner of the room, turns his head to look at him.

“With what?” He raises his eyebrows.

“With you.” Leo puts down his phone, leaning forward a little in his chair. “Are you okay?”

And with this simple question, a silent wave of emotions flows across Usagi's face.

It's like watching a very amateur, very cheap play in the theater, starring someone whose only previous contact with actors was laundry detergent commercials.

“You've been asking me that a lot.” His boyfriend's face stretches into something that could only be called a smile by some, but not Leo. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Usagi, as Leo has had the unfortunate opportunity to learn over these last few days, is a terrible actor and an even worse liar.

Leo opens his mouth, feeling the very sudden and very real need to tell him so directly, but he hesitates at the last moment. Usagi looks away, nervously rubbing his hands together. He's been doing that a lot lately; the fur on his hands looks ruffled all the time.

Leo stands up, not so much sighing as trying to get rid of the sudden, nervous tightening deep in his chest.

“I don't know, but I can see that you're not.”

Usagi's face is an open book that Leo has known by heart for a long time.

He steps closer, resting his hands on his hips.

They've both grown over the last year, but Leo managed to gain a few centimeters over his boyfriend – something he didn't hesitate to bring up in less serious moments.

He doesn't now, but Usagi straightens either way, his shoulders tilted back.

“Then stop staring at me,” he says.

Then, rather suddenly, Usagi reaches out a hand, grabbing the ends of Leo's mask, and in the same gesture – pulling on them to turn it over his eyes.

“Hey!” Leo raises his hands, feeling the muscles in his arms tense up in sudden darkness, but he stills when soft hands fall on his cheeks.

“Better?” Usagi asks, and there's something more sincere in his voice now.

Before Leo can answer, Usagi crosses his arms behind his neck, moving so close that Leo can almost feel the rapid beating of his heart.

He feels Usagi lean in, and then they're kissing; chests pressed close.

Usagi kisses him like he has something to prove, and Leo feels the muscles in his shoulders relax involuntarily. He lowers his hands, wrapping his arms around the other boy's waist; running his thumb along his spine.

It's the distraction Usagi was clearly looking for. Too bad Leo knows him better than he expected.

He knows his hands, his arms, the way they feel next to his body, and he can sense their unnatural tension, the way Usagi pulls him impossibly close, like every millimeter of distance seems impossibly wide.

There's desperation there, some deeper need, and though Leo usually can't bring himself to deny him anything he wants – he pulls away now, resting a hand on his boyfriend's shoulder to hold him in place.

“Okay,” he says, a little out of breath, reaching up with his free hand to adjust his mask. He swallows, trying to stifle the familiar vibrations building up in his throat. “Not that I'm complaining, but I see what you're trying to do.”

Usagi's face takes on a strained, surprised expression before it snaps completely in half – like a rubber band pulled too tight. He looks away, biting his lip, before leaning forward, burying his face in Leo's shoulder to avoid his gaze.

“Walk with me,” Leo suggests.

Usagi sighs quietly, running his chin along his neck, his shoulder.

“Right now?” He says with undisguised hope.

Leo presses his lips together.

In the past few minutes, the sounds coming from the other room have changed from lively discussion to clear bickering. It's familiar chaos, something that on a good day brings him as much headache as comfort.

But he feels this is something that requires the kind of privacy a house full of teenagers would never be able to give.

“Yes,” he says, a little sharper than he intended. “Where do you want to go? I can take you anywhere. New York? California? Italy?”

Usagi pulls away; he runs his hands along Leo's arms, from shoulders to elbows.

Finally, he returns Leo's gaze, forcing a smile.

“The woods?”

***

On their way to the woods, Usagi quiets again.

It's a short walk, mostly spent in uncertain, deafening silence, and Leo's not really sure what to do with himself.

Usagi looks more thoughtful than upset now, his wrist shifting, clearly fidgeting with something in his hands – awkwardly shoved into the pockets of his shorts.

He seems lost in his own mind, and the decision between pulling him out of it, and letting it run its course is a hard one.

“Hey,” Leo finally leans closer to nudge him with his shoulder. “Are you-”

“Nice day today,” Usagi interrupts him. He leans closer, finally letting go of whatever is in his pocket and grabbing Leo's palm. “Let's walk a little further, okay?”

Leo turns his head to look at The Farmhouse over his shoulder. It seems a lot smaller from where he stands.

“You're scared someone's gonna overhear from over there?”

Usagi gives him a look.

“Donatello lives here.”

Leo thinks about that for a moment.

“Fair point.”

The woods around the house are dense, quiet, and shadowy, in a way that would've put him on edge just a few years ago. But he's grown to appreciate this kind of solitude and silence – for whatever it's worth.

When the small path in the woods grows thinner, and the house falls behind all the trees and leaves, Leo finally sighs.

“Alright, then.” He stops, letting his hand slip from Usagi's grasp and fall to his side. “Spill.”

Usagi stands just a step away from him, arms crossed over his chest. He's not looking at him, eyes turned to the trees, and if Leo wasn't already sure something was very wrong – that would be his cue.

“Hey,” he lowers his voice, stepping closer. “Look at me?”

Usagi's still for a moment longer. He's rubbing the edge of his sleeve between his fingers – a nervous gesture and the reason why so many of his shirts fray at the seams.

“I think I'm going to cry.”

“That's fine,” Leo says on reflex but doesn't take it back, because it is.

Usagi rarely hides his emotions, but seeing him hurt so openly is such an unusual sight that it makes something anxious ache inside of Leo's chest.

He's the sun, and there's a small, childish part of Leo that fears it will never rise again anytime it goes down.

Usagi turns to look at him.

There's something deeply, unequivocally unhappy painted onto his face. He looks smaller than usual – shoulders raised high in something defensive.

“Gee,” Leo says, for lack of any better ideas. “What's wrong?”

Usagi's eyes are wet, but he looks closer to screaming (or punching a wall) than crying.

He doesn't answer at first, his gaze quickly dropping to Leo's mouth, his own feet, the nearest tree, and Leo's mouth again.

“Man.” He finally laughs, something sad and bitter. “I really don't want to talk about this.”

It's such an uncharacteristic sound, so detached and unlike him, like a snuffed-out candle. He sounds angry and sour, like he's been living with an open wound his whole life and finally got sick of the taste of blood.

Leo would bleed a hundred years for him.

He raises his hands to cup Usagi's face, smoothing the fur on his cheeks with his thumbs. He leans closer, kissing the red spots around his eyes.

Usagi smells vaguely of fresh sheets and soap – a scent that always seems to linger on him, no matter where he goes or what he does, and it's been long enough for Leo to think of it as home.

Usagi hums.

“It's kind of-” He hesitates. Leo feels his face shift with every word on his mouth, in his throat. “I don't even know. Can we sit down?”

Leo pulls away, one finger still wrapped in Usagi's belt loops.

“Sure. Yeah.”

There's a fallen, half-rotten log near the path, and Usagi sinks onto it as if his knees gave out under him, hands running over the fur on his ears, the back of his neck.

He looks tired.

Leo sits close, their knees bumping into each other.

Usagi turns to look at him, face shifting like a broken record.

“I'll just show it to you.”

He sounds half defeated, shoulders curled up, hands awkwardly held together.

There's a part of Leo that wants to kiss the words off his mouth; pin him in place until every harsh edge of reality melts away.

The bigger, more reasonable, and only a little selfish part of him – bites his tongue.

He shifts his leg, hooking their ankles together.

Usagi reaches into his pocket, fishing out a familiar, ancient-looking, beat-up flip phone.

He's had the same one since Leo met him, and it looked vaguely on the verge of collapsing onto itself like a black hole even back then.

There's a small charm attached to it, and Usagi wraps his finger around it on instinct. It's a thin loop of blue beads, a cheap and breakable looking thing; the paint near the knot worn down.

Leo always found it a little ugly in a ''camp sort of way'', but it didn't stop him from lopping a matching one into the corner of his own phone case.

It's stupid and cheesy, and it makes him feel a little warm even now.

Usagi's fingers glide over the keyboard for a little too long; enough to make Leo think he's stalling again, but before he can say anything about it, his boyfriend pushes the phone into his hand.

“Read this and tell me what you think.”

Leo blinks.

“... Your texts?” He makes sure.

He glances down briefly, just to make sure they're in a language he can fully understand, before looking back at his boyfriend.

Usagi doesn't answer.

He moves his hands, folding them together between his knees; his feet shifting nervously on the ground.

He looks awkward and out of place, unsure in his own skin. It's a rare look on him.

Leo hates every second of it.

He finally looks down, eyes glancing across the screen.

He reads the name at the top, and it takes him a moment to connect the familiarity of it to a face.

He's only met Usagi's brother once – a brief incident he doesn't recall with much fondness. They talk about him so rarely that he tends to fade in Leo's mind, like old, forgotten gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe.

It's not a particularly nice comparison, but Usagi's brother is not a particularly nice man, so Leo can't bring himself to care all that much.

-]Where r u

There's an odd gap in time between this and the previous message, and the dates make Leo frown.

“This was-” He pauses, calculating in his mind. He's been losing the track of time here. “This is from a week ago.”

It lines up with the rise in Usagi's weird behavior, but the timeline in his head makes him worry.

The previous messages are short and curt, straight to the point. There's worry in them somewhere, maybe, in the brief “are you okay?”'s and detached reassurance. But it's not the kind Leo's used to, nor the kind he particularly cares for.

“You haven't talked to them since the Shredder thing?”

“I went home to pick up my things.” Usagi explains, picking at the seam of his shorts. “After the- The Shredder thing. We kind of talked? Me and my brother, I mean. But he didn't ask where I was going.”

“Kind of?”

Usagi shrugs, like he already knows Leo won't like any of the possible explanations and can't be bothered.

He's emptied his other pocket now, turning the plastic yo-yo Leo gave him a lifetime ago in his hands.

Leo feels his mouth pull into a thin line. He looks down at the phone again.

[- staying with D & M

-] for how long

[- don't know

Leo makes a face at that.

Next to him, Usagi puts the yo-yo to his mouth, chewing on the corner absentmindedly.

-]auntie been asking if u r comin back

[- tell her no

-]k then. are u coming back for the rest of your stuff or can we throw it out
-]?

Leo blinks.

He stares at the last texts for a moment, his mind trying to shape them, like clay in hands, into something less alarming. He comes on the other side with sticky fingers and an empty mind.

“What?” Leo questions. Then, with a bigger urgency: “What does that mean?”

“I don't know!” Usagi spreads open his arms, like he's been holding onto this for way too long. “Is he telling me to move out?”

Leo's not sure what to tell him.

“What a dickhead,” he says, mostly for his own satisfaction.

Usagi takes his phone back, his face shifting into something quieter again. He stuffs his yo-yo and phone back into his pockets, fingers stiff.

“I don't know,” he says, voice small. Then: “I think I just got kicked out of the house.”

“No,” Leo says instinctively. Then, he hesitates. “No, I'm sure- I think he's just misunderstanding. You should call him.”

He says it because it feels like something a good, supportive boyfriend should say. They're comforting words, and he reaches out, cradling Usagi's elbows in his palms to make them stick.

That doesn't mean he particularly believes in them.

His own thoughts and feelings regarding his boyfriend's family are stained by years of bitterness and secondhand anger, and if it depended on him – it would've ended like this a long time ago.

But he doesn't know them, not really.

He knows something about how even the most painful of family ties can be sewn together with thick stitches. How pulling away feels like tearing yourself apart. He knows it needs to be done, sometimes, when the pain doesn't feel worth it anymore.

But he supposes he doesn't know much about making the right choices in those scenarios.

Or making wrong ones and sticking with them anyway.

“Right.”

Usagi turns his phone in his fingers, closing and opening it repeatedly.

He stands suddenly, hands tapping against his thighs in a very Donnie-like gesture. He circles Leo, his legs and knees stiff.

“I mean, sure,” he says like he doesn't really mean it. “But even if he did, what kind of reaction is that? Just 'okay'? That's it?!”

He sounds angry now, jumping from one emotion to another and somehow cutting himself on every step.

“I know,” Leo says.

He wants to say something more.

He wants to say a lot of things – how it'll be okay, how there's no higher road to take here, how there isn't a single universe where his family deserves someone like him.

But it's a fresh wound, and Leo's too used to tearing his own cuts open until they bleed to trust himself with it.

It's not like Usagi.

Leo knows that blood would only taste bitter.

“And what does he mean 'throw it out'? It's my stuff.” Usagi raises his hands, fingers wrapping around his forearms. “I can't believe he'd say that.”

Leo cranes his neck to follow him with his gaze.

“It's-”

“And, like, does he really think this is how I'd tell them? Is that what he thinks of me?” He huffs. “That one day I'd just be like ''bye y'all, see you never''?”

Quietly, Leo doesn't think he would, but most likely not for the reasons his boyfriend wants to hear right now.

Usagi has been spending most of his days and nights at Donnie's and Mikey's home, and it was always the first place Leo went looking for him. The inevitable decision to not come back didn't seem as much a conscious one as a gradual, slow shift.

It always seemed more like a home to him than anyplace else.

“Well, he's not the most sentimental guy,” Leo says, because it's true, and he feels like he has to say something. “Stop pacing, you'll make yourself sick.”

To his surprise – Usagi stops.

He stills for a moment, his breath heavy.

“Fuck!” Usagi curses.

Then again, louder, until he turns, kicking the side of the tree.

“Jesus.” Leo startles, claws digging into the soft wood on instinct.

“Fuck, sorry.” Usagi's shoulders fall.

He looks defeated, like this small explosion took out any fight he still had left inside.

He stands for a moment, unsure and hesitant, until Leo reaches out a hand, guiding him to sit back down. It feels a little like shepherding a scared animal, and Leo's not really used to that sort of role reversal.

They sit in silence for a moment – Usagi's hands clenched together, Leo's on both of his knees.

The fur under his fingers feels rough on the bone, then soft again on the thin skin under his knees, and Leo traces it back and forth with his thumbs.

His anger sits under his skin – cold but ready to break free, like a thunderstorm. But it's fizzled out, allowing other emotions to take hold.

It's upsetting, mostly. All of it.

It's all unfair in a way that pushes against the back of his brain; makes him frown and his jaw ache. There's some tightness deep inside of his chest, something familiar and distant, and he wants to say ''I know how you feel'', even if he doesn't, not really.

He was never let down like this. But he knows something about family and disappointments, and he's been losing his home for years now, inch by inch, argument by argument.

(Raph's been growing into someone new for months now.

Leo both yearns for and dreads the day he finally gets to meet him.)

“So,” he says, finally, “what now?”

Maybe it's the wrong kind of question, because Usagi looks away, cheek buried in his shoulder. He runs his hands to smooth over the fur on his ears.

“... I don't know.”

“Yeah.”

Leo's not sure what to say now.

He reaches out, wrapping his arms around Usagi's neck to pull him closer.

He's soft and warm, and familiar against his body, and Leo breathes softly against the side of his neck.

“I guess I should call him.” His voice sounds muffled over Leo's shoulder.

“Yeah,” Leo says through clenched teeth.

“... But I'm not sure I want to.”

Mentally, Leo does a happy dance.

Because, really, good riddance.

“Oh?”

It's not really a riddle, but there's only one right answer to this either way, and it's hard to imagine Usagi doesn't realize it.

The way his roots tangled with all of theirs; the way he fits into the small, personal space right between Leo's hearts, just like his whole strange patchwork of a family does.

He looks more at home curled up on Draxum's couch with Sopot than anywhere else, but Leo supposes he can't blame him for second-guessing in a moment like this.

Usagi pulls away, fingers still wrapped around Leo's shoulders to hold him at arm's length.

“I think-” He starts, then hesitates. “I'm really mad at them right now.”

“So I've noticed.”

That makes Usagi smile, even if just a little. He turns away, gaze fixed somewhere far away.

“I think they love me,” he says slowly. “As much as they can.”

“You think?”

There's a small frown that passes over Usagi's face; like another crack in the surface. Leo's not sure what's hiding underneath.

“Maybe it's not good that I'm wording it like that.”

He sounds wispy, a little far away, his hands resting loose on Leo's elbows.

“Maybe,” Leo echoes.

He knows what Usagi means.

He knows it all too well.

There's a little sparrow, tucked away between the branches of a nearby tree, and they both watch it preen its feathers for a moment.

Leo knows there's so much to all this – to Usagi, his family, and all the things he and Leo don't talk about. It's so rare for him to keep open secrets like this, and it always makes Leo's mind wander.

But he won't ask.

Not now.

When Usagi speaks again, his voice sounds a little more grounded.

“I think I should talk with Mr. Barry.”

Leo wants to tell him he doesn't need to. That he could walk into that house and never leave, and no one would ever think to question him about it.

But he supposes it's the sort of confirmation Usagi might need. Maybe it was the lack of reassurance that made his family home so easy to shed.

Leo grabs Usagi's hand, putting his fingers to his mouth.

A confirmation of his own.

“Can you not-” Usagi starts, then stops again. It's rare to see him so unsure of his own words. “Don't mention anything to the guys for now, okay? I gotta- I need to... My thoughts,” he finishes lamely.

They watch the sparrow fly away.

“Okay.” Leo mods, mouth moving against rough fur and knuckles. “But you've been acting like a weirdo for the last few days, and I doubt they haven't noticed.”

Usagi makes a face.

“I'll deal with them later.”

“Alright.”

“I'm serious,” he adds. He doesn't sound all that serious, but Leo's willing to listen all the same. “You don't need to white-knight me.”

“Right,” Leo says, agreeably. “I'm not your dog and all that.”

He is, just a little bit, and it's something Mikey teased him about months ago, and it makes Usagi laugh even now.

“Well.” He reaches out, cupping Leo's chin in his hand. “I didn't say that.”

He leans forward, placing a rough kiss in the middle of Leo's forehead, pushing their knees together.

Leo tilts his head, finally kissing him properly – with everything he has.

It's familiarity, it's fondness so deep he can feel it in his bones, it's a need, and it's something more.

It's a million different words, and those few, most important ones:

We're not letting you go.

Chapter Text

When Leo first wakes up – it takes him a moment to realize what's wrong.

The house is quiet, and there's an odd stillness around, something that comes with hot, humid air and the distant promise of a thunderstorm. It's a full moon, and the blue light from the window falls on his hand in faint sparkles.

Mikey's been using the bottom bunk as additional art storage for years, and Leo keeps waking up with glitter stuck to his fingers no matter what.

He hears soft breathing, a familiar presence in the room, and it's not until he slides his palm down to his chest that he sits up – fully awake.

He can feel both of his hearts, pressed close together.

One – slow and steady, sluggish with sleep.

The other – pressing between his ribs like a bullet.

He knows Donnie's heart like he knows the back of his own mind, and there's something to its rhythm now that leaves him a little breathless and dazed.

It was hard to tell sometimes, which hurt was his own, where the line separating them started – if it ever existed at all.

Most days, it didn't really matter either way.

He puts a hand to his chest, pushing the heel of his palm in a circle. He pushes himself to the edge of the bed, standing up and almost hitting his head on the top frame in the process.

He glances at the top bunk. Usagi's laid out on his mattress – obnoxiously orange sheets kicked to the side, one leg dangling off the edge of the frame, and a sleeping, green lizard carefully tucked away between his arms.

It's cute in a way that would've made him smile if there wasn't something vile and nervous, squeezing its way down his throat.

Mikey's curled up on his own bed in the other corner, limbs half-hidden in his shell.

Leo considers waking him up but then doesn't.

There are things Donnie needs when he gets like this – panicked and wrapped up in his own thoughts, and an audience isn't one of them.

He leaves the room; feet quiet on the wooden floors.

The hallway is still, silent like their bedroom, but there's faint light, falling through the thin curtain of the kitchen backdoor.

He lets the bedroom door fall shut behind him before crossing the room, legs stiff as if braced for impact.

It's a hot and stuffy night, in that way that always seems to predict a near storm but never does. The porch light is dim, shadowed by some cobwebs, and Leo makes sure to rattle the door handle, making his presence known.

“Hey,” he half-whispers.

Donnie's leaning against the railing, both elbows resting on the old wood, but then he flinches a little, both shoulders raised, turning around so quickly he almost trips over his own feet.

Leo would feel more guilty about that if there weren't any more pressing matters on his mind.

It's dark, even in the dim light, and it's not until he raises a hand, wiping at his face, that Leo realizes – Donnie's crying.

“Oh,” he says, rather inelegantly. Then: “Oh, fuck, man. The hell?”

It's an instinct.

It's pulling a hand away from a fire, it's covering ears at a loud voice, and it's squinting when looking up at the sun.

Leo steps closer, hands raised to close his fingers around Donnie's forearms. He looks him over, but he already knows this is not the kind of hurt the miles and piles of his medical textbooks will know how to fix.

“What's going on, what's wrong?”

Donnie shakes his head, seemingly more to focus than as an answer.

“I don't- It's fine.” He raises his hand, wiping his nose. It's the sort of careless and clumsy gesture he would normally wince and scoff at, and it makes Leo frown with worry.

“Dee,” Leo says.

He hesitates, only for a moment, before pulling at his arms, letting his brother melt into his hold.

Donnie wraps his arms around his shoulders, letting out a shaky breath.

“I'm- Fuck, I don't know what came over me, shit.”

He laughs a little at that last part, a small and sad thing.

It's so rare to see him like this, splintering from the inside out. Donnie's tough, in all the ways Leo always had to make up for with anger.

Tough and brave.

There's a violent need in Leo's chest; the part of him that would burn the world until his brother tells him he's not cold anymore.

“It's alright,” he says instead, one hand on Donnie's back.

“I can't stop thinking about it.”

“About what?”

But he can feel his fingers press against a wide scar, the edges rough and jagged, and he already knows the answer.

They don't say anything for a while, until their arms ache from a tight hold and Donnie's face dries in the warm air.

Finally, his brother pulls away, face turned to the stretches of trees and hills ahead. He says:

“Do you think... Would you miss me if I died?”

For a moment, Leo doesn't answer.

It's almost like he doesn't register the question itself – his mind ticking around it, trying to find anything else he could mean by it, because surely, that can't be right.

He doesn't speak until Donnie looks at him again, his face close to breaking.

“... What kind of a fucking question is that?!”

It's louder than he intended, something honestly bitter slipping into his tone.

It hurts in a strange sort of way, like getting accused of something you'd never do. Or being punched in the face.

“I don't know?!” Donnie raises his voice, his hands pressed close to his chest in a nervous gesture. “An honest one!”

“A stupid one,” Leo scoffs. “Of course I would, you fucking dickhead.”

“You don't sound like you would, asshole.”

It's a joke, probably, or a slight jab, the kind of banter that would leave Leo offended if it came from anyone else. But it makes him pause now, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

It feels wrong to even entertain a thought like that.

Leo's life is a tapestry – woven together in careful and tight strands of his family. It felt suffocating sometimes – keeping it all wrapped so tightly around his heart.

To love in the way he did – with everything he had.

Death was a distant thing that happened to everyone but his brothers, until it wasn't and it didn't, and the idea of losing even that one strand of himself felt like falling and never hitting the ground.

But he imagines it now.

Donnie turns away from him, elbows resting on the railing, looking far ahead.

He looks tired; dark circles under his eyes.

He'll go to sleep in the morning, if ever, curled up in his bedsheets like it might kill him to let his body breathe for even a second. He'll wake up groggy and ruffled, with a cup of coffee in his hand before he even leaves his bed, and he'll be annoying and impossible to deal with, like he always is on so little sleep.

Leo would miss all of it.

“... I'm nothing without you.”

It makes Donnie blink and turn to look at him, like he wasn't expecting a real answer after all.

Leo gives him a shrug.

There's a part of him that knows about life, about hurting and carrying on, and finding the light after months of darkness.

And there's a bigger, louder part of him that knows one heart is not enough to keep him alive.

“Oh, that's not true,” Donnie says.

He sounds dismissive in a forced kind of way, shoulder brushing against his cheek in embarrassment. There's a special sort of look he gets when he says something he doesn't fully agree with but doesn't want to admit otherwise out loud.

“You asked,” Leo tells him.

It's true, no matter what Donnie chooses to think of it.

He spent so much of his life orbiting around his brothers, he's not sure he'd ever be able to move again if something made him stop. He's lost without them, and he's too stubborn to learn new tricks.

A dog at a train station, waiting for the passenger that would never arrive.

He leans against the railing next to Donnie, following his gaze.

“Would you buy a bike with one wheel?” He tries again, less seriously.

Donnie's a bird sometimes, fidgety and ready to pull away at any unexpected movement.

His eyes are pure white, but Leo can feel him watching out of the corner of his eyes.

“Yes,” he says, voice flat and thin. “That's a unicycle.”

“You're so pretentious,” Leo says. “You know what I mean. What got you in this mood anyway?”

The question itself is vaguely alarming, in a way that would ring some alarms in Leo's mind if it were anyone but his brother. He knows him too well to dismiss the sheer love and desperation with which Donnie clings to life, and he's not the sort of man to give existential dread the time of day.

Donnie rubs his hands together, fingers tense.

“I don't know. I had a weird dream.”

“So you do know.”

Donnie blinks, pulling back the white eyelids, just so he can send him a more effective glare.

Leo smiles back.

Getting Donnie to open up was a delicate recipe that called for an even mix of honesty and teasing. For Leo, it always felt like muscle memory.

Donnie tenses, one claw pressing into the corner of his nail. He chews on the inside of his cheek, mind running faster than Leo would ever be able to catch up to.

“Mikey's been fighting with Dad,” he says, finally.

Leo's not entirely convinced this is what he wanted to say initially, but it's a start either way.

There's an odd tone to his voice and an even stranger expression on his face when Leo answers:

“Yeah. He told me.”

Even if he didn't, it was hard not to notice.

Mikey's anger was a loud thing, and it lingered on everything, like the smell of smoke to cigarettes.

“Oh, sure.” Donnie hums, looking away. “Did he tell you why?”

Leo opens his mouth, then closes it, rethinking.

“... In a way,” he compromises. “I'm sure he exaggerated some.”

Mikey had the annoying habit of being painfully observant, as well as a love for theatrics. It was always hard to tell with him.

“He stopped seeing his Doctor,” Donnie says, which is the part Leo fortunately didn't doubt.

“That's good tho, isn't it?” Leo leans a bit closer, shifting Donnie's side so their arms push together. “You know he hated that.”

“I know.” He says it in an awkward way, like he wants to bite his tongue halfway through. “But, like, isn't it-”

He pauses, mouth drawn into a thin line. He looks a lot like Raph when he frowns like this.

Leo sighs, raising his arm to rest his chin on his hand.

“It's fine, I'm not gonna tell him what you say.”

It's mostly a joke, and he almost jumps when Donnie's face twists, and he suddenly slams his hand on the railing.

“But he's being so weird, isn't he?!”

Leo blinks, taking a moment to make room for the sudden anger in Donnie's voice.

Donnie had a short temper like all of them, but it was rare to see it spark so earnestly, and it catches Leo a little off guard.

Mikey's well-being was something they all thought but never spoke about, and Leo supposes it's the kind of frustration that builds up easily and lingers like a bad smell.

“Oh, yeah,” he agrees, honestly. “He's going bat-shit.”

He never felt too confident to speak about Mikey's PTSD, or depression, or anxiety, or whatever other name he chooses to call it. He's not a therapist, and it's always hard to tell which parts of Mikey are the result of everything that went down in their lives and which are just him.

But there's something about his brother now, something that makes him distant, and cold, and off-putting, in a talking-to-a-wall kind of sense. He's anxious and jumpy, always on the edge, and it's been hard to imagine what's on his mind.

“Right?” Donnie grabs the railing, leaning back, like he wanted to throw himself on the floor but decides against it at the last minute. “I don't know if this is the best time for him to stop going.”

“Oh,” Leo says, rather unhelpfully.

Then he winces, and he can see the regret in Donnie's eyes before he manages to hide it.

“I know that's awful to say.” Donnie looks away, eyes narrowed.

“No,” Leo says quickly. Then: “Okay, maybe a little. Don't tell him that.”

“I'm not suicidal,” Donnie huffs.

His face looks tense, his body stiff with worry.

As annoying as this particular habit of his is – Leo supposes he can't really blame him for thinking this way. It's hard to look at Mikey and not think he's the last person who knows what's best for him.

He wonders if Mikey misunderstood him all those months ago.

He knows the relief that comes with letting anger out, but more and more often his younger brother seems to hold onto it afterwards, like he can't help but gather fuel for the next time.

Leo knows he'll never have enough.

It seems like something they should talk about. Something a sensible older brother would do.

It's a shame Leo's anything but sensible, and Mikey would bite through any leash he'd try to put on him.

“Honestly,” he says finally, voice careful. “I think all that shit would do him more harm anyway. Forcing him into anything certainly will.”

“So we just do nothing?” Donnie looks at him, eyes dark in the dim porch light. “Is that your great idea?”

Leo straightens, frowns.

“Are we fighting now?”

“No!” Donnie leans over, the railing digging into his stomach, face covered in his hands. “I just wish we'd do anything other than sit around for once.”

Leo feels his expression soften.

Helplessness doesn't look good on Donnie, and it aches in his chest to see him like this.

It's hard to watch any of his brothers hurt, to know there's a kind of wound he'll never be able to stitch up.

But there's a sort of wild desperation with which Donnie clings to the idea of 'fixing' Mikey, and Leo fears it might only tear them further apart.

He's not sure there's much fixing that can be done anyway.

He never knew his brother before all this, not really, and it's the only version of Mikey he ever needed to learn how to love.

Maybe it's different for Donnie.

“We're not doing nothing,” he says. “He just needs us here. That's all.”

And for the most part – he believes his own words.

Donnie frowns; runs his hands over his face.

“I know,” he says, like he doesn't.

“I just think-” Leo pauses for a moment. “He feels like y'all think there's something wrong with him.”

Donnie reaches out, grabbing Leo's arm to shake him a little.

“There is something wrong with him!”

“I know!” Leo shouts back, reaching to cover Donnie's palm with his. “But you know what I meant!”

Donnie stills, breath quick and shallow. He squeezes his eyes shut, fingers trembling around Leo's arm.

“Maybe you're right.” He says, voice heavy. He pulls back, gaze down to the ground. Then: “He'll do what you say anyway.”

That makes Leo pause.

He frowns, brain ticking, trying to decipher the strange bitterness in his brother's voice. It's so unlike him it takes him a moment to fully place it, like the whole room shifted just a little to the right.

Finally, he asks:

“Are you jealous?”

It's an absurd question, and Leo knows it. Donnie must feel the same way, because he laughs, short and a little fake.

There's a strange sort of shadow that passes over Donnie every time he tries to lie, and it always makes him look equally stupid and pitiful.

“What?”

“That he listens to me and not you.”

Donnie's smile falls.

“Why would I be?” He says, but his voice sounds strange, like he wants Leo to give him answers just so he knows what to deny.

“I don't know.” Leo shrugs, resting his hands on his hips. “You tell me.”

They're silent for a moment.

There's something rotten and anxious building up right at the bottom of Leo's stomach, and he can feel it ache when Donnie finally speaks up:

“I just don't know- I don't know why he won't talk to me anymore.” He crosses his arms over his chest; shoulders hunched. He looks small in a way he never really does, and it makes Leo want to grab onto his hand and never let go. “He used to tell me everything.”

Leo's sure there's some truth in that.

Mikey's full of shit on the best of days, but sometimes, Leo fears the truth his brother wants to say is not always the one any of them want to hear.

“You sound like your dad,” he jokes. It doesn't really land. “He's just... He doesn't want to disappoint you.”

“Disappoint me?” Donnie sounds like he doesn't believe him.

“Or hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” He sounds like he believes that even less. “And he doesn't care about that when it comes to you?”

Leo doesn't know.

He doesn't really know if that's what Mikey thinks at all, actually.

He knows Mikey like he knows his own mind – in theory and a series of surprisingly accurate observations.

But it's what he used to think. Every time he let his tongue slip a little too far, every time there was that look on Donnie's face, like he didn't recognize him at all.

He feared the person he was, and the person Donnie believed him to be, were too different to ever meet in the middle. Sometimes, he still fears it hasn't happened yet.

Sometimes, he fears it never will.

“Have you seen me? Really, it's because you're a sweetheart,” he jokes.

Donnie blinks, then looks away, his snout scrunched up like it caused him real mental pain to hear that.

“Shut up.”

“No, really, you know our standards.” Leo leans forward, nudging Donnie's ankle with his foot. “You're just too nice.”

“I'm gonna bite your fingers off.”

There's something a bit lighter in his tone now, and it makes the pressure in Leo's chest lift, just a little.

“But seriously,” he adds. “He knows I'm... I get him, I guess.”

There's a pause after he says it, and it makes him want to immediately take the words back.

Donnie frowns, fingers pressed into his arms, gaze filled with something bitter.

“... And I don't.”

There's resignation in his tone, and it makes that irrational, wild part of Leo rise in anger.

“Don't be like that,” he says, harsher than he intended. “It's nothing to be proud of.”

It's true and it's honest, and it makes him want to hide away in his shell forever.

Donnie turns to him, and there's that look on his face – something uncharacteristically keen and perceptive. It makes him look a whole lot like Mikey.

“You're so-” He starts but then doesn't finish.

Leo wishes he would.

“You wanna head back?” He finally asks after a moment of silence.

Donnie nods, his expression a little hazy, lost in thought.

Sometimes, Leo thinks, reaching for Donnie's hand to lead him inside, he really doesn't understand his brothers at all.

Sometimes, he knows them all too well.

Chapter Text

Raph doesn't think about his father at all, actually.

For the most part. Usually. Most days.

He's a distant thought at the back of his brain, easily overshadowed and forgotten. He's had years of experience (seventeen, to be exact) in pretending not to notice his own feelings, and it's a habit he hopes won't go away easily.

He likes to think of it as a healed broken bone – changed and a little misshapen, but basically good as new.

And it only hurts a little when it rains.

There's closure he might never get, and there are things he might just regret for the rest of his life, and there are words he'll have to keep just to himself, forever.

And there are moments, of course, where he wants to tear open every fresh scar, every scab, until he bleeds. Until he screams out every bitter, cruel thought he ever had, until he makes his dad understand something he's never been able to fully grasp himself.

But those days are rare now, and at that point, it might as well not matter.

He knows it's different with Leo.

There's a sort of desperation with which his brother seems to cling to their home and their father, and it's something Raph decided to pull away from a good while ago.

And they've talked about it, sort of, kind of, so really, he doesn't care when Leo comes up to him that morning, hip leaning against the kitchen counter, and says:

“I'm going to see Splinter.”

It's technically Mikey's turn to do the dishes, but he's been cagey and shifty all morning, waking up at five to make breakfast and disappearing soon after. Raph's not really sure what he's doing, but the day he starts to question anything his little brother does will be the last day he'll ever feel peace.

So here he is, elbows deep in soapy water, his train of thought coming to an abrupt stop.

He turns to look at Leo with what he hopes is neutral expression.

“Oh, okay,” he says.

His brother watches him for a moment, something expectant in his eyes, and really, that's the worst part of it all.

Raph doesn't know what Leo wants him to say, what he wants to hear. He can't imagine he's waiting for his permission, and if he's looking for a fight – he's not getting one.

“Okay?” Leo says, finally.

Raph turns, looking down into the water in the sink.

His reflection stares back.

“Are you going to help me out with the dishes or not?”
At that, Leo runs out of the room.

***

Leo's gone for a good chunk of the morning and noon, and they don't talk about it when he comes back. It's all fine with Raph.

He pushes his mind elsewhere – a task made easy enough by April's visit.

There are a few fresh scars on her arms, knees, but she looks bright, sunny, and unapologetically loud as always, and Raph has missed her so much it makes him ache all over.

She talks about awful zoom classes, college applications, the ruined prom and graduation she won't get back until fall or winter, and Raph takes it all in with relief.

Her presence lures Mikey back into the house. They set up dinner, play loud music, scare Draxum into locking himself in his bedroom for the rest of the day, and Raph tries his best to ignore the cold distance Leo builds around himself.

It's useless anyway.

Because there's only so much sulking he can stand, and watching Leo's worry eat him from the inside out is not a pleasant sight, no matter how he puts it.

He keeps an eye on him all afternoon, looking for a chance to shove his foot into the closed door that Leo always believes his feelings to be, until the opportunity finally comes.

They're sitting around the dining table, all busy with a strange mixture of conversation, ripping napkins to shreds (Usagi) and improv-origami (Mikey).

Raph watches Leo sit – oddly straight and stiff, his face pulled into a rough expression. Finally, he leans over to Usagi, whispering something in a hushed voice.

Usagi frowns, winces, then turns to hold onto Leo's wrist, mouthing something back. His face is always so easy to read even Raph can decipher it, and there's a certain look on it now that doesn't calm his worry at all.

Leo shrugs, then waves a hand, then shrugs again, in a way that would look mostly casual on anyone else. For him – it's a particularly poor performance.

He shifts past Donnie, Mikey, April, all with a smile and reassurance on his lips, before disappearing into the hallway.

For a moment, Raph almost considers leaving him to it after all.

The days where a frustrated Leo seemed a danger to others (but mostly himself) are long past them, as strange as it still feels, and whatever it is that might be currently rattling his brother's brain – he seems set on dealing with it alone.

Which is exactly why, after a considerate minute, Raph gets up, following in his steps.

The front door is left ajar, hot air spilling inside. It's a warm day, the kind where Raph can't exactly blame Leo for taking a moment to bask in it, even if he looks especially miserable while doing so.

He sits on the front stairs, looking distracted, half lost in his own thoughts, absentmindedly picking at the grass. But he turns at the sound of the door, face switching into that practiced, forced smile Raph has grown to hate more than anything.

“Hey, Big Man,” he says, one arm shifting in a strange way, like he wanted to raise it in greeting and then gave up halfway through. “What's up?”

“Are you okay?”

Leo's smile falls.

Raph doesn't feel like playing whatever games his brother always seems to set up in his own mind, and there must be a part of Leo that feels a bit disappointed by that.

“Nothing,” he says, but mostly in a 'I don't want to talk about it' sense.

Raph sighs.

“Don't lie.”

“I don't-”

“Raph's too tired for this,” he huffs, stepping closer.

He flops down next to Leo, the old wood creaking under his weight, accidentally squashing Leo's tail in the process. It makes his brother hiss and glare, but it smooths that worried edge on his face that Raph hates to see on him.

“I'm fine, really. I'm just-” Leo pauses for a moment. “In a weird mood.”

All his brothers seem to be in 'weird moods' lately. Raph's not sure how much more of these they'll be able to get through before one of them finally snaps.

(Mikey, probably.)

“Right.” Raph leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. “But you haven't really spoken to anyone all day. April's here, and you've barely said 'hi' to her.”

“Don't lecture me.” Leo huffs. “If you wanna speak antisocial – you've got the wrong brother.”

“Leo.”

That shuts him up.

It's not often that Raph allows himself this one shortcut, letting his frustrated words slip into a growl. But he already has a gnawing suspicion as to what this could be about, and he's long past the point of walking into whatever mazes Leo tends to build around himself.

“You're so stubborn sometimes,” his brother says, voice clipped. “Do you know that?”

“It runs in the family.”

Leo doesn't laugh, but there's something more honest in his eyes now.

“I just- I feel bad,” he manages, finally.

His hands look stiff and tight; blades of grass wrapped around his fingers snapping in his grasp.

“About what?” There are a million things Raph can imagine Leo feeling 'bad' about, but only so many he'd ever say to his face.

His brother's face is an intricate work of a million small movements and expressions, and Raph watches every single one pass over in a span of a second.

“About-” He pauses for a moment, taking a shallow breath.

He's squinting, like he always does when he's trying very hard not to cry, and it makes that old, instinct-driven part of Raph ache.

Raph doesn't sigh so much as lets out a long, drawn-out breath, letting his shoulders fall. Then – he gives in.

“Is this about Dad?” Leo's face gives him an answer before he even says anything. “Right.”

He didn't mean for it to come out like that, but it must've, because there's a sharp line on Leo's face now, like he wants to say something too, but can't quite bring himself to.

“Sorry,” Raph apologizes. “I didn't mean-”

“Whatever.” Leo leans forward, elbows digging into his knees. “You're allowed to be angry about this whole thing.”

“Raph's not angry.”

“Right.”
“Shit- Leo.” Raph reaches out, placing a hand on Leo's arm, trying to get him to look him in the face. It doesn't really work. “You're doing that thing again. I'm not going to fight with you on this anymore.”

It's been a while since he's had a hard time talking to his brother like this, but old habits die hard, he supposes.

“I don't want to fight,” Leo says, and Raph almost believes him. “This is just so- I don't know. You don't think this is weird? You and Splinter won't even look at each other, and I'm coming over to play house with him like a fucking-”

He doesn't finish.

He leans forward, forehead pressed to knees, hands clasped together close to his chest.

It's such an open and vulnerable sight that it takes Raph completely aback, his brain processing the actual words only after a moment.

“What?” He says, voice a little weak. “Wha- Leon.”

He reaches out, rubbing a hand over Leo's shell. He feels something in his chest shift, aching with second-hand hurt, and all the things he could say to make it better that will never be true.

Because the most honest, most truthful answer – is that he doesn't know.

He doesn't know if this is weird.

Maybe. Probably.

He doesn't know how he should feel about any of it.

Because it really doesn't matter, and he's not angry anymore, not really, except on the days where it does and he is, but none of it is Leo's fault.

He's not bitter or resentful, or, God forbid, jealous. Leo and Splinter are something he understands almost too well for his own good, and something he wants no part in, not anymore.

He's not sure how to say all of it out loud.

He's not sure Leo will believe him even if he does.

“So,” he says, slowly. “You didn't have a good time?”

Leo turns his head to glare at him. His eyes look glossy.

“Don't talk to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I'm five.”

“Oh,” Raph says. “Sorry.”

It's hard not to, sometimes, but that's the part he'd never tell Leo.

He's been growing so much lately. Raph found it hard to keep up with him before, let alone now.

“We just-” Leo straightens, elbows still rested on his thighs, like they're the only things holding him up. “I don't know. We talked about some bullshit; it was all awkward.”

He rubs his hands together, thumb pushing into his palm.

“How...” Raph starts, then stops himself, thinking it over for just a moment too long. It's like repeating a word, over and over again, until it no longer sounds real, until he no longer knows what he really wants to ask. “How is he doing?”

Leo makes a face, then quickly tries to hide it, and Raph's not sure how much he believes him when he says:

“Alright, all things considered.” Leo's voice is quieter now; softspoken. “He was worried about us with the- You know. Everything. He was asking about you.”

He leans over when he says that part, picking at more grass, almost absentminded, like he wanted Raph to ignore it.

“Oh,” Raph says despite it. “What did you say?”

“That he should ask you himself.” Leo shrugs but doesn't look at him.

Raph feels his face harden.

“Don't tell him that.”

“Oh. Why?”
“Because I don't want him to.”

At that, Leo finally turns to look at him.

There's an expression on his face Raph can't really read, but his eyes are bright in the sun, and there's something lost, and worried, and confused – buried deep inside them.

“That's-” Leo starts, then stops. There's a worried line forming between his eyes, lips drawn into a thin line. Finally, like it takes everything in him to do so, he says: “Sometimes, it's really hard to believe you won't hate me for this.”

There are two things that come to Raph's mind.

One – the very sudden, and very real urge to grab onto Leo, and never let him go again.

And two – the thought that honestly, truly, he doesn't know what to say to that.

It's absurd and foreign – the idea that he might ever hate Leo. Hate any of his brothers.

He lives and dies for them, as easily as he breathes. He's not sure there's any number of hurt feelings, or bitter thoughts, or deadbeat dads that would ever change it.

“I know that's stupid,” Leo adds, mistaking his silence for something else.

It's such an honest confession, something that would've taken weeks to pull out of Leo by force just a few years ago, and Raph wouldn't dare to push it away, no matter how unreasonable.

He spreads his arms open, lips stretched into a thin smile, and it doesn't take anything more than that to make Leo fall right into his chest, face hidden in Raph's shoulder and hands wrapped behind his neck.

With a sigh, Raph says:

“I love you more than I could ever hate you.”

Against his shoulder, Leo sniffles.

“Okay,” he says, voice weak. “Love you, too.”

He doesn't pull back, and neither does Raph.

There are things left unsaid, and things they should probably still talk about, and he knows it'll only get harder like this.

But Leo's clinging to him with the same wild desperation Raph's been seeing in him for the last few months, and there's a part of him that thinks maybe that's not worth nothing.

And he knows he'll hold Leo like this forever. Or until someone comes looking for them, with loud music blowing up their speakers and laughter painted all over their face.

As far as Raph is concerned – both options seem pretty alright.

Chapter Text

Leo can't sleep.

Which, really, after so many years of borderline insomnia and anxiety – shouldn’t come as any surprise.

He's pretty sure it's the latter tonight, judging by the way his stomach keeps wrapping itself into tighter and tighter knots, and he keeps catching himself with his hand next to his face, scratching his cheek raw.

It's a bad habit he always thinks he's grown out of until it comes back again, and he knows Raph will notice it the next morning and then give him that look that Leo hates more than anything else.

So, he chews on his nails instead.

The night feels hot and long, and he's been staring at the bottom of the top bunk for so long now, he can still see the outline of it when he closes his eyes.

He tries not to, because when there's nothing to look at but the dark, his mind wanders again, and then he's thinking about his father, and Raph, and Draxum, and the last two years, and he aches all over.

There's something twisting and moving inside of his chest, pushing under his ribs, his heart, and he doesn't know what it wants now.

He wants the night to end. He wants the whole world to end. He wants to crawl into a hole and never leave again.

Leo turns to his side, his knees pulled up close to his chest, a pillow wrapped around his head. He wants to scream, just a little bit, and there's a part of him that considers getting up and leaving to do just that, because it feels a lot more productive than whatever this is.

He doesn't think he's being particularly loud, at least not judging by Mikey's quiet snoring from the other side of the room, but there's suddenly a rustle from the bed above him, and a quiet sigh.

“You're awake?”

Usagi's voice is quiet, a little mumbly, and Leo suspects he must've woken him up somehow. He's still not sure how much he believes his boyfriend's claim of being able to sense 'bad vibes' (seeing as he's usually pretty bad at it, actually), but maybe there's something to it.

“Yeah,” Leo whispers back.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Leo lies quickly, before realizing he doesn't have to. “I'm just thinking.”

Usagi's quiet for a moment, maybe making sure they haven't woken Mikey up yet. Leo wouldn’t be too worried about that. His brother sleeps like he was hit by a truck even on a good day, and he hasn't been having many of those recently.

“Is it about you dad?”

It's blunt and straight to the point, and Leo never expected anything else from him.

“Yeah.”

Leo opens his mouth to say something more and then stops, watching Mikey suddenly shift in his bed.

Mikey rolls over, hand stretching out, then lowering back to rub over his face. He sits on his mattress, a little stiff and rigged, strangely awake. Leo can't really see his face in the dark, but there's something hurried in his steps when he stands, passing by the window and walking out.

He's not trying to be quiet or discreet, and Leo wonders if it's to give him and Usagi a little more privacy, which would be a gesture just overly kind and self-sacrificial enough to fit Mikey.

Or maybe he just needs the bathroom. Or to run around in the woods, or follow the voices in his head, or whatever other weird thing he's about to latch onto next.

Leo's not really worried about him either way. Mikey has a way of making himself the most dangerous thing in whatever room he decides to walk into.

“So?” Usagi asks.

There's a weird little note in his voice, like he wanted to say something about Mikey but then decided not to.

Leo can't really blame him for that.

He feels his eyes go hazy, in that staring-but-not-looking way, fixed somewhere between the window and Sopot – still curled up at the foot of Mikey's bed, completely unbothered.

“I don't know what to do with him.” It's an honest thought; something that never comes to him easily. “With dad, I mean. I thought I knew, and now I don't.”

“Hum,” Usagi says.

Leo knows him long enough to take it for what it is – genuine thoughtfulness. There are many strange little things that his boyfriend says or does, and Leo prides himself on knowing how to read all of them.

He hears the spring in the mattress above him shift with movement, and he reaches his hand out even before he sees Usagi's – their fingers intertwining in the air.

“I keep going back and forth,” Leo says.

The hold on his hand tightens.

Usagi must be lying on the very edge of his bed to reach so far down, and there's a part of Leo that wants to tell him to scoot back, just for his own peace of mind. But that would probably be deflecting, or denial, or whatever fancy d-word Mikey felt like using at any given time.

And he hates to say it, but there might be something to it. He knows he needs to say this now or never, and as enticing as the latter sounds – he's been burying that part of himself alive for weeks now.

And he's not about to give in now.

“I'm - I'm tired of my whole life being about him.”

There's silence after that.

Leo tightens his free hand into a fist; the sweat leaving a sting on the raw skin around his nails.

It's true, and he's not going to take it back, no matter how awful it makes him feel.

He's been his father's son his whole life, and a bad one at that. He wrapped up his whole life in it – in how much he hates him, in how much he wants his approval, in everything he did to make him happy, in everything he did to make him angry; like he'd die if he ever became anything other than his shadow.

But he's growing now, those old walls pushing into his skin like a cage, and it's been so long since he was just himself, he's not sure he even remembers how to.

It's easier like this.

When the world is dark and hot, and soft, and there's a warm hand in his. He shifts his palm, pressing his fingers into Usagi's wrist, feeling his heartbeat.

Usagi sighs at that, with a strange sort of finality, like he finally made up his mind.

“I know how that feels.”

Leo looks at Usagi's hand, tracing the familiar lines with his eyes, fingers.

He's wearing a stupid friendship bracelet on his wrist – Mikey's gift for his birthday. It's a little wonky, in an awful shade of blue. Mikey ran out of beads with capital letters halfway through and seemingly decided to just leave them out, making the (supposed) message of ''BEST-FRIEND'' (or: 'BET-FRIED') a little unclear.

He doesn't recall Usagi ever mentioning his other family gifting him anything.

“God. You really do, huh?” He says something strangely tender and wispy in his voice. “Come here.”

He doesn't need to repeat that twice.

One moment, Usagi's pulling his hand free out of Leo's hold. The next, he's climbing down the ladder, feet quiet on old wood.

He's dressed in oversized shorts, and an obnoxiously orange 'I <3 NY' t-shirt, and it makes Leo's heart squeeze with something warm.

He moves to climb onto the bed, a little more awake than Leo initially assumed. He's never complained about sleep problems before, but he spent a big portion of the afternoon 'helping Draxum with yard work', except when he came back, the overgrown grass looked exactly the same, but Usagi's eyes seemed a little wet.

Leo supposes it was the kind of conversation that makes sleep hard to come by.

He wondered whether or not to bring it up all day, but there was a determined kind of look on Usagi's face too, and that made him feel a little calmer about the whole thing.

“Hey,” he says, scooting further to the wall.

“Hey, you.” Usagi lays on his side, their faces pillowed next to each other. And there must be something in Leo's expression, because he asks: “Are you going to cry?”

“No,” Leo says. Then: “I don't want to, but I feel like it's either that, or I'm gonna run into the woods and hunt down a deer.”

“Oh boy.”

“Yeah.”

Usagi shifts a little closer, their knees bumping, ankles intertwined.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Are you going to keep seeing your dad?”

Yes, Leo wants to say. No.

“I don't know.” He watches Usagi run his fingers over his forearm, leaving a trace of goosebumps. He does it often; something to keep is always noisy hands busy, and something Leo definitely isn't going to complain about. “Probably. But maybe I shouldn't. I don't want things to change, but I hated how they were before.”

And God, he really did.

He hated home, and he hated the way his family was, and he hated himself most of the time. But it was all familiar, and it was all his, even with how much he sometimes wished it wasn't.

He never wanted to end up as the last string connecting all of his family, and he feels guilty for hating it, guilty for still doing it, and guilty for putting Raph in this exact same spot for years.

“Why do you want to come back?” Usagi questions.

He sounds genuine and open, but it still makes something in Leo's chest snap with anger, like it always does when he really doesn't want to think about something.

He closes his eyes, mouth tight.

Because there's something he never got, and he's desperate enough that even the slight chance for it makes him dig until his fingers bleed.

Because there's empty space all over his chest, and attention has never quite been able to fill them up before, but maybe this time.

Because that's his dad, and he misses him.

“I think-” Leo stops for a moment, thoughts heavy. “I think it's because I'm selfish.”

Usagi doesn't answer right away. Leo thinks that's quite fair of him, because he's not even sure what to say now himself.

“You know,” he speaks, finally. “For a selfish guy, you always seem to care about others so damn much.”

Then he smiles, and it's like everything else in Leo's life seems to matter just a little less.

It's hard to see his face in the darkness, but Leo doesn't need to. He's got his features all memorized.

“I wanna say something,” he whispers. “But I'm scared this is bad timing.”

Usagi reaches out a hand, tracing the line of Leo's throat with his knuckles. It's both deeply intimate and entirely mindless, and it makes every inch of Leo's skin rise in goosebumps.

There's a purr rising inside his throat, and he has to swallow to keep it down.

Usagi hums quietly.

“Is it 'I love you'?”

He says, like it's the easiest, most obvious thing in the world, and it makes Leo want to grab him by the shoulders and hold him until the world ends.

“Yes,” he says, so quiet and breathless that for a moment he's not sure the other boy even heard him.

Then Usagi exhales, something between a hitched breath and a wistful sigh.

“I have for a while, I think,” Leo says. Usagi traces his fingers down, lingering around his collarbone, the edge of his shell, and Leo's voice stutters only once. “It's nice.”

And he really has, and it really is.

Leo holds all the good parts of his life close, always loyal to a fault, and he didn't even notice when Usagi found his way right next to his heart. It's beating now, so hard and fast it almost feels like both of them, at the same time.

“Nice?” His boyfriend laughs a little, something quiet and delightfully upbeat.

With that, Leo realizes two things.

One – Usagi hasn't said it back yet.

Two – he doesn't really mind, actually.

It's something that would have left him an anxious mess of paranoia and frustration months ago, but he doesn't have any doubts now.

He always thought his family made him sharper – keen and always ready to throw away his life for any of them. But loving Usagi has made him softer, in a way he didn't really know he could be, like an old dog with not a lot of bark and even less bite.

Usagi never wanted to fix him, but there was someone he saw in Leo, someone hidden away behind layers of buildup walls and sharp teeth. Leo wanted to prove him wrong, and then he wanted to prove him right, and he's still not sure if Usagi ever got what he initially expected.

Probably not.

Leo's all laid out now – neck and gut bared, and he never really thought how tiring keeping it all tucked away was, until he finally stopped. And there must be something new Usagi saw in that, something he wanted so badly, because here he is – right between Leo's hands.

Leo never wants him to leave.

“Yes,” he says.

And maybe it's a bit too honest, or too serious, because Usagi's smile dips just a little, and he moves, mouth on Leo's cheek.

“I'm in love with you too, by the way,” he whispers, so close Leo can feel every word on his skin. “In case that wasn't clear.”

It was.

But hearing it still makes something warm hum inside of Leo's chest, pushing its way all the way to his throat. Usagi laughs, more of a quiet exhale than anything else, pushing his hand into Leo's chest to feel it vibrate against his fingers.

Leo wants to kiss him.

He wants to hold his face between his hands, he wants to feel his hot breath on his lips, and he wants to ask him to marry him, because he doesn't even care if he sounds crazy anymore.

“What...”

Leo doesn't get to finish.

He stops, going quiet at the sound of footsteps from down the hall. He feels Usagi's muscles stiffen, and then he's rolling out of Leo's hold to flip onto his stomach, looking over the headboard.

It's a small moment, but a painful reminder of the edge they all seem to be balancing on lately, and Leo reaches to put his hand on Usagi's back, mostly just to keep him close.

He misses the softness already.

The door creaks open, and Leo frowns.

He was expecting Mikey, with a glass of water and a stern warning for them to shut up already, but it's Donnie, with tense shoulders and a worried expression.

It makes the back of Leo's neck sting with expectation.

“Dee?” Usagi says, his voice a little rasped. “What's up?”

Donnie doesn't answer at first, in a way that makes it very quickly clear he's not avoiding it but doesn't really know how to put it into words. He glances back into the hallway, mouth tight.

It gives Leo enough time to reach out, turning on the small lamp on the nightstand next to the bed.

“We found Mikey,” Donnie says finally, which quickly makes everything else make a whole lot of sense.

“He lives here,” Usagi points out.

He's not trying to be funny, but Leo laughs anyway, mostly just to fill the suddenly tense air with something a little lighter.

“Yeah, bitch, I live here.”

Mikey doesn't step closer to the doorway for whatever reason, but Leo can hear him perfectly well from the hallway.

“Shut the hell up,” Donnie hisses. “Dad's sleeping.”

He says 'dad', and that makes Leo frown all over again.

“Just come in,” he says, and it sounds a little too hurried and honest for his own liking.

He regrets turning on the light now, because whatever it is that's showing on his face – Donnie must see it. He turns to look into the hallway, hurrying Mikey back into the room with a gesture, and then with a few chosen swear words.

“What is this about?” Usagi asks when Donnie steps aside to clear the way. Then: “Oh, hi Raph.”

“Is this emergency family meeting?” Leo asks, only half joking.

He feels a little better with Raph in the room, even if he won't admit it out loud, which stands in contrast to his brother, who looks like he'd really rather be anywhere else at the moment.

Donnie closes the door after them, leaning on the wood like it's the only thing keeping him upright.

“This is nothing,” Mikey says, a little too quickly.

He's latched onto Raph's arm; fingers digging into the skin in a way that looks a little painful but probably isn't.

“Mikey's had a weird dream,” Raph says.

Leo knows he doesn't mean for it to happen, but there's that note in his voice that always seems to sneak in the moment he forgets they're not five anymore, and it doesn't surprise him to see Mikey wince at that.

“Don't say it like that.” Mikey huffs, but he doesn't let go of his arm, moving to hold Raph's hand in both of his.

He looks strangely off now that Leo is looking at him. More so than usual, anyway. There's a nervous sort of energy to him, and he glances at the window in a way that probably looks innocuous enough to anyone but Leo.

“I woke up,” Donnie says, raising one hand to point at their youngest brother, like there's any chance of this being about anyone else, “and he was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the floor. Almost had a heart attack.”

It sounds like something Mikey would do, especially now. Leo doesn't really know if the idea of this feeling like their new normal says more about Mikey or him, but it's a thought he tries to not pay much attention to.

Mikey turns to Donnie; his voice raised into a shouting whisper.

“I told you I was doing something.”

“What?” Donnie stands a little straighter, spreading his arms. “Doing what, Mikey?”

He sounds bitter, angry, and so unlike himself it makes Leo sit up on the bed, his face pulling into a frown.

“Chill out, dude,” he says. He can't see Mikey's face now, but his shoulders are raised, tense, his hold on Raph's hand loose, like he's ready to run at any moment. “Whatever, I get weird dreams, too. I think we all do.”

He can still feel Donnie's gaze, and he clumsily shifts past Usagi on the bed, going to stand.

He looks back, hoping he'll get his point. There aren't many people who understand him better than his brother, but he sometimes fears Donnie pretends not to for his own sake.

There's only so much staring into the sun before your eyes will burn, and it's a lesson his brother can't seem to fully grasp.

“Yeah,” Raph says, which does make Leo feel a little better again. “Raph wants to go back to sleep now.”

“Yes,” Mikey says, voice tight. “Me too.”

He turns back to his bed, eyes glued to the floor. Whatever was showing on his face just now – Leo's missed it.

Leo walks up to Donnie, putting one hand on his arm and squeezing gently.

“Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him.” He lowers his voice, hoping Mikey won't hear him, even though he probably will. “And we'll talk about it later, okay?”

Donnie doesn't say anything.

Leo wonders if that's because he can already sense that conversation will have very little to do with Mikey and a lot more to do with him.

Leo puts his other hand on his shoulder, firm and reassuring. Then he shakes him a little, just to turn the frown on his face into something a little more annoyed, pulling away just in time to avoid Donnie snapping his teeth next to his fingers.

“Whatever,” his brother mumbles.

“Actually,” Leo adds, suddenly. “Bring a mattress while you're in here, we're doing a sleepover.”

It's an impulse decision, led by nothing but the always present urge to have his family right within his arms reach, but if anything – it's something all of them have in common.

Donnie's face softens, and then he looks away, eyes tired.

He doesn't say anything, but Mikey seems enthusiastic enough for all of them, quickly dragging Raph out of the room, just to run in a moment later, almost knocking over half of the furniture in the house with the mattress tucked away under his arm.

They must've woken up Draxum by this point, and it's clear at least Mikey and Usagi are both aware and unbothered by that fact. Usagi has Mikey laughing and out of his shell within minutes, and it makes Leo's heart soften, just a little, so he supposes it really doesn't matter either way.

Leo ends up on the floor, a pillow tucked away under his chin, watching his little brother and boyfriend almost climb over Raph's shell to look at something on his phone.

Donnie sits next to Leo, nails digging into his pillow absentmindedly.

He looks like he wants to say something but doesn't, and Leo takes a moment to squeeze his hand reassuringly, mostly out of habit.

It's been a long night, and it seems like tomorrow might be an even longer day.

Leo looks over at Usagi, catching his eye. His boyfriend smiles, something small and maybe a little sad, but always honest.

Leo takes a breath.

It's one step at a time.

Chapter Text

That night, Donnie dreams about their beach.

He feels strange, off-balance, tired, and hollowed out even there. He doesn't say much, but Leo talks around him, in that way he always does when he's anxious and thinks Donnie won't notice.

He's probably just as worried about Donnie as he is about Mikey, which doesn't feel great, even if the things Leo says are mostly reassuring.

“We're already doing our best, honestly,” Leo tells him, ankles covered by shallow water. “I'll talk to him about tonight.”

He's been dipping his hands in and out of the water, his palms cupped together, like he's trying to catch fish or a seashell. Donnie sits a little too far away to really tell, but his brother looks determined enough.

“He won't tell you anything,” Donnie says, a little because he honestly thinks so and a little because he's in a foul mood.

“Oh, I know.” Leo makes a little frustrated sound, more at whatever it is that keeps escaping his grasp than the conversation. “But he'll know we care.”

He keeps saying ' we ' instead of 'I'. Donnie doesn't know if it's intentional or which possibility would annoy him more.

“Not enough to actually do something.”

It's a cruel thing to say, and he knew it when he said it earlier on their porch, and he knows it now.

Leo looks at him like he knows it too.

“I always loved your optimism,” he says, and it's probably a joke.

“I'm just being honest.”

“I know .” Leo rests his hands on his hips, staring down into the water. “But that's not how this works.”

How would you know, Donnie thinks. He doesn't say it because he's less of an asshole than most people expect him to be.

“Sure.”

Leo leans down, slowly dropping one hand into the water.

“The more you push, the harder it will be,” he says, oddly still. “Patience, and all that jazz.”

Leo is the last person that could speak on patience, but before Donnie has a chance to point this out, his brother shifts his arms before suddenly pulling away.

Finally, he raises his hands in some sort of triumph, showing whatever he's holding to Donnie.

It's a rock.

Donnie wonders if this is some sort of a metaphor.

Probably not.

“You are insufferable,” he says, because he's run out of arguments.

Leo looks at him, mouth turned into a half-smile.

“He needs you.”

But Leo always says a lot of things, and Donnie isn't sure he believes in half of them.

***

He gets up with the sun.

He's half convinced Leo isn't asleep either, but there's a bitter, mean part of him that feels grateful for this little game of pretend.

He must've slept funny, because there's a cramp in his leg he can't seem to walk off; he wraps a hot towel around it, but then quickly abandons that idea when the rising sun starts bringing the humid air to a boil.

Donnie sits on the porch, finishing a can of some sugary, coffee-flavored milk April brought him yesterday. He's not really into this stuff, but she's been trying to get him off energy drinks because they're 'unhealthy', and 'literal fucking poison', or whatever, and he finds it surprisingly hard to say no to her sometimes.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking the time, wondering how much peace and quiet he has left before the rest of his brothers start waking up.

And then he jumps in his seat when it suddenly vibrates in his hand.

He blinks, looks at the name on the screen, and frowns. He knows what he was expecting, and it certainly wasn't this, and there's a part of him that already thinks he doesn't have enough energy to deal with whatever he will hear from the other end of this call.

But he picks up anyway, because he's a good friend and a good brother, and he hopes everyone appreciates the sacrifices he makes.

“Hey,” he says, bringing the phone closer to his face. “What's wrong?”

“That's a pessimistic way to start a call,” Leatherhead laughs. It sounds a little hollow, in that way where it's probably genuine but not something he's in a mood for. “I just wanted to check in.”

Leatherhead 'doesn't do' phone calls.

It's one of the very first things Donnie found out when he made his own phone, but he never thought much about it before. It was the sort of 'slightly irritating for the sake of aesthetics' behavior that Mikey probably found funny, or charming, or something or other.

Donnie doesn't know why Leatherhead would be abandoning that particular habit now of all times, but it makes the frown on his face deepen.

“I'm fine,” he says, a little too slow.

“Right. That's good, for sure.” There's a rustle on the other side, like he's nervously shifting in place. Donnie doesn't think he's ever seen him nervous before. “And your bros?”

There's something to other people that Donnie was never quite able to fully grasp, and there are times where a certain tone, or an expression, or a slight turn of a hand throws him completely off. He doesn't always know what other people mean, or why they say the things they say, or do the things they do, and it's one of the very few things in life that can make him feel stupid .

But his friend has always been one of the most straightforward people he's ever met – always honest to a fault. He was outspoken, and a little mean, and it charmed Donnie beyond reason when they were little.

So he doesn't know why they're suddenly playing this weird game, but his eyes sting when he closes them, and there's a stubborn cramp in his leg that hasn't left since the morning, and he really can't deal with this right now.

“Is this about Mikey?” He breaks, finally. He doesn't think there's anything in particular in his voice when he says it, but the silence that follows quickly makes him rethink that. “... Is it not?”

He can't imagine it being about anything else, but assumptions have always been his greatest enemy.

“Oh,” Leatherhead says, a little strained. “No, I mean- Yes, kind of, actually.”

There's a certain way his words start to flow when he's nervous – hurried and tangled up, his accent painfully posh and laid thick. It's something Mikey makes fun of him for enough for the both of them.

“Is he ghosting you?” He guesses.

Personally, he thinks Leatherhead is currently the least of his brother's problems, but it's an opinion he knows Mikey wouldn't agree with.

“Kind of?” Leatherhead hums. “I'm not sure.”

“... You're not sure.”

Donnie closes his eyes, raising his free hand to pinch the bridge of his snout with his knuckles.

“Okay, it's kind of- I don't know, obviously you guys have, uhm...” He pauses for a moment, a leftover from years of growing up in a society of hushed whispers and indirect questions. “A lot going on right now. But I just wanted to make sure he's, you know, alright.”

“Why didn't you call him?”

“I did. Yesterday. But he kind of brushed me off.”

Donnie sucks on his teeth.

“Oh, yeah, he was busy yesterday.”

“Doing what?”

Donnie thinks about an answer for a moment too long.

“I don't really know,” he says, finally, which is mostly the truth.

“Okay,” Leatherhead says. Then: “You think he'd pick up today?”

Donnie only sighs.

Leatherhead is a fool, but he's so honestly aware of it that he makes it really hard to blame him for any of it.

Donnie knows his brother, and he'd like to think he rather knows his friend. He, however, doesn't understand this strange, delicate state between the two of them one bit.

“I don't know, man. I'm not his keeper.” He's not, no matter how hard he tries.

Realistically, he believes Leatherhead is honestly worried. For the most part.

But there's not much he could say that would ease anyone's worry, and that part hurts more than anything. Because he doesn't know if Mikey's feeling okay, or what he's been doing for the past few weeks, or why it now always seems to feel like he's a million miles away.

It feels like he's being questioned on something he should know but doesn't, and it makes him angry at himself, at Mikey, and at everything that has ever looked their way.

Donnie leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. It's hot, and he can feel the sun on the back of his neck.

“Why did you even call me?”

There's a brief pause on the other end, and that makes him realize the last part sounded a little nicer in his head. He winces, but Leatherhead speaks before he gets the chance to.

“Sorry.” He sounds genuine, and it makes Donnie feel even worse. “I guess he was just kind of weird when we last spoke, so I got worried and-”

“No, no, it's fine,” Donnie interrupts him, which is also probably not the nicest thing to do, but he's already too embarrassed to care. “It's just that you don't call me. Like, ever.”

It's probably another wrong thing to say, because Leatherhead hums, and there's some guilt weaving through his voice when he speaks.

“Shit, Dee, I'm sorry.”

“No, I mean like, literally. I think this is the first time I've heard your voice over the phone. I thought you didn't even know phones could do other things besides texting.”

He tries his best to make that last part sound like a joke.

It doesn't really work.

“Right.” There's something genuinely apologetic in his tone, and it makes Donnie feel even worse.

He's not willing to pretend there aren't moments where he finds Leatherhead more pretentious than anything else the older they get, or that he doesn't think he's more than a bit of a bastard, or that whatever is going on between him and Mikey isn't deeply confusing and unnecessarily complicated.

But it's his friend.

They've both changed a lot over the years, but there's a sort of deep fondness he holds for Leatherhead that he doesn't have for many people.

And frankly, he always found that people who aren't at least a little bit bastards are the most boring of all.

“Okay, look,” he says with a sigh. “I'm not, like, mad at you or anything. But don't drag me into this. If you want to talk to Mikey, then just talk to him, man, I can't hold your hand the whole way down.”

There are many things Donnie could never be bothered to pay much attention to, and his brothers' dating life sits proudly at the top of that list.

He knows and trusts Leatherhead enough to not worry, and that is enough on most days.

“... Right,” Leatherhead says after a moment, like he had to really think about that for a moment, which is probably a good thing. “Right, right, sure. I'm sorry. I really don't wanna put you on the spot like that.”

“I know you like him,” Donnie tells him. “And I think he likes you, and you better not mess this shit up, because I'm not interested in playing mediator or cupid, alright?”

“Okay!” Leatherhead laughs, a little awkward. “Thanks.”

The last part sounds honest, and it makes Donnie sigh again.

There's a headache coming to a boil somewhere behind his eyes, and there's sweat gathered in the back of his knees, and he's been missing sleep for so many weeks now he's not sure he'll ever be able to catch up.

“I have to go,” he says finally, voice mumbled.

“Good luck with, uhm...” Leatherhead pauses for a moment. “Everything.”

Donnie supposes he really does need that, no matter how angry it makes him.

“... Thanks.”

He hangs up, already too tired of forced pleasantries to wait for a reply. He leans down, forehead touching his knees with a quiet sigh.

Pushing his phone back into the pocket with one hand and squeezing the empty can with the other, Donnie stands, feeling just a little worse about himself. It's not like him to doubt himself so much, but he already knows this will be the kind of conversation he'll keep replaying in his mind, over and over again, pulling string by string, till it all falls apart in his hands.

It's only morning, but the air already feels hot and suffocating, and it's a relief to step back inside, the kitchen tiles cold under his feet.

It's a little less pleasant to see his brothers huddled together near the table.

Leo and Mikey look casual enough, twirling empty mugs in their hands, but there's that shifty look on Raph's face that always makes him look like a very guilty dog, and Donnie already knows that even if they weren't eavesdropping – they tried to.

“What?” He asks simply, looking at his older brother.

Raph doesn't look back, hands nervously held together on the table.

“Nothing,” he says.

“Who called?” Mikey asks.

Donnie can see Leo kicking him under the table.

“Your boyfriend,” Donnie says, because he was already annoyed, and this is not helping.

Mikey's smile turns sharp, like he really wants to frown, or yell, or bite. He doesn't do anything, probably because Leo's heel is still digging into his foot under the table.

“You want some ice-tea?” Leo raises up his mug, tilting his head to point to a glass pitcher sitting in the middle of the table.

It's already half empty.

“I'm good.”

“Sit down, asshole.”

It's mostly a joke, but there's something a little harsher in his brother's voice now. Donnie goes to sit, but not without a frown.

“What is this?” He asks, one arm thrown over the back of the chair.

His brothers share a look.

“Mikey wanted to talk to you,” Leo says, finally.

There's a look on his younger brother's face that quickly lets Donnie know that he really didn't.

“So why are you guys here?” He reaches out a free hand, drawing his thumb over the cold pitcher, water pooling under his nail.

“Emotional support,” Raph says, but it sounds more like a question.

Donnie doesn't really know why they're dragging their oldest brother into all of this, but he's still grateful they didn't bring Usagi along. Or his father.

“Okay,” Donnie says.

Maybe he should've said something like 'Let's talk', or 'I'm listening', or 'I hate all of you', because it takes Mikey a moment to speak again.

He's running a thumb over the edge of his mug. He's been biting his nails again.

“Auntie called.”

That gets Donnie's attention.

Both Leo and Raph look at him too, like they've already made up their minds on what they'll say, and this wasn't part of the plan.

“... Really?”

It shouldn't really surprise him, but it does anyway. Judging by his brothers' faces, he's not alone in this.

Mikey nods, sucking on his teeth.

“... Yesterday, actually.”

“Oh,” Donnie says. “Why the fuck didn't you tell me?”

Mikey spreads his arms open, almost swinging his mug right into Raph's head.

“Because you'd get all like this!” His voice cracks at the end; something Leo would usually make fun of him for.

“Like what?”

“Like this.” Mikey waves his arm, pointing at his head. “Look at your face.”

Donnie's sure there's nothing on his face. Still, he turns to look to the side, resting his chin in one hand.

“Whatever,” he says to the floor. “What did she say?”

“Not much,” Mikey answers. Then: “She wanted to know if we were still mad at her.”

“Oh,” Leo says.

“Hum,” Raph agrees.

Donnie feels his stomach clench.

He doesn't say anything, because really, he doesn't know.

Donnie trusted only once. It was a contract with no expiration date that only few were ever privy to, forged in passing days, mindless kindness, and all the little ways in which he knew he was loved.

Every part of Donnie's family is a brand on his heart that he carries with pride.

He's never felt like this before – the thin line of this trust pulled tight like a rubber band, ready to snap.

“I just...” He pauses for a moment, because maybe this isn't really fair, or kind, or understanding of him. And then, because he feels a little done with being any of these things, he says: “Why didn't she get rid of it? I don't understand.”

Sometimes, he feels like he can still see the shape of that collar when he closes his eyes.

He hopes he'll never have to look at it again, but that's what he hoped for all those months ago, too.

It's quiet for a moment.

Leo's drumming his fingers on the table, sharing a quiet look with Raph.

“... I think I kind of get it,” he says after a moment.

Donnie feels his jaw ache from how hard he clenches it.

“Okay.”

He looks at Mikey, but he seems a little busy, folding one of the napkins scattered around into a neat shape. Donnie isn't sure he's even really following the conversation anymore.

“I'm saying,” Leo adds quickly, maybe feeling some of the venom in Donnie's tone, “that I'd do the same if I were her.”

“You wouldn't,” Raph says, like it's the worst thing he can imagine.

Donnie supposes he should feel offended, but he can't quite bring himself to be at the moment.

“I'm not saying it's right. It ain't. But...” Leo drums his fingers on his mug. “You don't get where she is by doing the right thing.”

Mikey doesn't look up, but he pauses for a moment, face unreadable.

“What does that even mean?”

Donnie knows there's some real pain showing in his voice now, and it makes Leo frown.

He feels like no matter what the answer to that will be, it'll hurt either way.

Leo chews on his cheek for a moment, eyes narrowed. Finally, he says:

“It's a lot of power to pass on.”

Every bone in Donnie's body aches .

“Fuck,” he swears. Then: “Seriously? This doesn't bother you at all?”

It takes Leo a moment to realize he's not talking to him anymore. Both he and Raph look at Mikey, who sits a little straighter, hands still occupied.

He seems distracted at best and miles away at worst.

“No,” he says. “I knew that would happen.”

That makes Donnie mad.

He hasn't been angry today, not really, but he is now.

It's pushing at his lungs, his veins, like he'll drown if he won't let it out, and the voices of reason that usually stop him are gone now.

“Right. Of course you did.” He brings his hands together, pushing his nail into the thin skin on his thumb until it bleeds. “You just know everything, don't you?”

Mikey's eyes narrow.

He looks more present, alert, and that in and of itself almost makes Donnie want to keep going.

He and Mikey don't really fight often, not like this, and there's a certain look on his brother's face that he can't decipher.

He hates snapping at his brothers like this, and he hates the way it makes him feel, like pushing on a bruise.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Donnie leans forward, tongue heavy.

“ Guess .”

Mikey doesn't.

If it was Leo, maybe he would've. If it was Raph, they would've never gotten this far.

But it's Donnie, so maybe that makes all the difference.

Mikey stands, hands shaky even when he clutches them, shoulders tight.

Donnie half expects him to say something more, like 'I'm done here' , or 'I'm leaving' , or ' Fuck you' , but he doesn't, and maybe that's even worse.

Mikey leaves, a flurry of anger and white knuckles.

It's quiet for a moment before finally, slowly, Raph rests his elbows on the table, hiding his face in his hands.

“Fuck,” he says, very softly.

***

There's something at the back of Mikey's mind.

It's been there since the Shredder – earlier, maybe; something he always managed to push aside.

Mikey's always been good at that. At ignoring every single cut and bruise, even if the pain drilled into his mind; at playing fast and loose even when he knows he got a bad hand; at turning deaf and blind whenever he needed.

It was a skill that runs deep in their family tree; so deep it may as well be the soil itself.

But then there was Shredder, and the end of the world, and energy pushing into his veins like hot coal, and something happened.

It was good to have a name for the thing pushing at his ribs from the underside, and it was awful to realize how long he knew it was real and how long nobody believed him, and it was even worse when he realized they weren't going to talk about it.

But there was something else there, something cold and foreign in a way his ninpō never felt.

Like pulling open a curtain – it was there. He could've closed it again. Try to hide it, turn around, and close his eyes. It didn't matter anymore, because he knew it was there, and it knew, too.

It's a thought lingering at the back of his head that he knows can't be his, and it's the sudden urge to say, move, do something , and it's a sudden whisper passing next to his ear.

He knows he's not crazy, even when other people look at him like he is. But if he's not half-insane already – this might just lead him there.

He paces around the room, shaking his hands, like that could make all the built-up feelings in his chest disappear.

He's not even sure why he's here. It's Donnie's and Raph's room, but he's there either way, even if he doesn't really want to be, just like before. Last night is a blur in his mind, but he knows this feeling too well to blame it on anything else.

There's a small sound from the window, old wood creaking, and then there's another – something that makes him stop in his tracks.

He stands there still, eyes fixed on the window.

“What?” He whispers, so faintly he almost can't hear it himself.

He's not expecting an answer.

So when it comes, he bends over, face hot and mind racing, raising his hands to push at his temples.

It's a small hum in his ear, it's something just in the corner of his vision, and then it's loud , pushing into his brain like static.

It's muffled and distant, the way all speech turns soft on the edge of sleep, and Mikey can't seem to catch it no matter how hard he tries.

He's been running from it for weeks, months, maybe years now.

“I don't-” He starts, voice rising to shout out the noise. “I don't understand what you're trying to tell me.”

The noise falters, quiets, and rises, like a broken record, going back and forth.

Until finally, it all falls into one.

'Down.'

Slowly, Mikey looks at the floor.

He spent years in this house. He twisted an ankle just outside of this room, and he chipped his tooth on the side of Donnie's bed, and he etched his name into the doorframe.

He never noticed this before.

There's a loose floorboard, right under his feet. Mikey kneels down, fast and uncaring, his legs hitting the wood painfully.

He feels around it, fingers pushing into the small cracks, until he finally finds a good point to pull it open, throwing the board to the side.

It's papers.

They seem vaguely familiar, in the sense of having his dad's handwriting on them, and Mikey reaches to pull them out.

Then he reads.

The room is quiet again.

And with his head spinning – Mikey laughs.

Chapter Text

There are many things Donnie knows about his life.

One – he is four years old, which is a very big and mature number.

Two – his name is Donatello, not Donnie. But it's what Huginn and Muninn have been calling him, and it's what Mikey has been calling him, because he has an awful habit of copying everything they say and do. His father calls him 'Donatello', or 'son', or 'foul beast' (but only when he gets a little too excited and forgets he's not allowed to bite). But he thinks he likes 'Donnie' best.

Three – Mikey is his brother. He knows what that means, because he looked it up in that thick, heavy book their father gave them. It has many other big words in it, like 'empire', or 'medal', or 'insidious', and Donnie is determined to learn them all.

Mikey doesn't really seem to get it, even after Donnie explains it to him, because he keeps calling all of his toys 'brothers', and cries every time he accidentally sits on one. He's a little silly like that (Donnie always says 'silly', because the last time he called Mikey 'dumb' he cried so hard he threw up, and their father didn't seem very happy about that).

Donnie knows many things that Mikey doesn't, like how to use a fork and a knife (even when eating with his hands seems a lot more fun), or how to count all the numbers, or how to spell his own name. Mikey never really seems to care about half of them (Donnie isn't sure he even fully grasps the concept of an 'eleven'), but it doesn't really matter, because either way – Donnie is always there to help.

(Even if it gets a little annoying sometimes.)

He's smart, and he knows many things, and he knows when something isn't right.

Even when everyone tries their best to convince him otherwise.

***

It's cold when he wakes up.

He's fallen asleep in front of the fireplace again, because being alone in their bedroom makes his stomach feel all sorts of funny.

Every night it feels just a little bigger, or a little emptier, or maybe he's just getting smaller. None of these possibilities sound like a good one.

He wasn't cold in the evening; wrapped up in a blanket, skin warm from the fireplace. But the wood is dark now, mostly charcoal and dust.

Mikey tried eating it once, and Donnie wasn't even the one pushing him to do it that time.

Donnie sits up on the carpet, pulling the blanket around himself.

It's quiet in the house, the way it almost never is.

And something isn't right.

He's been feeling that for days now. It's weird, and it feels bad, and he can't seem to find any better words for it, no matter how hard he looks in his book.

He stands up, arms outstretched to not fall again. He always feels a little unsteady in the mornings, especially before breakfast.

The thought of that makes him realize he's hungry.

He puts his hands to his chest, rocking on the heels of his feet. He's hungry and cold, and the house feels quiet and empty, and that's almost enough to make him cry.

He doesn't, because he's big and strong, and crying is for little babies, like his brother. No one has actually said that to him, but he read it in a book, which means it must be true, and he's very smart for knowing it.

He wipes at his eyes, sniffling, but only once.

Then he turns, walking out of the living room; the floor cold and hard where the carpet ends.

The hallways in his house never really scared him before, at least not during the day, but now they feel long and wide, and empty. They kind of are; most of their old furniture and decor packed up in neat little boxes by the walls.

Huginn and Muninn had plans to 'redecorate' their entire house, which to Donnie mostly looked like making a whole lot of mess and then leaving it for someone else to clean up.

They wanted to do the hallways next.

But there hasn't been much time for that lately.

He walks with the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, letting it drag over the floor, careful not to trip. Donnie's really good at walking – the best, actually – but the added weight doesn't make it easier. He doesn't need to go far, at least.

He can see the soft light from their bedroom even before he rounds the corner – spilling onto the floor in yellows and oranges. Even just looking at it makes him sleepy again.

Donnie's bedroom is the best, and he misses it.

His father's leaning against the doorframe, back turned to Donnie, arms crossed.

He looks serious, just like he does when he tells them to ''play quietly'' and ''let him focus'' (which is very unfair, because Donnie would always rather watch his father work than pretend to play hide-and-seek with Mikey). It makes Donnie hesitate for a moment, but he quickly comes to the conclusion that when he's this hungry – everything is fair game.

“Father,” he says, reaching out to pull at his pant leg.

(Mikey always says 'dad', but Donnie likes the longer words, and he likes when people say he's smart for knowing them.)

His father startles, looking down like he's expecting to see a human under his bed, and softening when he spots Donnie.

“Spirits,” he says, in that quiet, mumbled tone he seems to think Donnie and Mikey can't hear. Then: “It's early. You should be asleep.”

“But I'm not,” Donnie observes.

His father makes a face, one of those Donnie hates, because he can never really tell what it means. Mikey's really good at faces, and that thought makes him feel even worse.

He turns to look into the room, quickly spotting the pile of blankets and pillows in the middle of their bed.

His brother's asleep, curled up inside his shell. He only really sleeps like this when he's scared or hurting, and Donnie steps forward before he can even really think about it, because suddenly, the idea of Mikey being all alone feels a lot worse than his own hunger, or coldness, or whatever else.

Then there's a hand on his shoulder, and he's being pulled away, the back of his head bumping against his father's knees.

“Don't,” he says. It sounds rough and mean, and that almost makes Donnie cry again. Their father doesn't raise his voice often, but every time he did still sits fresh in his memory. “You'll get sick, too.”

That makes Donnie's stomach twist.

Mikey is always sick. He's constantly sniffling, or coughing, covered by at least two layers of sweaters.

He's a lot smaller than Donnie, too – always has been. Huginn and Muninn like to say it's because he's ''still a baby'', but Donnie's pretty sure he was never that small when he was a baby.

(He pointed it out once, and they laughed, so he's almost sure it's a joke either way.)

It always made Donnie feel big and responsible. He's older, and taller, and stronger, which means he needs to look out for him, and that he gets to tell him what to do, and that is always the most fun part.

But it's been different now.

Mikey's never been this sick – not to the point where Donnie can't even be in the same room. He can't take care of him if he's not close, and that might be the worst part of it all.

“Is he feeling better?” He asks. Mikey doesn't look like he's feeling better, but Donnie isn't really the best at these kinds of things. “Does he need more medicine?”

There's already a pile of bottles, pills and powder, and potions, laid out in the corner of the room. Donnie doesn't actually know what's wrong with Mikey, because it's one of those things nobody will tell him, but it seems to come with a lot of different tries and very little results.

His father's face does a funny thing, and he doesn't react when Donnie tilts his head back to look at him.

“I'm sure he'll be better soon.”

That makes Donnie frown.

He knows what lying is, because Mikey does it often and gets scolded for it even more, and this sounds suspiciously close to it.

Donnie narrows his eyes but doesn't say anything.

“Come on.” His father puts a hand on his shoulder, making him turn in place. “Let him sleep.”

Donnie wants to say that Mikey seems to be doing nothing but sleeping.

He doesn't. If he tries, he might just start crying.

***

There's a stranger in their house.

Donnie knows it, even though he shouldn't.

His father told him to stay in the study for the evening – something Donnie would be perfectly fine doing any other day. He loves his father’s study room, and all the thick, important-looking books lining the walls, and the desk drawers filled with things he's normally not allowed to touch.

But there was something weird in his father's voice when he said it, and he got even weirder when Donnie asked him why. He winced, stilled his expression, then gave up and winced again.

Donnie isn't really sure what that meant, but he can guess it wasn't anything good.

So, he's not allowed to be here, leaning out from behind the corner and watching his father pace between the kitchen and living room.

But it's okay, because he can always just pretend he's allowed to. That's something Mikey taught him a while ago. He said it wasn't lying, because it wasn't real but Donnie isn't really sure that's correct.

(Not that it really matters, because Mikey's younger, with a big smile and bigger blue eyes, and that somehow lets him get away with basically anything.)

He's been too scared to try either way, but this feels too important to miss.

Donnie's always worried about missing things, or not knowing, or misunderstanding, and it's something Huginn and Muninn like to joke about, even when he doesn't find anything funny in it. They do that a lot, and sometimes it makes him cry, even when he's trying not to.

His father stops for a moment, right in the middle of the hallway, and it makes Donnie crouch, back flat to the wall, suddenly remembering how bad he is at every game of pretend.

But if his father noticed anything – a sudden knock on the door distracts him quickly enough. Donnie listens to the familiar footsteps, before the front door opens with a creak.

“You're here.” His father's voice sounds rough, and it's a strange way of saying 'hello'.

“Well, aren't you just a scrumbulent ray of sunny-sun.”

Donnie's not sure what that means at all, actually.

The door slams closed, and it's quiet for a moment, just long enough for Donnie to question it, before he hears footsteps again.

He gathers enough courage to look again (his stomach hurts a little now, which is probably bad), just in time to watch his father disappear into the living room.

He takes a breath, moving to the living room entrance. He's really good at being quiet.

The fireplace is still cold and silent, just like in the morning, but there's still enough light in the room for Donnie to take a good look at their visitor.

He's never seen her before.

He hasn't really met anyone, not a complete stranger like this, and he's a little glad he's pretending right now. He wouldn't know what to say, or do, and he hates not knowing things.

She's tall and long, dressed up in all pretty purples. Donnie thinks Mikey would like her, mostly because Mikey seems to like everything and everyone, but also because of all the shiny bracelets hanging from her wrists.

They catch the light when she moves her hands, and he follows them with his eyes.

“Well, I must say...” She moves to flip up her hair. Her voice sounds like a jingle. “Your little letter was quite a surprise. I almost threw it in the trash when I saw your handwriting.”

Father narrows his eyes, like he just saw a new stain on their carpet.

“Thank you for finding the time to come,” he says, but something in his voice sounds like he means something entirely different.

“Oh, it's been too long since you got yourself in a new fizzywinkle.” The stranger puts a hand to her chest, her entire arm jingling like a wind chime. “I'm very flattered you are asking for my help, Draxy.”

“Do not call me that.”

Donnie's not the best at guessing what people are feeling, or thinking, and it always sounds a little made up to him when Mikey does it. But he can already tell that whoever this person might be – his father is very much not fond of her.

Donnie supposes that means he shouldn't like her either, but Mikey hates plenty of things he loves, so maybe it's okay either way.

“ You're so cold sometimes,” she says, like it's a joke, but nobody laughs. “And you used to be so much fun .”

Nobody really laughs at Donnie's jokes either (usually because they can't seem to tell when he's making one), so that makes him feel a little better.

“I don't have time for small talk.” His father goes to sit in his chair, his back now to Donnie. He doesn't offer her a seat, but she flops down on their sofa anyway. “Do you have it?”

“Ah-ah!” The stranger reaches out her hand, one finger pointed up. She shifts where she sits, throwing her legs over the armrest. “I didn't get to say my part of the deal yet.”

“You're going to change it at the last moment anyway.”

“ Well. Call me a silly-billy if you must, but I remember your wording correctly, you stated you were willing to give...” She puts a finger to her mouth, thinking for a moment. “Literally 'anything I want'? Biggy promise for a man who doesn't have anything. ”

Donnie's not really sure what all of this means, but it sounds a bit mean, and it makes him frown.

He shifts, trying to see his father's face better.

“I know what I wrote.”

The stranger stands, throwing her legs from over the couch back to the ground in one smooth, flashy move. She walks over to the fireplace, finger tracing over the mantel.

“And I know that's not the kind of deal you usually make.” She turns, suddenly a lot closer to his father's chair. Donnie didn't even see her move. “You sound desperate, Draxy.”

She's leaning down, hair falling over her cheeks, and Donnie can't quite see her face anymore. His father's hand tightens on the armrest, fingers flexing.

Donnie hasn't seen his father angry in a long, long time.

“What do you need Lou's DNA for?” She speaks again, voice suddenly low and quiet. “Thought you'd get plenty of it when you stole him from me.”

Donnie has never heard that name before, but it sounds vaguely important.

“That was a long time ago.” There's an odd note in his father's voice, like he's halfway to biting his tongue.

“Right.” She puts her hands behind her back, straightening. “Probably burned down with the rest, no?”

Donnie has a very, very strange feeling that he really, really shouldn't be here. He's not understanding much of this, but it leaves him feeling bad in a way that makes his chest hurt and his eyes sting.

“I know you have it.” His father's voice sounds different now, and Donnie only feels grateful he's not talking to him right now. “His old comb, or a finger, or whatever the fuck.”

“Oh, you know me so well.” She smiles so wide her eyes narrow. “First, I want to know what you need it for.”

At that, his father finally stands. He's the tallest person in the world, and both Donnie and the stranger tilt their heads to look at him.

“What if I told you it's none of your business?”

The stranger looks up, mouth drawn in thought.

“Then we don't have a deal,” she says finally. “And don't even lie to me. You're a flimsy-bimsy liar, have I ever told you that?”

Father doesn't say anything for a long moment.

He brushes past her, stopping to look out the window. There's not much of a view there, so Donnie can't really guess why.

“Oh, come on. Don't be like that.” The stranger puts her hands on her hips, watching him. She sounds sweet and nice again. “We're old friends, are we not?”

“Old friends?” He turns to look at her, like she's an itch he wishes he could ignore. “We're old, you got that part right.”

She pouts, in a way that strangely reminds Donnie of Mikey when he wants something he can't have.

“Fine.” She turns on her heel, suddenly walking to the door. “No deal, then.”

Donnie gasps, quickly pulling away, tripping over his own feet. His hearts are beating fast, caught somewhere at the back of his throat.

He thinks he should run, or hide, but he stands frozen, legs stiff. He's good at being quiet, and he's good at being sneaky, and he's terrible at being scared .

“Wait.”

The footsteps still, and so does Donnie's breath.

It's quiet for a moment longer, the air still.

“Arachne.”

“ Don't call me that .” There are heels clicking against the floor, then carpet.

Donnie takes a breath; once, twice, before stepping closer once more, ear pressed against the wall.

“Why do you even care?” Donnie can't really see his father's face now, but there's a low note in his voice, like he's about to give in. He doesn't know if that's good or bad.

“You don't sign contracts without reading the fine print,” she says, sounding a bit more cheerful once again.

That doesn't sound like a real answer to Donnie. Judging by the moment of silence that follows, his father feels the same.

“I've-” He starts, then stops again. “I need it for an experiment. It didn't work last time, but it will now.”

That makes Donnie curious. His father lets him watch him work sometimes, which always makes for Donnie's favorite days. And he has been spending an awful amount of time in his lab lately.

Donnie wonders if he'll let him help this time.

The stranger spreads her arms, expression soft.

“See? Was that so hard?” She makes a weird gesture, like she wanted to pat his shoulder but then thought better of it. “I'll have it for you in a whisy-mizzy-minute.”

“I'm sure you will. But not for free.” Father steps to the side, like he wants to stay as far away as possible. “Now, what do you want?”

The stranger lets her arms fall to her side.

And she doesn't answer for a long, long moment. She's not smiling anymore.

“I want to see them.”

There's a sudden shift in the air. Donnie can feel it, even if he can't tell why.

It's a low and heavy silence, like thick fog or rain, and it makes the skin on Donnie's arm stand in goosebumps.

“... What?”

His father stands still, shoulders raised, eyes wide. He looks scared.

And that means Donnie should be, too.

“You know what I mean.” The stranger sounds different all of a sudden, rough like a broken whistle.

“What...” He starts, then stops again. Donnie's father knows every single word, but he can't seem to find any right now. “How-”

“ I have a question for you, too.” She steps closer, pointed heels next to his father's feet. “Do you think I'm dumb ?”

There's no answer to that.

She huffs, like she wants to laugh but can't really bring herself to.

“You're so easy to keep an eye on, you know?” She raises an arm, putting a hand to her cheek. “All your little experiments. How old are they now? Three, four?”

Then, in a very sudden and very strange moment, Donnie realizes she's talking about him .

It's a weird feeling – when someone knows more about you than you know about them, and Donnie doesn't think he likes it very much.

“I don't want you near them.” His father speaks quickly now, on the verge of raising his voice again. “They have nothing to do with this.”

“You've been buying out every Apothecary in town.” She tilts her head, which makes her look a little like a bird or a cat. “Are they sick?”

“No.”

“Do not lie to me, Draxy.” Her eyes narrow. “Why not take them to a Doctor? Worried that it will bring in too much attention?”

“This isn't something a Doctor can fix.” His father leans in. They're face-to-face now, and that makes Donnie worried, even if he's not really sure why. “Listen, woman. I don't know what you'd want with them, but whatever it is-”

“I could get the Council off your back, you know?” She says quickly, voice hushed, like it's a secret. “Get you whatever it is that you need to make them better. Doesn't that sound fair?”

“It sounds like one of your traps.” Donnie's father straightens again. Even then, she somehow seems a lot taller.

“I'd never.”

“Is it because of Lou? Is that what this is about? They're not him.”

Her smile falters for just one moment.

“ I know that,” she says. “Do you ?”

Donnie's father laughs, but it doesn't sound like he finds any of this funny.

“Do you think I'm dumb?”

“No, but you're desperate.” She smiles, all teeth. “Besides, I'm sure they're just dying to meet me. Isn't that right, little one?”

And then – they're both looking right at him .

Donnie gasps, the air in his lungs suddenly gone. He coughs, stepping back.

She's standing in front of him before he can do much of anything else.

Mikey's so much better at running away. When he starts to feel better, Donnie needs to ask him about it.

The stranger crouches down in front of him, her smile a little kinder now. She smells funny, like ripe fruit.

“Hello, turtley-boo,” she says, voice high.

It makes Donnie giggle, and he quickly raises a hand to cover his mouth. He looks up over her shoulder at his father.

He's really bad at faces.

He needs to ask Mikey about that, too.

The stranger reaches out a hand. Her nails are long and purple.

“You can call me Big Mama. What's your name?”

Donnie looks at his father again, suddenly very unsure. Father watches him for a moment, then looks down at the stranger, like he's seeing her for the first time.

And like there's something stiff at the back of his neck – he nods.

Donnie blinks.

Then, very slowly, reaches out to shake her hand.

Chapter Text

By this point, Raph must be used to breaking up fights.

Mikey always thought that was more than a little bit sad. He knows as much about Raph's and Leo's homelife as they'll tell him, which is to say – not a lot.

But there's always that kind of look on his face when Leo starts picking on him or Mikey again, or when Mikey's fighting with Dad (or Donnie for that matter), or when one of them pushes on April's buttons just a little too hard.

It makes him look about a billion years old and like he's already starting to regret every choice he's ever made, and it always stirs some awful regret in Mikey.

Raph's looking at him in that exact same way now.

Mikey tries his best to not look his way.

“Did you know?” He asks finally, something that's been digging into the back of his mind since the start.

Donnie looks up at him, back to the paper, then up again. His eyes are wide.

Mikey doesn't want to be angry at Donnie.

They rarely fought, and Mikey loves him more than anyone else, but he thinks he might just hate him forever if he says 'yes' now.

Donnie turns in an odd way, like he was going to shake his head, and then stops for a moment.

“... Not really,” he says finally, so quiet Mikey almost doesn't hear.

“Not really?” He repeats. “Not really, what does that mean?”

“It means he didn't remember,” Leo supplies. “Heck, Mikey, you were like, what, three years old? How are you supposed to remember that?”

Donnie opens his mouth, like he wants to say something, and Leo digs his heel into his foot to shut him up.

He's taken the papers from Donnie's hands, reading over them quickly once again. He's been awfully calm the whole time, and the way he keeps raising his hand to chew on his nail, and then quickly bringing it down is the only thing betraying him.

“Man,” he says, quietly flipping the page.

Raph hasn't asked to see the documents, and Mikey knows why, and he hopes his brother was able to get most of it from his first initial outburst.

He's not proud of it – of the way he ran into the living room and screamed himself hoarse about mutagen and DNA, and ghosts and ancestors, and then cried so hard he almost made himself sick.

His face still feels a little wet.

Crying doesn't usually calm him down so much as it makes him a little more palpable to reasonable thinking, but this time, it only seemed to make his head hurt.

“Shit,” Leo says, in that tone of voice where he's kind of joking, but not really. “You're, like, two hundred percent Hamato, dude.”

“Yes,” Mikey snaps. “And I got, like, twenty ghosts in my head telling me just that.”

Leo and Raph share a look. Donnie seems too occupied with biting on his knuckles to join in on that.

“So, like,” Leo tries, “can you tell Karai-”

“It doesn't work that way.”

“Well, how does it work?”

Mikey opens his mouth, maybe to say something mean, and bitter, and probably vulgar, but Raph speaks before he can.

“I don't think it's a very exact science, you know?” He thinks for a moment. “Like how Karai helped April back then.”

“Shit, that's cool,” Leo grins, the way he always does when he tries to make something sound less serious, or scary.

“Not really,” Mikey mumbles, and it comes out more as a whine.

The thing about Hamatos, he thinks, is that they are all painfully stubborn.

He's not quite sure what it is that they want from him, but they've made the 'wanting' part more than clear by this point, and he doesn't know how to make them understand he's not anyone's lapdog.

He thinks about Karai, and self-sacrifice, and dying young and gallant, and that's already more than enough to make him want to crawl out of his own skin and blood.

“Two hundred percent mutant, too,” Donnie says, suddenly.

He got so quiet and so small, Mikey almost forgot he was even in the room with them. He sits next to Leo on the couch, knees curled up close to his chest, hand raised to his mouth.

Raph reaches out to pull at his wrist, but his knuckles are already bleeding.

“Yeah. You're, like, radioactive, dude.” His eyes widen suddenly. “Oh, you are. Donnie, you remember that doohickey of yours? It was going nuts with Mikey.”

That was a long time ago, and Mikey wishes he could say he forgot all about it, but he didn't.

He feels strange all of a sudden, self-conscious of something he can't even really put into words, and he crosses his arms over his chest, looking away.

Leo turns to the last pages of the documents. He must've read them ten times already, but there's still that same spark in his eyes. Everything is a puzzle to him, and he loves getting solutions.

“Damn, Mikey,” he says, maybe more to himself than anyone else. “Your vitals were fucked.”

Everything in Mikey's body has been all sorts of wrong since he was thirteen, so that part doesn't really surprise him. Almost dying, he supposes, is just another thing that keeps happening to him.

“Look at that,” Leo says, turning to push the documents into Raph's hands.

“You know Raph doesn't understand all that jargon,” he says, but pretends to read anyway before handing it back to Mikey.

“Crazy you're still here with all this.” Leo looks at Mikey and smiles, wide and only a little fake in its confidence. “Lucky bastard.”

There's one thing Mikey will always give to Leo, and that is the ability to twist any tension in the room back around, usually by making himself into an even more annoying, more immediate problem.

But he held Mikey when he cried just a few minutes ago, so he can't quite bring himself to hate him right now.

He's still mad, and he still wants to scream, but he's done enough hollering at his brothers for the day. He was never really upset with them to begin with, but that might not stop him from punching a wall.

He's so angry it might just eat him alive.

“I don't know...” Donnie speaks up suddenly, and they all go quiet. It's almost a little funny, and maybe Mikey would've laughed if his brother didn't look so much like a deer caught in the headlights. “I don't know how I just... Forgot all of this.”

Donnie hates not knowing, and he hates when he can't understand his own thoughts and feelings, and he hates when he can't trust his own body.

(Living as Mikey would drive him insane.)

“Well.” Leo shrugs. “I barely remember anything from when I was ten.”

“That was a bad year,” Raph says.

It's a little sudden, his voice all hollow and bitter, and he's not really looking at any of them. Mikey wonders if he meant to say any of it out loud at all.

Judging by the look on his face – probably not.

“Wait, what do you mean?” Leo frowns.

Raph turns his head, shoulders tense, but Leo can be a vulture if he wants something, or thinks he deserves to know, or when it's anything that's of any interest to him.

Raph must know this too, because he says:

“A lot of bad things happened, that's all.”

Donnie frowns.

He might remember some of it, too, Mikey thinks. Maybe more than Leo even.

Donnie knows so much about their brothers' lives before they met, and about their dad, and probably all the reasons why Raph seems twenty years older than he actually is.

Mikey knows it's different for him, and he knows better than to blame his brothers for wanting to keep some things hidden, because he's a hypocrite, but it's not that bad yet, and he tries to not hold it against anyone.

Sometimes, he just feels a little left out. That's all.

But maybe it's showing a little too much on his face, because Donnie looks at him, and then very promptly – looks away.

“We met April, that wasn't bad,” Leo counters.

“Yeah, but that was only because I had to go to the Surface.”

“... Wait, why?” The frown on Leo's face deepens. It makes the two of them look awfully alike.

Raph finally turns to look at him, and there's something sad, and bitter, and angry, painted all over his face.

“I don't want to talk about this right now.”

Leo's mouth tightens, and he looks like he wants to protest but can't quite bring himself to.

“Right,” he says.

There's a weird expression on Donnie's face, but he wipes at his eyes to hide it before Mikey can really see it. When he looks back at Mikey, something in him softens.

“You used to have blue eyes,” he says suddenly.

Mikey doesn't know what to say to that.

Before he gets the chance to even think about it, there's a sudden shuffle and a jingle of familiar keys, and Mikey stills where he stands, watching the front door open like a hound.

“Oh, uhm,” Leo says, very quietly. “Maybe let's-”

Mikey doesn't want to hear the rest of that sentence.

He's in the hallway before the door fully opens and up in his father's face before he's even past the threshold.

“What is this?” He holds up the papers, almost shoving them into his chest.

“Good morning to you, too,” Dad says. Mikey doesn't know if he's joking or being condescending, but it annoys him anyway.

There's someone grabbing onto his elbow, pulling him away, and he looks over his shoulder to send Raph the meanest look he can muster.

“How about we sit down for a moment?” He asks and that makes Mikey even angrier, and he almost says something nasty, like 'Shut up', or 'Don't tell me what to do', but then he doesn't.

He would've if it was Leo.

“What's going on?” Usagi slings into the hallway, pushing past Dad to pick up the papers Mikey let fall to the ground.

“I wanna know that, too,” he huffs.

He's so angry his face feels hot.

“Okay, okay,” Leo's in the hallway now too, Donnie slinking in behind like a lost puppy. It feels very crowded all of a sudden. “Raph's right, how about-”

“No!” Mikey snaps.

“Okay!”

He doesn't want to sit down, and he doesn't want to calm down, and he's tired of understanding, and not holding things against people, of being a good son – a good person.

It's all bitter and cruel thoughts, and he'll regret it soon enough, and it'll be too late to take it back. But he tries not to think about that now.

“Okay, how about we all shut up for one moment?” Usagi suggests standing up to hand Dad the papers. He hasn't really looked at them, and Mikey suspects he wouldn't be this calm if he did. “One at a time.”

“Right,” Dad says, voice tired. “What-”

He looks down.

And then his face falls still.

Mikey can see his eyes tracing the lines, like he doesn't already know exactly what's on them, like he didn't write it himself, like he didn't-

Mikey pulls his arm out of Raph's grasp, stepping closer, whole body tense.

He needs to tilt his head to even look his dad in the face. He's so tall, even now. Mikey abandoned the dreams of ever outgrowing him a long time ago.

“What is this?” He asks.

His voice sounds so hollow that he might as well be saying it a million miles away.

“I think you know.”

“Oh, do I?!”

He hates the way his voice breaks at the end, and he hates the tears he can already feel pushing at the corners of his eyes.

He doesn't want to cry, but he's so angry he doesn't even know what else to do.

Something in Dad's face softens, and Mikey hates that, too; pity is the last thing he wants.

“This was... A long time ago,” he says, very carefully. “I was naive back then.”

“So what?” Mikey wipes at his nose. “You thought your stupid experiment was a cure-all?”

His father's face hardens.

“It was,” he says, voice rough. “You were never going to survive that, you were always so weak.”

Mikey bristles.

He knows he's smaller, and younger, and different, but he's strong, and he's been fighting every damn minute of his life to prove it. But people will still look at him and think he's fragile, and crazy, and weak.

That will happen forever.

“So I'm a what, a failed experiment?” He hopes his voice doesn't sound as pathetic as he thinks it does. “Sorry I didn't come out the perfect soldier you wanted.”

His father's eyes grow a little wider.

“That's not what I said.” He sounds hurried, defensive, and angry.

“You kind of did,” Leo says, and it's the most unsure Mikey has ever heard him sound.

“Well, thanks for making me better!” Mikey shouts, ignoring both of them. He spreads his arms open. “I'm so much better now.”

“You're standing here, are you not?” His father snaps. He rarely spoke to any of them like this, and it makes the skin at the back of Mikey's neck crawl with goosebumps. “It was either taking a risk or letting you die, and I'm not going to apologize for the choice I made.”

He slams the papers onto a nearby side table, like he can't even stand to look at them anymore, and Mikey wants to throw it all right back into his face.

“Maybe you should!” His throat feels hoarse, and he wants to keep screaming until he can't anymore. “This is why I'm like this. Why I'm sick, why I'm so different and- And wrong!”

Why he knows things he shouldn't be able to, like feeling thunder in his bones days before it comes, and guessing Leo's phone passcode just by looking at the screen, and recognizing words in languages he never learned.

“There's nothing wrong with you.”

That's the biggest lie Mikey has ever heard.

A few steps away, Usagi makes a small sound, like he wants to laugh, or scream. He always makes himself scarce when they argue, wide-eyed and quiet, and it pains Mikey that he keeps having to see it.

Not enough to stop. It never is.

“There is something wrong!” He screams. “There is, and all of you just keep telling me I'm crazy, that it's all in my head-”

“Mikey,” Raph says, voice quiet and hurt, “we never-”

“-Well, it's not! It's real, and it's 'cuz of this.”

He grabs the edge of the table, shaking it until some of the papers fall to the ground.

His father's face is tense. He doesn't look like himself.

“Why have you never said anything?” Mikey asks.

Because, really, that's what it's all about.

He hates that he wasted years waiting for an answer that was right there, and he hates the nights he spent staring at his ceiling like that could finally fix him.

“Because it was a bad time in our lives, and I honestly hoped both of you would just forget about it!”

Mikey's dad doesn't yell at him. Not like this.

He steps back, bumping into Raph's shoulder, letting him put a hand on his shell.

“Why are you always like this? Why do you never tell us anything?”

That's not really true, and he knows it when he says it, but he needs to say something before he does something stupid, like cry.

“I never-?” Dad puts a hand to his forehead, pacing nervously. “I'm always honest with you boys when I think it's for the best, and that time it wasn't.”

“That's what you think,” Leo says. He stands a little closer now, like he's ready to step between them at any moment. “Mikey deserved to know.”

It's strange to see Leo stand up for him like this, no matter how many times it happens.

There's an odd look on Dad's face, like he's not used to it, either.

“It doesn't matter anyway.”

“It doesn't matter?!” Mikey bristles.

Dad spreads his arms.

“Does it help? That you know it now, is it helping?”

“Yes! I know-” Mikey starts and then needs a moment to think of how to finish. He doesn't come up with anything good. “... I know what to call it now.”

“I think,” Leo says quickly, like he wants to finish before Mikey gets the chance to say something else, “he means that we can go from here now. Figure something out.”

That is what he means, but he wishes it wasn't, just so he could prove someone wrong.

“You think I don't blame myself?” There's something raw in Dad's voice now, like it could break at any moment. “That I couldn't help you then, that I can't help you now?”

“Oh, right, I'm so sorry,” he's crying, and there's no stopping it now, “that my life is so hard for you.”

Something passes over his father's face, something almost like regret.

“I know,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know this is- I know.”

Mikey wants to say he's sorry.

He wants to stand on his toes and wrap his arms around his dad's neck, and hide his face in his shirt. Just like he used to when he was younger, and the world was scary, and there was no safer place than right under his father's arm,

His dad's never hurt him like this before.

“You don't know anything.” Mikey wipes at his face. “You have no idea what this feels like. I wish you would've-”

He wishes he never got sick back then, and he wishes he grew up strong just because he's always been strong, and he wishes he never had to learn what 'MESD' was, and he wishes he never found those damn papers.

“What?” Dad's face hardens again. “That I would've given up on you? Tell me, what other choice was there?”

“I wish you would've told me!”

“Trust me, you finding out like this was the last thing I ever wanted.”

“Like this, or at all?” Leo questions, and Dad looks at him like he wants to start yelling at him, too.

At all.

Because that would make it real, Mikey thinks.

Dad telling him about it would mean that there is something wrong with Mikey, that he doesn't know how to help him anymore, and that it's all because of something he did.

It's so selfish Mikey could laugh.

“Michelangelo. Just- Just think about this,” Dad says. He turns, pointing back to Leo. “And tell your lawyer he doesn't know what he's talking about.”

“Wow!” Leo raises his arms. “Why am I catching strays?”

Mikey takes a long, shaky breath.

“I'm...” He hesitates. “... Why?”

He's not sure what he's really asking.

But his father must have his own ideas about it, because his face grows soft with regret. For yelling, for how it all turned out, but never for his stone-cold, hard decisions.

He's too prideful for that.

They're so alike it hurts.

“I'm not sorry.”

Mikey doesn't stay to hear anything else.

***

The door slams closed, and for a moment, Leo wonders if it made him deaf.

It's so quiet he can hear a ring in his ears, and it's not until Raph sighs, long and hard, that someone finally speaks.

“Should-” Usagi starts, then stops. He seems a little shaken, and Leo takes a long, good look at him, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Should we go after him?”

Leo opens his mouth, then pauses for a moment.

“I don't know,” he says, very slowly.

He gets his brother in more ways than others, but he has a very sudden, very pressing feeling that Mikey won't be happy no matter what they might do.

Draxum doesn't seem to share it.

“I should,” he says, and Leo almost gasps at how bad of an idea that is.

“No, are you crazy? That will make it worse.”

Draxum looks at him, eyebrows drawn.

Leo could never call the two of them 'close', but he always thought there was at least some honest care and respect there, and he can almost feel all of it draining from Draxum in one moment.

“Don't talk back to me, young man.”

“I'm not!” Leo throws his hands in the air. “I'm preventing a national tragedy, it's really-”

He doesn't finish.

There's a quiet sniffle behind him, and it makes him pause before he even realizes what he's doing. He turns, and his gaze falls on Donnie – slouched next to the wall.

He got so quiet he almost forgot he was even in the room, and that sends a pang of guilt right through his chest, because his brother is crying now.

“Donnie?”

He can hear the others turn, following his gaze.

Donnie looks up, trying to wipe at his face through his mask.

“Oh,” he says, voice small. “Why can we never-”

He straightens suddenly, pushing past them to the front door.

It opens and closes with a slam, and Leo watches Donnie go, mouth frozen around some unsaid words.

The room falls silent.

Leo's ears ring.

Chapter Text

(fanart by @vulstare (tumblr))

Chapter Text

“We have to talk.”

“Well,” Leo says, voice rough and mind hazy. “Good morning to you, too.”

Donnie's sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around something that looks generally black-slop adjacent. His coffee-making process is a delicate affair with at least ten steps and a lot of 'specialty' written all over, so seeing him with something this messy feels like a bad sign.

“What the hell is that?” He pulls out a chair, slumping down next to Donnie. “Does it have to be now?”

“You're already here,” Donnie says. Then, a little gentler: “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Leo answers truthfully. “I wasn't sleeping.”

It's almost morning anyway.

He spent most of the night tossing around in his bed, trying not to think, and listening to Mikey and Usagi doing exactly the same.

“Right,” Donnie says, running a finger around the edge of his mug. “Me neither.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

Leo can make a few guesses.

Yesterday was a shitshow, and he'll never say this out loud – but watching Donnie leave made something in his chest crumble like sand. Leo's family is the only thing he has that really matters, and it's been slipping through his fingers for weeks now.

He hates when they fall apart like this. He hates that the only person he can blame isn't around anymore to hear it.

(Shredder's done an awful lot of things, but taking away this closure might be the worst one.)

Donnie might want to talk about that.

Or about how he came back with Mikey, their eyes and faces red from crying, but voices soft. Or the temporary peace set between their younger brother and Draxum.

Or about anything else, really.

“About our dreams.”

The thing about Leo's family is that they're not really good at talking.

“Alright.” He stands up, walking up to the cupboard to pull out a mug for himself, flipping the kettle on. “What about them?”

He can't recall having any recently, which usually meant they weren't all that memorable in the first place. He frowns, and it takes him a moment to realize that Donnie's still looking at him.

“Hey,” his brother says carefully. “About... About yesterday. I wanna talk about that, too. Just- Not now.”

Very slowly, Leo places a mug down onto the counter.

“Okay,” he says.

He's a little taken aback, but maybe in a good way. Probably.

He's not really all that good at talking either.

Donnie shifts in his chair, a little awkward, until Leo picks up again:

“So what's that about dreams?”

He makes himself busy, pulling the instant-coffee can closer. It smells a bit stale but still mostly promising for someone who hasn't slept for the past twenty-four hours.

“I talked to my dad.”

That makes Leo look up.

He hasn't seen that much of Draxum since yesterday, and he had a vague feeling it was very much intentional on his part. The ground between him and his sons feels a little more stable, but mostly in a 'no man's land' sort of way, so if he's avoiding him, that wouldn't really surprise Leo.

He likes Draxum, in a way. He's funny sometimes, even if mostly unintentionally, the only person who can beat him at chess, and he cares about his brothers, which is more than Leo could ever want from someone like that.

But Leo will always stand by his brothers' side, no matter what, and they both know it. It must be tiring sometimes – being around kids just as stubborn as he is.

“We haven't really talked about it since that day we first saw you guys,” Donnie continues, and Leo takes that moment to look for the sugar bowl. “And I think he kind of thought I was going crazy at that moment, so... But after the whole- That whole thing...” Leo winces. He can't see Donnie from where he's standing, but he's probably wearing the same expression. “I didn't know he still had those early studies, so I wanted to ask him more about it. I have some theories.”

“Oh, yeah?” Leo puts some sugar into his coffee. “Like what?”

Maybe he's not taking it as seriously as Donnie would've liked him to, and he hopes his brother can't really tell, but it's been ten years.

Leo loves a good puzzle, but it's not really fun anymore when he knows there will never be a good enough answer, and he got used to the idea that he'll never find the missing pieces to this one a long time ago.

“You're gonna get sick from that, by the way,” Donnie says, pointing to Leo's mug with his chin.

“Fuck off, I like it sweet,” Leo defends, perfectly aware of the fact that every sip he'll take from that mug might take away just a few days from his life.

Donnie hums but doesn't say anything else. He leans to the side, picking up a notebook from the windowsill. Leo didn't even notice it before.

He considers putting more coffee into his mug, just in case.

Donnie flips a few pages, face frozen into a frown, before turning in his chair and holding it up for Leo to see.

“Hivemind.”

Leo blinks.

“Sorry?”

“Look.” Donnie points to something on the page, and Leo squints. Draxum's handwriting was bad enough for medical records, and it doesn't seem like he put in even that much effort for his personal notes. Finally, Donnie relents. “Us. We were supposed to be a hivemind.”

Leo looks at the scribbled pages, not really seeing anything for a long, long moment. His mind feels scattered, all over the place, and trying to grasp any of this feels like sifting sand through a bucket with holes.

Finally, he says:

“... Okay.”

“Yeah, I know,” Donnie agrees, like he can already read every strange thought passing through Leo's mind. “But it seems like it didn't really work anyway.”

He slumps back down on his chair, scratching at his cheek. He doesn't seem nervous, mostly just a little lost in thought, but Leo takes a moment to lighten the mood anyway.

“Seems like your dad's career wasn't all that successful, honestly.”

Donnie scoffs.

“I am my father's greatest creation.”

Leo gives him a look.

“Is that what he tells you?”

“Fuck off.”

They're both tired, and it's just a little too early to really take any of this seriously.

Leo never cared much for the things Draxum intended them to be anyway.

He's a fighter, a ninja, and maybe something like a hero, and he doesn't think he could ever bear to live any other way, no matter how much he'd want to.

But he was also made to stand and fall in line, to listen and obey, with every Hamato, mutant, soldier bone in his body. And he's always been a lot more interested in taking credit for his own downfall than any of that.

He's living for the people he loves, and he's fighting for the things he believes in. Be it Shredder, or The Foot, or whatever other hatred the world might try to push onto him – he's dying with his heart in the right place and his head raised high when they tell him to bow.

Maybe it's some kind of self-sabotage, or martyrdom, or something else that Mikey would find a word for, but Usagi said Leo sounded like a 'proper hero' when he told him that, and that's what he's sticking with.

Finally, Leo walks to sit in the chair next to Donnie. The coffee in his hand looks awful and probably tastes even worse, but he's not really in the mood to put any more effort into it than he already did.

“So that's it, then?” He says, finally. “We're a botched hive-mind job?”

Donnie takes a sip of his coffee.

“I think you just created a new word there. But yes. Would've worked if it wasn't for your father, probably.” Donnie winces a little but doesn't say anything more about that. Leo's a little glad for it. It's too early in the day for him to be thinking about Splinter and the few things he might've done right. “We got the most time in the mutagen, that's what it says here. We're...”

Leo doesn't know if he's unsure of what he wants to say or if he really just doesn't know but decides to finish for him anyway.

“Soulmates?” He proposes.

Donnie's face does a funny thing, his snout scrunched up.

“Soulmates aren't real,” he says, but in a way that makes it clear he's just looking for a reason to disagree. “Connected.”

“Ah,” Leo says. “We're well-done.” He giggles, then stops, thinking. “Wait, is this why Draxum keeps calling Raph 'under-cooked'?”

Donnie looks at him but doesn't really answer.

He points to something on the page, and Leo leans out to look over his shoulder. He has no idea how his brother managed to decipher any of this.

“I would assume the dreams are somewhat of a leftover from that.” He frowns, suddenly reaching into his shorts’ pocket to pull out a pencil. He scribbles something onto the page in a rather furious manner. “The hearts too, maybe?”

“Do you always carry that with you?” Leo asks.

“Yes. Any other questions?” Donnie answers in that clipped tone of his that sometimes makes it impossible to tell if he's joking and always makes Leo grin. “It's all just theory anyway. I'd need to run a few tests to find out anything concrete.” He looks up, expression blank. “You wouldn't mind, would you?”

Leo shifts away in his chair, just in case.

“I'll think about it.” He takes a sip of his coffee, then winces. “Ew, that's way too sweet.”

They sit in silence for a moment.

It's raining outside – the air passing through the open window cold and wet. It's been so hot lately that it almost feels unreal.

Leo leans over the table to stick his hand outside, maybe just to make sure, and Donnie doesn't look up at him, but he lets out a vague huff, something like a laugh, and Leo realizes, just then, how long it's been since they've spent time together like this.

He watches his brother lean down over the notebook, so far he's almost touching it with his snout; face twisted in thought. He looks tired and spent, but there's something bright in his eyes, something Leo hasn't seen for a while now, like changing out old batteries in a dying flashlight.

He didn't even realize how much he missed him.

But seeing him like this – absorbed in reading and writing, covered in dim light, looking maybe a little younger than usual – stirs something like a memory in Leo's mind, and he frowns, sitting back down in his chair.

“Hey,” he says, very slowly. “But Mikey and Raph could do it, too. Kind of. When we were kids, remember?”

It's all fuzzy by now. Those dreams never seemed to stick that close to his mind.

Donnie nods, seemingly less bothered by it than Leo would've expected.

“I'm assuming that has something to do with mystic powers.”

Leo blinks.

“Well, that doesn't sound very science-y to me.”

He's not really teasing, mostly just speaking without thinking, but Donnie glares at him either way.

“It's not science. It's mystics.”

“But we didn't have any powers,” Leo questions. “When we were kids. Before we got the weapons from Draxum's lab, I mean.”

Donnie gives him a long, long look.

“You say the weirdest things sometimes,” he concludes.

Leo would beg to differ, actually, but he doesn't really get the chance to. There's a funny look on Donnie's face now, like he just remembered a small itch that won't go away.

Leo knows that out of all of them – Mikey is the one who's always had a knack for these sorts of things, and he's the one who'd always explain it best. Mystic powers seemed a somewhat sore topic with Donnie, and Leo would never say that to him out loud, but he always wondered if maybe, just maybe, it was a bit of jealousy.

“Mystics are a lot more unpredictable in children,” Donnie speaks up again, fingers drumming against his mug. His coffee must've gone cold a while ago. “The magic sort of... Tests the limits before finally settling. My guess is that's why Raph and Mikey aren't really doing it anymore. It would probably take a lot of conscious effort from them now.”

“So they were better at it as kids?”

“You were also better at a lot of things when you were younger,” Donnie says. “It's easier to learn when you're a kid.”

Leo supposes that's true. He used to be good at a lot of things.

Like keeping quiet. Remembering dates. Learning new math. Loving his father.

He's not saying that last part out loud.

“Sounds like something your dad said to justify forcing you to take piano lessons. You think they could still do it now? If they really tried. Make it into a group meeting?”

Leo isn't really sure how he feels about that idea.

Having Donnie so close to his mind seems as natural as feeling his heart in his chest, but the thought of it being anyone else makes him want to wince. It seems intrusive, in a way.

“I don't think Mikey wants to be in any group meetings right now,” Donnie says.

And there's something a little too serious in his tone, a little too rough and defeated, and Leo frowns, reaching out to pat his arm.

“He'll be fine,” he reassures, putting on a smile. “But maybe wait a bit to dump all this onto him and Raph.”

Donnie doesn't answer at first, staring at the pages in front of him, eyes a little unseeing.

“I'm not sure I'll tell them,” he says finally. “This isn't really all that important.”

Leo blinks, then looks at him for a long moment.

“Not that important?” He says slowly. “Shit, who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

Donnie doesn't really laugh, but he works his jaw, like he's trying not to smile, and that's all that Leo needs.

“I just don't- Get it.” Donnie sighs, wiping at his face with one hand. “It's all theory anyway. And I can't promise I'll ever really have any concrete answers.”

“Okay?” Leo leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Don, I think you're the only person who cares about that. Maybe it's best to leave it as it is.” He shrugs. “Your father's weird ideas backfired in weird ways, but I'm glad they did, and I don't really care about the 'how?'.”

And he thinks he already knows about the 'why?'.

Fate is a strange concept for him to grasp, and he's not really sure he gets half of the things Mikey sometimes tells him about, but he's at a point in his life where it feels almost impossible to turn back on the idea of things happening for a reason.

There's something warm in his chest that hums when he sees his brothers, and he'll always reach out to them on instinct, and he still remembers the vague emptiness that used to haunt him and Raph. That seems like more than enough of a sign that maybe, just maybe, they were always meant to end up here.

Maybe not at this exact table, maybe not in his exact house – but always together.

He's glad he got to meet Orange as a vague, dream idea, and he's grateful for the time when Purple was his first and only friend, and he'd change many things if he could go back in time – but never this.

“Yeah,” Donnie says slowly. “Maybe you're right.”

And in the low yellow light, with the blue hues falling from the window, his eyes wide and open – he looks almost the same as he did ten years ago.

Leo grins, and this time, it’s honest.

Chapter Text

It's been raining all morning.

The air's been dry and hot for so long that it almost felt like it never would, but the earth's soft and cold now, the grass a little more green than yellow, and Raph sits on the porch stairs, chin resting in his hands.

By now it's just a light drizzle – the sky orange from the sunrise – but he stays under the roof anyway. He likes the rain, and he likes not suffocating on stuffy air even more, but he didn’t really sleep all that well last night, which is rare, and it's still ridiculously early, and he feels just a little too sluggish to keep up with his brothers.

Leo and Mikey are trying to teach Donnie how to do a cartwheel, or something like that, and Raph's getting more and more certain he's simply fucking with them with every minute.

(Raph's seen him do a handstand before. He's onto him.)

They're laughing and yelling – mostly at each other, but it's all in good fun, and it's a little hard to believe how ready Raph was to simply pack his bags and leave them all behind once and for all.

He didn't mean it, of course, not really.

But he got tired of feeling like a stranger in his own family, and he got tired of fighting, and he got tired of lying. It all blew up in their faces, because of course it did, and he was scared of looking down to see if there were even any pieces left.

But Donnie and Mikey came back, and Mikey and Draxum sat on the porch to talk, and it all felt a little lighter after that.

Raph doesn't know what they talked about – in those woods or out on the porch – but Donnie's eyes got a little brighter, and Mikey held his shoulders just a little higher, and Leo looked at him like he was thinking the same thing.

He doesn't think any of them had a good sleep that night.

Raph and Donnie got into the habit of talking late into the night, lying down on opposite sides of the room, staring up at the same ceiling. Besides their younger brothers, they don't really have that much in common, all things considered, and disagree on almost every topic. They're so different from each other it sometimes feels like trying to play catch with a wall.

Raph never minded.

He loves Donnie as a brother, but he also likes him as a person, as a friend – even with how annoying, and pretentious, and all-knowing he tends to be. He's a funny guy, and he always takes Raph more seriously than anyone else.

“Do you think,” Donnie asked him last night, voice low and a little more serious than usual, still strained from crying, “your dad could talk to Mikey?”

“What?” Raph whispered, taken aback.

He hasn't thought about his father at all in the last few days, and realizing it made his stomach hurt. He winced.

Donnie couldn't have seen that, but he made a low sound in the back of his throat anyway, something like an apology.

“I mean, he has to know more about all this Hamato stuff. And Mikey won't ask himself, because he's scared of what Leo will say.”

Raph, for all intents and purposes, also felt a little scared of what Leo would say. They didn't need to pick up new fights right now; they weren't even done with the old ones.

“It's probably a good start,” he said.

It was. He just didn't want to think about it.

“I mean, I'm not too happy about it either, but at least he'd be useful for once,” Donnie said. Then: “That was mean. I was kidding.”

Raph didn't really believe him.

“It's okay,” he sighed.

“Sorry,” Donnie said again, after a moment. “You're not talking to him?”

Raph closed his eyes shut.

“I don't know.”

“Are you going to The Lair when we're back in New York?”

“... I don't know.”

“Okay,” Donnie said.

And Raph already knew neither of them would be sleeping that night.

He drifted off for a few minutes when it started to rain, the sun slowly peeking from behind the horizon, before finally giving up for good.

He found the room empty, and all of his brothers stashed together in the kitchen, already getting through their second or third cup of coffee, which wasn't all that surprising.

Leo handed him a mug without a word.

But the caffeine must've worked despite everything, because they got loud and obnoxious in just a couple of minutes, eventually luring a very sleepy Usagi and an even sleepier Spot out of the bedroom, and that was basically the end of the night for all of them.

Fresh air must've done them some good, too.

Raph watches them, feeling warm and soft, and far too lazy to move from his spot now, even when he hears the front door crack open behind him, soft footsteps on the wood.

“Is it going to rain all day?” Usagi asks, sitting down next to him.

Raph knows he's especially grumpy on rainy days, which probably has a lot to do with his thick, white fur and is probably the same reason why his showers only take a few minutes.

“I think it's clearing out now,” Raph answers, leaning out a little to look at the sky.

Usagi sighs.

He looks tired but calm, like he just cried himself out, which didn't really fix anything but made it all feel a little better. Judging by the red tint to his eyes, that might as well be the case.

A few steps away from them, Mikey shifts, stumbling over his own feet, and Leo pulls out a hand, raising it to his brother's chest. Mikey catches himself on his own, and Leo doesn't even turn to look at him – all instincts.

It's a small moment, unremarkable all things considered, but something in the casualness of it all, of that familiar protective instinct, makes Raph pause.

Leo has grown a lot over those last two years.

He's taller now, stronger, light-hearted and charming but carrying himself with the sort of maturity Raph couldn't even dream about at his age. It almost aches to watch him like this – the traces of all the anger he used to keep within himself smoothed over into smile lines.

He loses focus, and it takes him a moment to realize that in the time he's been looking at Leo – Usagi has been looking at him.

He turns to meet his gaze now.

It's not often that they're one-on-one like this, and there's a pause, just for a moment. But they're too familiar with each other for it to shift into anything awkward, and Usagi smiles at him, pulling up his legs to rest his chin on his knees.

And maybe it's because Leo finally notices Usagi and grins, waving madly from where he stands, like they haven't seen each other in ages. Or maybe it's the way Usagi smiles back with all his teeth, eyes crinkling, face all lit up.

Or maybe it's because he's been wanting to say it for a long, long time now.

But finally, he speaks:

“I think I should thank you.”

Usagi blinks, then frowns.

“For what?”

“For...” He hasn't really thought this through, and he takes a moment to gather up the right words. He comes up empty anyway, which was expected. “I don't really know- Listen, I just wanted to say that... Leo's been really good since you two got together.”

“... Really?” Usagi watches him, like it's the last thing he ever expected Raph to say. “You know, I thought you didn't really like me at first.”

“What? Why would you think that?”

That catches him off guard, and he takes a moment to think back on every interaction he ever had with the other boy. There's a lot of it, and he can't recall anything that could've given him that idea.

Usagi was always more of his brother's friend than his, and he always found him a little annoying, but mostly in an affectionate, kid brother way.

“I don't know.” Usagi fidgets with the edge of his shorts. “You kind of seemed... Grumpy. All the time.”

Ah.

“That wasn't...” He thinks about it for a moment. “Raph had a lot of things on his mind back then. It wasn't about you.”

Usagi looks at him for a moment before shrugging.

“Okay,” he says, like he genuinely believes him, and that makes Raph feel just a bit better about the whole ordeal.

“No, really. I guess...” Raph looks at Leo again. He's smiling so wide it's hard to even notice the dark lines under his eyes. “He's happy. So just- Thank you. Raph thinks you're a really good influence on him.”

Usagi's quiet for a moment, fidgeting with a drawstring of his hoodie. It's blue, way too big for him, and probably belonged to Leo at one point or another.

“... I'm a good influence?” He says, something a little strange in his voice. “I didn't 'fix him', you know? He did that all on his own.”

Raph hums.

“I know. But maybe you just... Gave him one more reason to try.”

He looks back at Usagi, and there's something so honestly moved on his face that he almost startles.

“Thanks,” he says, so honest and raw, like he's about to cry, and that scares Raph just a little bit.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

Usagi was distant a while ago, a little awkward and quieter than usual. He seems better now, but Raph supposes it doesn't hurt to ask.

His friend hums for a moment.

His face shifts into something softer, a little thoughtful.

“Now or in general?”

The question makes Raph pause. He looks back at his brother's, watches Donnie recoil when Mikey puts a handful of probably (hopefully) grasshoppers up to his face.

“Now.”

Usagi follows his gaze and smiles – eyes bright.

“Yes.” He stands, brushing off dust and dirt from his shorts. “Wanna go see what these losers are up to?”

Raph still doesn't really feel like moving, but he does anyway, careful on the wet grass. It's not raining anymore, but he can still feel mud sticking to his feet.

His brothers turn to look at them. Leo grins, and he grabs Usagi's hand when he's close enough to do so.

“Donnie just said there are some old fireworks in the barn. Let's go blow up something.”

“I said there might be, don't pin that on me,” Donnie huffs, and Mikey steps closer to roughly push at his shoulder.

“If there aren't any, we're blowing you up.”

Raph doesn't say anything, but he can feel his mouth stretch into a smile despite himself.

He and Usagi share one more look before his friend turns to Mikey and Donnie, something wild and young in his eyes.

“Oh, I think this is a good moment to tell you,” he says, all casual. “I'm moving in with you guys.”

***

It's weird, for the most part.

Raph doesn't think he really liked staying here all that much, and he certainly hated most things that happened in the past two months, and he did consider getting up and walking straight into those woods at least a few times.

But he's strangely attached now, and it really wasn't all that bad after all, and he's not really sure when he started to hate change this much.

He sighs, taking one last look around the bedroom.

“Got everything?” Donnie asks.

His brother packed all of his things the night before, because he's ''not a disorganized freak'' like the rest of them, or so he claims. Raph has seen Donnie's bedroom before, so he doesn't believe that in the slightest.

He thinks it might just make his brother anxious to leave things to the last minute. Many things do nowadays, but he decided not to comment on it.

He just silently left one of his own empty bags next to Donnie's bed in the evening.

“Think so.” He puts his bag over his shoulder. “Come on.”

They walk the long hallway, all the way to the main entrance, and it takes that long for Raph to realize he finally managed to learn how to avoid all the creaky wood floors.

He decides to wait outside.

Donnie comes with, and they're both a bit taken aback when it's Leo that shows up on the porch not a moment later.

“'Sup,” he says, all casual, sitting down next to them.

There's a smile on his lips, and something light in his steps, and Raph says:

“You're nervous.”

Leo looks at him, eyes wide.

“No?”

“Don't lie, I can tell.” He points his two fingers at his eyes, then back at Leo. “Big-brother sense.”

“True,” Donnie nods, not looking up from his phone.

“Piss off.” Leo pushes Raph's hand away, but the smile on his face melts. “Maybe. A little, I guess.”

“About what?”

Leo doesn't answer at first.

He goes quiet, mouth drawn into a thin line, eyes focused, until he finally says:

“You're not coming home, are you?”

That makes Donnie look up.

Something in Raph's chest breaks.

Because he wants to.

He wants to turn his back on all of it, because it's a burden that he never should've been made to carry, and he wants to do things for himself, and be his own person for once in his life, and say he doesn't care about his father, or Leo, or his old home.

That he's not scared that Leo will feel lonely, or abandoned, or that Splinter might say something that will make him feel even worse, or that it'll all end badly one way or another.

That he doesn't care what happens, because he's not Leo's father.

He wishes he could say that.

He wishes he wasn't such a bad liar.

“I don't think you should be,” Donnie says.

Leo's face does a funny thing, and he turns to look at them both.

“I can't just-”

He doesn't finish.

His eyes look wet, and there's that certain look on his face, and Raph reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder before he says anything else.

“It's okay. I know, alright? I know.”

“I just... Oh.” Leo leans forward, hiding his face in Raph's arm, more defeated than anything else. “I think I miss him. I'm sorry.”

Donnie winces, but then frowns, because he loves Leo more than he feels anything towards their father.

Raph leans down to kiss the top of Leo's head, finally saying the honest truth:

“I won't leave you, okay?” He promises. “I'm not moving out if you're not coming with, but I can't be there all the time. It's driving me crazy.”

Donnie stands, moving to crouch in front of Leo.

“You can always stay over. As long as you want. You know that, right?”

“And, I mean, we don't have to be here or there all the time,” Raph adds. It feels a little like placating a scared animal now. “We'll make it work.”

“Like split custody,” Donnie suggests, in a very serious tone that almost makes Raph laugh.

Leo sniffles, wiping at his nose, before finally pulling away.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” He takes a shaky breath. “Stop crowding me.”

There's something lighter but clipped to his tone now, something that usually means he's done talking for now.

But he takes Raph's hand anyway, giving it a squeeze.

***

It takes their family another fifteen minutes to finally gather all of their things, and Raph suspects Mikey might be the most responsible for that, but he's really not in the mood to give any lectures. His brother still looks at him like he expects one and maybe seems a bit disappointed when it doesn't come.

He might be feeling a whole lot like Raph does, actually, because he looks back on the house with something sad etched into his face and a small, forced smile.

Raph puts his arm around his shoulders when they walk into the field.

“Alright.” Leo walks to the front, stretching his arms before finally pulling out his sword. “One trip to New York coming up.”

“You're so cringe,” Mikey says, but Usagi laughs, so Leo doesn't seem all that bothered.

“You guys think The Foot is still around?” Donnie asks, and that makes everyone wince, including Draxum.

He looks even more bothered by that idea than the rest of them.

“I don't even want to know what those guys were up to while we were gone,” Raph huffs.

Leo grins.

He brings up his sword, face focused, and swings with something fast and electric slipping into the air.

He turns back to them, goosebumps all over his arms.

“Wanna find out?”