Chapter Text
Existence of daily wearing rye was not demanding as the father shouted. You could compare the whole trial to the apple basket worn - choosing the least red from the juiciness of the fruit. Catch them, blend and enjoy it with taste.
Just not. Is not how the world works.
Is not how the day works.
In addition to the role of the title hero of the city, he found a place in everyday life of basic tasks, such as food and sleep.
Not everything has to go smoothly. Not only criminals destroy the day without notification.
This day did not belong to the day. In the morning he struggled with mantra, vibration, bird whistles. He could easily ignore it, with the rest of the day; in turn. Today was to be the day for him and the new person.
You see, Donatello had found a friend. They could exchange letters, but the mail was slow, constantly losing letters and packages - he honestly couldn't stand the thought of his letter ending up in unrestrained hands. Besides, this wasn't the age for exchanging notes, like in his father's time. Digital mail remained. And it was better, because nothing was lost. Sometimes they used platforms similar to So-Shell itself, discord, or more - as Leo called it - grandfather's communicators. It didn't matter to them. It served its purpose, it met the requirements. Conversations were fluid, the image stuttered when the friend's signal was weak, or when the internet was down - always on the interlocutor's side. Donatello took care of everything.
Understanding flowed on both sides, without pointing, without turning your nose. One stupid movement and you make a trip.
It wasn't.
The remaining faithful to themselves, mentioning the situation based on life events, or conscripted from third parties. Without going down to the side tracks, without mentioning the names, humiliating photos.
Two years, four months, two days, eight hours. Like clock - repeating Tick -Tock alternately - Donnie waited with the proposal of the first full -fledged meeting. A representative seeing a friend's face. Smile, drink coffee together. It would be wonderful, he knew it. Heart was not beating after receiving a positive message.
A winding road, full of turns and changes in communication, led from Nowgo York to Southnigton. He was afraid to see the message about resignation, but fortunately he never lived to give up the words of resignation. This only stimulated the heart to whip, hands to flutter, tongue to click.
They arranged on Saturday. Point; Coffeehouse. A newly open cafe with good opinions on the web. It wasn't-that- fresh as they thought. It was fresh on the market for maybe two months, but it has already collected good words and photos showing fancy cakes. They did without a ton of sugar.
He dressed the best beige pants he found in the closet, fastened with a slipper strap. Leo argued about the color, pointing out dirty beige, but it wasn't. To this day, they did not put a specific name, and the internet invented newer names every now and then. Not once, not twice, a comparison to the branch of trees has gone. Finding a selected shirt did not come with war. No, April and her good eye for fashion helped. She pulled her friend to shopping, throwing more into the basket, more, more clothes of candidates to match selected pants and shoes. Donnie took help with a smile, jerked his head, clicked his tongue.
He put on selected pants and shoes in the fitting room. Every minute he came out from behind the curtain, revealing the mountain clothing with or without a smile. Some fabrics irritated the skin, they didn't want to be there. They said it was not for his sensory. He agrees with them. They looked acceptable under testing the thumb and finger. As a result, magnificent or plastic. Who invented plastic clothes? He goes to get on the first opportunity, don't have to go out to the sun. A few dance movements, sitting in a closed room, you are already welcoming stains.
April shook her head with thumbs down.
The chestnut cheese shirt did not meet the requirements - agh, it looked so beautiful on the mannequin!
The shirt lost the battle on the shell, shouting when putting on the shoulders. One arm passed, other not.
The second shirt, much larger, did not survive a violent jerk with her eyelid flutter. The seam went on the side with the creation of a pear -size hole.
They escaped from the store.
A few stores continued and found a pleasant sweater in lavender. It was pleasant and coarsely sewn, the consistency did not scratch at all, and he reminded himself of his favorite hoodie sweatshirt in which he buried in the evenings.
They nodded synchronously.
His hand jerked forward, throwing the banknote in front of the dissatisfied saleswoman. He apologized with the whistle.
He dressed in a new sweater at home, presenting before a family with a nervous grimace and jerking sideways. He bent his wrist, grunted.
The youngest brother conducted several initial sedative exercises before leaving for the meeting. Hands sweated abundantly. Donnie depended at the meeting. He wanted to make a good impression.
No. He must make a good impression.
He arrived at the agreed place thirty minutes ahead of time. He promised being polite, not writing space for losses. She was not particularly distinctive. No, it was faster to name these typical cafes with wall cubes with suspended images telling the story of Wallace Malbrowski. European origin, raised in the state of Utah. A smiling man with a crack between his teeth. He lifted a large cat to the camera in his hands. Donatello understood the name of the cafe.
There was neither too crowded nor too loose. As for Saturday morning, people did not manage to enter the windows and chimneys. Okay, maybe there will be slack until an hour - he thought.
The task was to test coffee. He wanted to know what to order in an hour, so as not to spend money on waste and pretend to be satisfied with the drink received. He read a lot of reviews, as mentioned earlier. Everyone knows that reflected reviews are not the same as trying the hard way. He scaled his fingers low, light pain stuck during the release of bubbles, chirp and blinked violently.
He waited a minute in the queue, looked at the availability of drinks, deciding not to go crazy today.
(It was not the first to try the explosive mixing mix of the bowel)
He focused on a simple strong coffee.
He thanked with a single bluff, clapping his hands to the rhythm of playing music in his head. She got stuck two days ago, she didn't want to leave. He repeated individual words, jerked his head forward.
He tried to ignore the eyes of others.
Not everyone was looking. Most of them seemed to ignore the mutant inside, busy with their own affairs. They bought drinks and cookies laughed and talked. Bunny complained about the small amount of carrots in the dough. The little girl asked her mother for a chocolate cookie.
He heard quiet, but not quiet enough, humming a song.
This is the same melody Modern Talking playing in the head of Donatello constantly for so many days. He unscrewed his head towards the hummed melody, not tugging. Two teenagers stood nearby, dressed in output costumes with flaps on the legs and bracelets on their arms. Lower boy giggled when his friend with lizard face mimiced the tone of Donatello, compromising his head.
Yes, it was not worth paying attention. It's their business, not him. He jerked his head, squeezed his hands in his fists, arranging one on the other in a tiny barrel. He whistled, dog's mutant raised his ears.
Yes, not good. He instinctively raised his hand in his pants pocket, finding the phone. He entered the code twice when the hand jerked and Donatello had to juggle with phone. He had to take the mind, for a moment. Whatever could postpone his thoughts. He hit a flat knee. He opened his mouth, bending his jaw. He shook his head, covering his lips in pretended yawning. He held for a moment until the tick did not relax his muscles. He jerked again. Hung. He was called to pick up coffee. Audit, he picked up a drink with thanks for a young saleswoman, threw a few cents as a tip and cursing with a single phrase, apologized to a confused girl. She smiled..
Good.
He found a quiet angle at a point, next to a large window and potted plant with small handkerchiefs woven in the letter. They arranged patterns of small cats chasing the yarn. He took his place, putting a cup in time, before Tik forced his hand to squeeze his fingers and hit the thigh. He curse, slammed his hand on the cheek twice.
The body jerked forward, delaying his head, turned her around with a curse.
Two guests left the tables.
Tics were not something common in the environment. He took the case of the glances received by the uninitiated in the subject. True, he could wear a plaque with information about the disease - he also wore one during the teenager's time. He lost it while chasing a mutant pig with a worm in its hand, and the panicked hippo screamed for his beloved. For the second time she was ignored and thrown straight into the face, when one of the guests did not like Donnie gestures. Raph had to intervene. Other times brought a different toll.
He repeated stuttering words of rhythm.
He slammed his hand in his thigh quite painfully.
He put his elbows on the table, hid his nose in the tent of his hand. He dragged a long sigh, chirping himself calming down to himself. Not tics.
He clicked his tongue. Tics.
He squeezed his hands, stopping the growing phases of movements. Uncontrolling the body. Understanding nerves for neurological joy. Stupid. Planted in the wheelchair remained in it for good, unable to leave, because the belts were stuck with steel and copper. The imaginary Eskalibur, King Arthur is gone.
The characteristic tingling reminded Donnie that would be best to allow the body to take control. It lives with his own life, you don't have to listen to your master. Carriage for stopping the movement, the fist tightens, directs into the torso with a blow of two stones. Grunts, wrinkles his lips in pain. He bends his neck, a quarter and again.
Banging again.
He did not knock the cup, thank to heaven.
I feel the eyes of others. He raises his eyes, sends a look There is nothing interesting here to watch. He tugs, a quarter and a coughing again. Stutting words of rhythm, cheri cheri lady.
He sees the eyes of employees looking at himself, then at him. He knows they know. They see his behavior. It is not sure if they really do the case of the weight on the shoulders - He only knows about the look.
Mix.
The desire to take action, tantamount to screwing the feet to the floor. Shit at rain, a bright day, a bonfire card. Something arises, something is running out.
He hits his head with his hand, twice on the forehead. Moans in pain.
Feel calm for a short moment. He can drink a sip of coffee before a tics returns, forcing air blowing into drink. Liquid spills in Donnie eye, hiss in pain. Pushes away rapidly wiping his eye with his sleeve. Frame tugs up, challenging curse of whores.
Embarrassed, he must leave the place. Stress before talking to a friend face to face was intensified by tics. He couldn't go on a fool. He couldn't hurt his friend. He couldn't, he didn't. He would hit her. He would pour out the coffee. He ordered to fuck off, he would call a whore.
His tics, not himself.
He would offend.
But they knew about tics. Everything he is about to face.
The eyes look, whispers.
Ugly. Weird. Unusual. Why does he raise his finger? Mom, why this green man punched himself? Stoned. Paying attention. Fucking mutant.
Yes, no, thank you.
He wrote a sincere apology.
He left the cafe without finished coffee.