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Fat, heavy raindrops pitter patter off the top of his hood, landing like bullets where they thunk against slippery plastic and slide away with ease.
Shopper amongst them bustle about in the street, either hunkering down in their own jackets and coats, or perhaps squashing under wonky umbrellas, where the cool breeze that danced through the street tried to take them with it, Raphael felt small and almost invisible as the humans darted around with fevered speed.
“S’raining!” The little bundle of scarves and a coat too big for him announced as loud as his little voice will carry. He’s got a tight hold of Raph’s hand, except he can’t keep up with Raph’s longer, wider strides, so he keeps falling behind and tugging on his arm.
Raph hums mindful to keep his head down as he weaves them in and out of the foot traffic.
“Keep close, Angie,” Raph tells him, tugging hi close. “You don’t wanna get lost!”
Mikey yelps and waddles faster to burrow at his big brother's side; with Christmas looming, the New York streets were busier and more chaotic that usual, with festive shoppers and tourists alike, all cramming to make sense of where they needed to be.
Splinter had been unfazed about sending his children out for a few groceries, mostly because they had a better chance of blending in with the crowd than he ever did — just as long as they didn’t look too suspiciously like children unattended, they could slip by and get what they needed without worry.
Mr Murikami’s J-Mart was only a short walk from the usual manhole they’d clambered out of, and Raph practically knew the route from his grocery runs with their pops so far — he’d been tasked to take Michelangelo with him like it was some recruitment training, but also because the twins had come down with a mild case of strep throat and weren’t allowed out in the cold.
So Raph was extra conscious of how much suspicious activity they seemed to emit, making sure he lingered close enough behind adults to look like they were some kind of believable family, but not too close that they’d turn around themselves and shoo them off before having quite the fright.
And Raph’s plan was working perfectly, up until in classic New York fashion, something goes horribly wrong.
“Aye, watch if you damn schmuck!”
A street vender yells loudly over the thrumming buzz of crowd noise, each of his words punctuated with a heavy, fierce kind of anger.
As Raph tries to side step forwards, he catches a glimpse as to what had upset the man — his display of apples and oranges are now spilled into the street, boxed crates having been toppled over by somebody clearly not having paid attention, and the man at fault, barely looks like he’s taken note of being yelled at, briefcase in one hand, his phone in the other where it was glued to his ear.
“Man, shuddup,” he curses once he realises he’s being spoken to, his face wrinkling on itself.
Raph doesn’t like yelling, and he doesn’t want to let go of Mikey’s hand to cover his ears, so he just hurries them faster past the scene as it begins to escalate, more shouting, heavier, ruder words being spat and a few passer-by's joining in, seemingly just for the fun of it, adding fuel to the fire, as their Pops would say.
Except things go from bad to worse. They manage to escape the argument by hurrying along the street, poor little Mikey barely managing to keep up where he was pulled along, when there’s more noise.
Street performers, blocking the path, angering more and more people as they attempt to shove past.
Someone knocks into Raph; a flurry of Bloomingdale’s and Macy’s bags whiz by his head, dazing him for a second before he realises at some point during the kurfuffle, he’d let go of Mikey’s hand.
He whips around, as fast as a bullet only to find he wasn’t there, beside him nor behind him.
Raph’s heart pounds in the back of his throat — zero time for escalation, this was panic at its finest, here, fast and furious.
“Mike?!” He calls out, his trembling, frightful voice is instantly swallowed up by the sound of steel drums that play on in their cheery, merry beat. “Mikey!”
He spins in a circle, each breath he pushed out his chest seemed to snag every rung of his ribs on the way out, each as painful as the last.
He can’t see him. He can’t see his little brother in the sweeping tides of people that have either stopped to observe the musical performance of that hurry past.
He can’t find his little brother, and it’s all his fault.
His breath quickens, his pulse threads fast and faster through his body.
He feels somebody touch gently at his shoulder, making him jerk backwards, the words are vague and muffled as his head spins and his ears ring,
“Are you lost, sweetie? Can’t you find your mommy?”
Raph moves, like there’s electricity zapping at the underneath of his feet, forcing him onwards, he’s not sure which direction to go, but he goes anyway, knowing he has to do something.
And it’s as he’s pushing past the static crowd, not even bothering with his usual slews of sorry’s and thank you’s, that he finally, finally catches sight of his little brother, there at the edge of the mat where the performers bounce around with their drums, Mikey bobbing his head along, totally in awe.
Raph surges forward, not even caring who he shoulder checks on the way, and lunges for him, grabbing him by the scruff of his coat and yanking him away.
“Hey! Ow, Raphie!”
But Raph can’t think. Can’t talk. He can’t even unfurl his fist from where it tightened around the material of Mikey’s large jacket, not until he’s staggered into a dark, quiet alleyway, where it smells like sewers and there’s some rude words scrawled across the brickwork that’d make Leo laugh for days.
Raph finally lets go of his brother, only so he can slump onto an upturned part of an old air conditioning until, thrown out and abandoned, Raph can’t seem to catch his breath.
Mikey soon realises this, stilling in the moment, eyes widening and mouth parting in silent uncertainty.
“Raphie…?” He says quietly. He bends his knees, tips his head sideways to try and meet Raph’s eyeline where he blindly stares holes into the ground.
Each breath is choppy and fast and seems to spill out of him like wet spaghetti. His tummy feels all fluttery and he thinks he might be sick, which is never fun anyways, but he had a lot of Animal Crackers this morning and he doesn’t wish to enjoy them in reverse any time soon, so he sucks in a breath and tries to not think about throwing up.
“Raphie,” Mikey says again, his tiny hand coming to rest upon Raph’s shaking knee. “M’sorry. I’m sorry I made you worry.”
Raph shakes his head, and tries to gather back enough breath as well strength to tell Mikey it wasn’t his fault really, that he shouldn’t have let go of his hand in the first place.
But his voice is all thin and whispery and kind of just shrivels up and dies in the back of his throat, swept away by another shuddering breath.
Mikey is quiet for a moment, his little fingers slip away from Raph’s knee, until after a moment of seemingly quiet contemplation, he speaks up again.
“Hey. Raphie-Taffie. Look!”
Raph can barely manage to crane his neck upwards, like every singular molecule in his body had doubled, tripled in weight, but he hears the sound of Mikey shuffling backwards, until suddenly there’s a small splashing sound.
“Puddles! Look! Wanna see how big I can jump?”
He’s wearing his most sunniest, most beaming smile, where it shows off both gaps where he’d lost both front teeth within a few days of each other, his eyes squinting, knees bent at the ready.
It’s a sight that’s plenty of cute that it forces some of the air back into Raph’s lungs and for his mouth to twitch slightly.
Mikey senses this, smiles harder somehow, leaps up as far as his little legs will allow and splashes hard into the puddle.
He erupts into a fit of laughter the same time Raphael playfully groans, taking note of his now soggy runner shoes and overalls.
“Mike…” he says softly, finally having gotten his voice back.
Mikey rushes up to him, hands on knees again, this time to bounce excitedly with a big, beaming grin plastered across his face.
“Was that cool? Did it look cool, Raphie?”
Raph blinks hard and swallows thickly, placing his larger hands over Mikey’s and giving them a squeeze.
He really was sunshine personified in every which way.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “It was. Wanna keep jumping for a little bit?”
He doesn’t quite trust his legs yet, and whilst he was managing normal sized breaths now, he still felt a little flutter tickling his chest that he wanted to clear entirely before tackling the crowds once more.
Mikey doesn’t hesitate to rush up towards another puddle, ready himself and jump and land with once again, a flurry of bubbly, giddy laughter.
And all Raph needs in that moment, is to sit, be steady and let each giggle ring out and keep him there; grounded, safe and loved.