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Michelangelo hadn't had the best day. He hadn't had a great week, really. And every little thing that had gone wrong over the past few days seemed to upset him a little bit more each time. Every small detail, like his wrappings being too tight, or the drip of the faucet late at night, or the rumbling of the old pipes that ran alone the corners of the lair, or things that has just been wrong.
Things like, for example, Raphael sitting in Mikey's spot on the couch, or Leo using Mikey's favourite mug for his green tea, or Casey cancelling their plans to hang out at the last minute because of a school project he had due. These were things that wouldn't usually bother Michael as much as they did now, things that he couldn't control.
And he supposed that may have been the problem. He couldn't control these things. It would be rude to make Leo use a different mug for his tea, especially because he had already poured it out. It would be pointless in trying to ask Raph to move to a different seat, his brother would just smack him upside the head or just ignore him altogether.
And it wasn't like he could just cancel Casey's project, no matter how much he wanted to, because that wasn't possible. Casey had to do it or else he would get a bad grade, and then he would blame it on Mikey, because it would have been Mikey who had kept him from studying and working. And Mikey didn't want that. He didn't want Casey mad at him. So he put up with it.
Michelangelo simply had to grin and bear all of these annoyances, upset and irritation building up and planting a seed of something unpleasant in his chest. Upset because of nothing following the routine he had made up in his mind, and irritation because there was no need to feel this way, to feel these emotions so irrationally. There was no need to be so unnecessarily difficult.
And, despite all of his efforts to hide his growing overwhelm, his immediate older brother eventually caught on. Be it in the way Michael's hands clenched and unclenched under the table at mealtimes, or in the way he rocked subtly back and forth while sitting in the TV room, Mikey didn't know. He just knew that he had been found out. He just knew that he was causing his brother unnecessary concern.
Now, Mikey was sitting on the couch, half listening to his brothers conversation as he hugged his plushy to his chest and grew increasingly invested in whatever show was playing at the moment. He didn't exactly remember what it was called, but it was about a bunch of anthropomorphic duck children and their Scottish great uncle going on adventures, solving mysteries and rewriting history. Peak content in Mikey's opinion.
It was a few minutes into the fourth episode when he felt a tap on his shoulder, turning his head to see Leonardo looking back. He seemed closer than the last time Michael looked at him. Mikey hummed in acknowledgement, awaiting whatever question his oldest brother deemed necessary enough to distract him from the absolute masterpiece currently streaming on the TV.
"You gonna cook dinner tonight?" Leo asked, keeping his voice low as to not disturb Raph and Donnie's heated debate about.... Croissants and 'why French culture does slash doesn't have superior culinary expertise'....
Moving away from that, Mikey checked the clock that was conveniently placed on a small table next to the couch. Seeing as it was almost six o'clock, Mikey shot a quick 'sure' at Leo and stood to go towards the kitchen, regretfully abandoning his sweet, sweet new comfort show. He thought about dinner options that he and his brother's all like, landing on cottage pie.
Michael entered his beloved kitchen, his rightfully claimed domain, muttering the recipe to himself as he took out a cutting board. "Potatoes, garlic, onion, veggies, mince, gravy, cheese..." He opened the fridge, taking out the cheese before he paused, thinking over the recipe. "Oh! And butter!"
He set the cheese and butter next to the cutting board, before tapping his chin in a sign of deep thought. "If I were a potato..." He muttered, looking through the kitchen. "Where would I be?" Mikey paused before pointing his finger up in a 'eureka!' moment. "The cupboard!" He exclaimed, beginning to search through each of the presses for his russet potatoes.
When he came up empty, Mikey frowned. "No potatoes," Mikey said to himself, beginning to fret. "And we don't have much of anything else," he continued, checking the freezer and seeing it empty, save for I.C.K. and a few cheesesicles. "No mince or carrots either..." Michael groaned loudly after the realisation, giving Kitty a quick pat on the head before he closed the freezer.
There wasn't enough food in the fridge or the cupboards to make a meal for his brothers, and he had already said that he would cook. Now they'll be mad at him, for getting their hopes up about a homemade Mikey especial. They'll be mad at him because he hadn't let anyone know that they were running low on ingredients, they'll be mad at him for not being observant enough to have noticed, to have been too shellbrained to mention it, to-
Mikey cut off his own frustrated spiral, checking through the cupboards once, twice more, letting out an irritated growl when he came up with the same outcome as before. He slumped onto one of the chairs that surrounded the kitchen table, blinking furiously against the hot sting developing behind his eyes. There was no need for this.
Here he was, almost eighteen years old, crying like a baby over a lack of ingredients. This was unnecessary. This was irrational. This was ridiculous. His frustration grew the more tears fought to escape, and his frustration brought on more tears. It was an endless cycle of self sabotage. A truly pathetic display. Michelangelo wiped away the few tears that escaped, and kept wiping a moment longer as more formed.
Mikey pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes after a moment, the tears beginning to cascade down his cheeks like hot waterfalls over a steep cliff, seemingly never-ending. A few hiccups and sniffles escaped his beak as he ignored the urges to flap his hands and bounce his legs and scratch his arms. He was so caught up in his near meltdown that he didn't notice his brother enter the room until he was directly in front of him and speaking.
"Mike.." Donatello's voice was hushed, as to not overstimulate his baby brother any further than he obviously already was. "Mikey, sweetheart, look at me," he whispered, gently pulling Michael's hands away from his face. He cupped Mikey's cheek, guiding his face so that they were eye to eye. Donnie smiled softly, glad that Mikey was willingly holding the eye contact and not pulling away.
"Angie... What's going on, huh?" Donnie asked, cautious as to not upset Michelangelo further. He didn't exactly expect an answer, but the silence that followed his question paired with the look on his little brother's face only added on to his worry. "Not speaking?" He questioned, relieved at the nod that Mikey responded with. At least he was being acknowledged.
"Okay, then," he muttered, before taking in the room a couple times, in an attempt to gauge what had upset Michael so. His gaze fell on the cutting board, and then the cheese and butter beside it, and then nothing else. He knew that Mikey had been upset the last few days, he wondered if these seemingly lacking ingredients were the final straw on the camel's back. With the camel, obviously, being Mikey.
"Can't cook dinner?" Donatello inquired, bringing his eyes back to Michelangelo, who was still wiping away tears of frustration. The shorter of the two nodded, looking towards the cutting board, to the fridge, and then back to Donnie. The latter mentioned brother nodded, understanding of Mikey's plight. "That's okay, Mike," Don reassured him, gesturing towards the TV room. "The others won't mind, okay? We can just order in," he said, before he stood and held out both hands.
"Right is pizza, left is chinese," Donnie told Michael, who looked up at him tiredly. "Your choice, okay?" He said. Mikey stared for a moment longer, before he reached up and took hold of his older brother's left hand. Even with how much he liked pizza, he just didn't feel like it right now. Plus, the Chinese place is closer. Donnie smiled warmly at him. "Come on let's tell the others, and then you can go back to watching your show," The purple banded turtle said, gently tugging Mikey's hand for him to stand.
"That sound good?" Donnie asked, and Mikey nodded, wiping his cheeks one last time before he stood and let Donatello lead him by the hand over to the couch. He grasped his plushy when his immediate older brother handed it to him, gripping it tightly against his plastron and closing his eyes for a few moments. He heard Dee turn on the TV, but he couldn't bring himself to pry open his heavy eyelids.
Mikey leaned into Donnie's side when the latter sat next to him, nuzzling his beak against his shoulder. Donatello gently rubbed Michael's head, and Mikey churred at the contact, beginning to relax and wind down from earlier. He heard his brothers start up a conversation about something or other, and the tap-tap of Donnie's fingers doing who-knows-what at lightning speed on his phone. And, before he drifted off to a much needed nap, he thought one thing.
'I love my brothers.'