Grow: Chapter One-- Change (1/2)
The first chapter of Grow.
Chapter One-- "Change (1)"
"Morning, Donny," Leonardo greeted as he passed by the kitchen.
Just like the blue-clad turtle did every morning, as Donatello poured his coffee and didn't even glance back at him when he said, "Good morning," in automatic reply.
And Don didn't need to ask to know that at around five, Leo had woken up and trained, and that the blue-clad turtle was passing by the kitchen only after greeting their sensei in respects, and that the same turtle was now heading back to the dojo to train even more before breakfast.
He would pass by Raph's room on the way, too, where their brother would just be waking up or sometimes even be opening the door by then.
Either way, Leo always said, "Morning, Raph."
"Yeah, yeah...," was the groaned response that would follow.
"Morning, Mikey" was a phrase that would take place later, when the youngest brother would be actually conscious.
Don had never questioned it or even thought about how things had become so predictable. It had just happened. One day, he just realized that he could imagine how events would play out in his mind and they would match almost exactly what was happening in the present. This script that had become their life.... It was familiar and it wasn't as if it were bad. In fact, when things didn't follow the pattern, that was how they'd all be able to tell that something was wrong.
As Don turned around, he wasn't surprised to see Raphael in the kitchen. Raphael whose eyes slightly sagged, still bleary from slumber, blinking slothfully as he took time to recognize his brother.
"'Sup," he finally muttered, sludging past.
"Hey," Don responded simply, in the same groggy slump.
The caffeine would hit him soon, but until then he would watch the TV (Raph turned that on in passing) with glassy, half-lidded eyes, once in a while taking another sip of coffee. Raph would bury his head in his arms, sitting at the table, still painfully half-asleep. They would remain like so until Mikey came out to make breakfast, and that's when Master Splinter would join them, soon followed by Leo just as the food was set on the table.
After the meal, they would get ten more minutes to themselves before they'd all meander to the dojo. They would run through katas, spar together as usual, and maybe learn something new to throw in; but lately, Master Splinter had been giving them more freedom when it came to training. There was no longer a strict schedule for practice; it was a rare occasion for Splinter to have them assemble before him during other times besides morning, which had become only a check-in during the fresher part of the day for progress to make sure that they were making time for themselves to train. And that was all.
Donatello once guessed that it was because of their sensei's old age. And they, Don and his brothers, were growing as well.... Maybe Splinter just wanted to allow his maturing sons more independence.
That wasn't the only difference in routine. It had been somewhat quiet lately in the lair. Well, Mike was as obnoxious as ever, but Raph and Leo seemed to be laying off each other. That in itself was a stress reducer. Don could still hear the angry shouting in the back of his mind, though, if he listened hard enough. He could remember himself and Mikey shooting glances at each other in the background of these confrontations; amused or exasperated ones if it was just some silly bickering, in rare times more alarmed ones if the argument became that intense. But Master Splinter was always there to cut it short when needed. On odd turns of thought, Don would find himself wondering if the most serious of fights between Raphael and Leo happened when there was no one to referee.
But, as far as things were going, those days seemed to be over. And Don was glad to show them out.
Michelangelo's door opened, and the youngest made his entrance with a prolonged yawn and a stretch. He blinked, clicking his tongue in a night-dry mouth; when his eyes met Donny's, he offered a dopey grin in greeting. Don raised his eye ridges in acknowledgement as he tipped his mug back again for another hit of caffeine.
Maybe it was good if at least some things changed.
o-o-o-o-o
Donatello was constantly holed up in his room, tinkering with one project or another. He would close his door when he didn't want to be disturbed (which was quite often). And it just so happened that he had unintentionally sharpened his hearing this way.
He used to not be aware of this at all, just subconsciously counting how many sit-ups Raph did in his room according to his breaths, recognizing what game Mikey was absorbed in by the tracks and sound bytes, knowing when Leo was making his nightly rounds about the lair to be sure that all was in its rightful place, and which soap drama that their sensei was tuning into. (He also used to even be able to tell which kata Leo was practicing in the dojo, but that was before the elder brother began focusing on stealth. After this, the nightly rounds became unpredictable as well.)
Don might have never realized this himself if, during light conversation, Master Splinter hadn't noticed Don's quick recognition with the names of characters from his soap dramas.
It was late night now, so there was no reason to keep his door hanging open in order to show that he was available to anyone who might need him. It remained closed.
But when the soft scrape of footfall sounded outside, Don's ears picked up on it immediately. He took a pause from his work, leaning back from where he sat on the ground, to glance at his door, as if trying to get an x-ray view of what was on the other side. He tilted his head slightly, turning an ear towards the door, and listened...and heard nothing else.
Slowly, steadily, he placed the screwdriver and hard drive he had in his hands on the floor, rising quietly. His legs felt stiff from sitting for so long, hours it must've been, and he allowed himself to lean back into a long-desired stretch. Then, fighting off the irritation that built up more easily during late hours, Don bit back a sigh and began preparing himself to assure Leo that yes, he was going to sleep soon, just not now, and the longer he'd be badgered about going to bed, the longer it was going to take for him to finish his work and actually get to bed.
Don opened the door, mouth already full with the exact words, but was stopped by a sharp intake of breath (surprise) and was able to catch sight of a dark green foot retreating from the clearer shock of light.
And even then, his bedroom's glow carried far enough for him to make out a form just across the way. A mask too dark to be orange, and too contrasting against the aqua hum of the computer screens behind him to be blue....
"Raph?" Don squinted in attempt to force his sleepy eyes to adjust to the darkness quicker.
The red-clad turtle's head moved at the sound of his name. By then, Don could at least make out where his brother's eyes were. Dark hazel blinked dazedly back at him, and three fingers raised slightly in the form of a lame wave.
"Uh...yo."
The hand lowered, but the eyes remained still and set and...oddly, unreadable.
For a calm moment, Don gazed back. Then, slumber-deprivation made off with his last nerve. He raised his hand, palm-up towards the older turtle, waiting for an explanation. Raph cocked his head slightly in question.
Don exhaled impatiently. "What?"
The former jumped. "Ah--uh--" His eyes darted around the light-shunned room as if his answer was hidden somewhere there among the shadows. When he found nothing, he turned back to Don abruptly and began retreating from view. "Nothin'---just---nevermind--"
Before another word could be said, Raphael was gone, footsteps fading along with his shape in the dark. And by that, Donatello knew that he was once again alone.
o-o-o-o-o
"'Sup."
That was what Raph said, coming into the kitchen that morning, after replying to Leo's daily greeting, after groping for the remote within the couch cushions, and after turning on the TV, making it to the kitchen....
Don returned the stare, somehow feeling awake without the help of the coffee in his hand. "Hi."
Raphael passed him, and Don watched the red-clad turtle sit at the table and curl his arms around his head and sigh.
...
The same episode they've always lived from day to day.
...
Raph must've felt Don's gaze because he glanced up, then, with sleep-glossed eyes. "What?"
Don snapped back to attention. Frowning, he studied his brother's face of sagging eyelids and drooping mouth. He changed which hand held his coffee, an idea dawning on him.
"'Nothing'," the purple-clad turtle answered, repeating Raphael's words from the night before. "'Just.... Nevermind.'"
A shrug. And Raph's head returned to the table with a heavy thud.
Don turned away, nonplussed.
o-o-o-o-o
'Business as usual'. That was the phrase for it.
Everyone joined them in the kitchen, they all ate breakfast, they trained, they sparred.... During the sparring, Don had even manipulated events slightly to assure he was partners with Raph---maybe that would help egg something out.... Don won, which did happen on occasion. Raph was the strength of the team, but Don was the brain, after all. They switched partners.
Business as usual.
And it wasn't as if Don had expected some big confrontation about it, but it was all too...anti-climactic? Was that it...?
He shook out of his thoughts several minutes later, glanced at the clock to realize the time that had passed, and then sighed. He wasn't being very much like himself, either. It was usually Mikey dazing out to who knows where, or Leonardo sifting through his thoughts in meditation.
He exhaled, pushing away from his work desk and got up from his chair.
Nip the problem at the bud....
o-o-o-o-o
Raph was in the dojo.
Alone, luckily, Donatello deducted with relief after giving the room a second eye-sweep. It was just Raph. Well, Raph, a punching bag, and a curious red CD player that sat on a stool not too far from the training turtle.
A few minutes ago, there had been an angry, screaming voice laced with heavy, pounding beats blaring from the dojo (at least, before Splinter made an easy stroll there from his room; then the volume had lowered). Don had wondered what it was coming from. The last CD player he could remember was an old, chipped thing with its sound fuzzy at best, even after Don proceeded to operate on it. It saw out its last day when Michelangelo decided he wanted to listen to music while taking a bath, and knocked it accidentally into the filled tub (while still plugged in). Mikey hadn't been in the tub, luckily, though after seeing that the CD player hadn't survived, his brothers kind of wished he had.
Although the music had been turned down, it was still loud enough to be able to disguise Don's feet against the ground. Raph hadn't noticed his presence.
"Hiya," Don finally said, after moving into Raphael's peripheral line of sight.
A brief glance. "...'Hiya'."
The conversation fell away. As did Don's hope that he could unearth it steadily. Raph certainly didn't feel like cooperating. And Don had his share of vivid dreams, but he seriously doubted what had happened was all just an elaborate joke from his mind. Though, considering the amount of late hours he'd been putting into his work....
The younger brother watched as Raph's knuckles pummeled against the dead weight, falling into sync with the beat and sometimes, the lyrics as well. Don felt something tighter than a frown pull at his mouth. He was not questioning his own sanity over something he knew was true. The brief spark of annoyance was enough to fire up his daring.
He spoke. "Last night--"
"There you are!"
Don turned at the voice, spotting Mikey striding towards them from the dojo's entrance.
"Donny! Geez! For a second, I thought you left the lair," the youngest turtle chirped with a cheerful clap to Don's shoulder. "I mean, it's weird how the last place I thought you'd be was the first place I decided to check out anyway---it's like, like, I'm psychic or something---and I am so glad for that!"
"Uh, right," Don answered, shooting a side-glance at Raph, who had made no acknowledgements towards Michelangelo's arrival, much less Don's chopped sentence.
"Since, y'know, you kinda need--"
"Mike, can you just--"
"--to fix the PS2 cuz it's broken--"
"--leave for a mo---Wait. It's what? HOW?"
"--and, well, you can pick it up from my room; I left it just outside the door for ya," Mikey finished in a flurry of words before quickly turning away. "Hey, where'd you get that?"
Don's mind was still reeling from the terms "broken" and "PS2" as Mikey's attention homed in on the red CD player.
"Found it," Raph muttered before continuing his assault on the sack of sand.
"Huh...." The orange-clad turtle pranced closer to the object of discussion, eyes aglow. "Mind if I borrow it?"
A pause on Raph's end. A few delayed punches to hit their mark. "What you need it for?"
"Uh---broken PS2? I kinda need some way to pass time."
"Then watch TV."
"But I do that all the time!"
Raph turned to face him, teeth clenched. "Then train! I dunno! But I happen to like this thing---which means I ain't about to let it end up like all the other things that somehow break in your freagin' clumsy paws."
Mikey was practically pouting as he hunched over near the device, unaffected by the dark aura emanating from his closed-fisted older brother. "But it's so...new."
'New' in two aspects. The first being that it was something fresh to the eyes; and it was a lot easier to notice these things when living in a sewer, surrounded by the same old objects way past their expiration date. The second being that...it was literally new. The sound was crisp and detailed, the surface wasn't chipped at all, and it even had the gleam of a newly bought item. Both aspects together made a very nice Mikey-calling finish.
The fact that it was shiny just made it all the more tempting for the youngest turtle brother.
"Tough. Luck," Raph answered thickly, holding his ground.
Mikey's cutesy expression soured as he ground out his next line with the full intention to manipulate the red-clad turtle into a frenzy. "Well, someone's feeling all selfish today."
The throbbing vein in Raph's forehead must have popped by then. "YOU would, TOO, if you had to deal with--"
Donatello left then, forgotten and flabbergasted.
o-o-o-o-o
He was talking to himself again. Moreso grumbling.
It tended to happen whenever he was a little more than irritated.
They all had the tendency to start conversations with themselves, actually; Don always theorized it was natural, being that there were only the five of them in the dark underground of a sewer. He even followed up with a bit of research. As long as there was no voice speaking back, they'd all be just fine.
He took off his headphones with an exhale, the music becoming microscopic buzz as he lowered them to his desk. It was now late enough into the night that even the most spastic techno beats had the same effect as slow, butter-paced jazz. He let his gaze drift ruminatingly through his room, from one gadget to another pet-project, from the shelves to the floor, a heavy-weighted textbook to a pile of scribbled notes.
At least he'd made some progress.
His gaze narrowed into a tired glare as it reached the PS2 to the side of him.
He'd made some progress on that, too.
It lay in a cleared spot on his floor, open with its parts spread out over its sides. Hadn't quite figured out what was wrong with it; he'd have to wrestle the answer from Mikey sometime the next day (wrestle because the whole time Michelangelo would probably be dodgy with answers, thinking his brother to be angry with him...which actually wasn't too far from the truth). It wasn't that Don minded fixing what his family couldn't/didn't know how to. But little avoidable things like this were what he struggled to stay completely passive with.
He had specific schedules of which thing he'd work on what night, made calculations on how long each would take to see if he could fit two project segments into one sitting.... It was all to keep his debt hours to sleep from building up. If he didn't, he'd have a hard time keeping one father and one elder brother off his case. Last minute, but "extremely urgent" matters like the one Mikey had just tossed to him really made the process tricky.
The purple-clad turtle allowed himself a yawn, his chair reclining under his weight as he reached back to stretch out a few kinks.
And then he heard it:
The gentle slide of a foot as it ceased in step.
Donatello paused.
Trying to keep his chair from squeaking, he pulled his arms back, pushing away from his desk to stand up. Then, as silently as he could, Don made his way to the door and opened it.
The turtle on the other side started at the sudden flood of light. And because of the lack of pads, belt, and mask in a nakedness that matched his own, Don was able to guess who it was. Unlike Mikey and Leo, who both frequently slept in their gear (Leo so used to wearing it that he sometimes forgot it was separate from his skin, and Mikey not caring enough to undress once sleepiness hit), Don and Raphael took the care to remove what little garb they had on before bed.
Raph had his back to the door when it opened, only turning his head to stare at his brother in surprise.
Don fiddled with the doorknob, wondering what to do next. He thought, Déjà vu. ...Sort of. Differences from last night included the fact that Raphael was much closer now. Don could reach out and grab him if he tried to run, or even be able to tackle him if need be. And Raph was in full spotlight, now. No slinking away into the darkness for him. Don opened the door a little wider, stepping through.
He said, "Hey."
He could hear the ball of saliva bobbing thickly down Raphael's throat. "...Hey."
Another pause. So, now what?
The younger of the two pushed his door the rest of the way open, stepping to the side slightly. "Do you...wanna come in?"
His brother's head moved, but then stopped in mid-shake. His body began to turn then, and then Donatello was able to see the otherwise red-clad turtle's hands. Raph was holding his left in a small towel, his right gripping it firmly. Before Don could ask, Raph was already moving towards him, holding out the covered limb with his other hand. Don looked at it, looked at the other turtle, and then stepped forward to peel back the cloth.
His eye ridges furrowed then, and he tugged his brother slightly more into the light shining from his room. "How long ago was this?"
It was a cut.
Not totally fresh, as it had begun clotting and the blood that had been soaked into the towel was dried a crusty dark roan...but it had at least happened that night. Possibly only an hour or so ago. It decorated the outer part of Raph's left hand, starting shallow but sinking into the meatier part, and Don could see the fatty tissue underneath the skin layer where the flesh was split.
It was deep, but clean at least; clean meaning it wasn't jagged, but it did have a slight curve to it. He'd have to take a closer look at the actual cleanliness later.
Raphael still hadn't answered.
Don glanced back up. The turtle in question was wearing that far-away expression: the one Don now matched with how his brother had stared at him the night before. Only this time, Raph was staring at his cut finger. Or, in the direction of it, at least.
Freeing one of his hands, Don lifted it slightly so that it was almost at height with their eyes, and then snapped his fingers.
"W-What?" Raphael stuttered, blinking at him.
"...Come on."
He tugged Raph to the bathroom and turned on the light.
"You have to rinse it out---do not use warm water." Don instructed briskly, exiting the small yellow-lit room. "I'll be right back."
He made sure to prep whatever he had to as quickly as he could, but as he set things in place and reached for other items he'd need, he allowed himself a mental breather. Because Raphael was acting strange...again. So Don had no real idea with what to expect or do. He thought maybe Raph would be easier to handle in this subdued state; sometimes, if the resident hothead was in a foul mood, it wouldn't even take the random drop of a pencil to set him off. At the same time, the unpredictability could mean the opposite, as well, and Don might have to tread even lighter.
At that thought, Don once again felt the weight of sleep deprivation eating away at his patience.
After all, this was the same brother he had found himself feeling frustrated towards just a few minutes ago (...though, most of that frustration had been put there by Mikey...but combined with lack of sleep, little somethings like that always built up).... Don sighed, shaking the thoughts out of his head; frustrated or not, he had an injured brother to tend to. He inhaled. Exhaled. And then headed back to the bathroom.
Raphael was a step or two from where Don had left him, with that hazed look about his eyes again. He was standing with his plastron against the edge of the counter, just holding his cut under the running water.
Don stepped forward. "Here."
When he took Raph's hand, the latter tensed in surprise, turning his head sharply. But Don ignored the reaction, pressing the washcloth he brought with him into the soap bar at the sink. He had to turn the faucet knob, too, so that the water was cool rather than the dead cold temperature that Raph had been using.
He figured his brother's hand would be numb by now, though as he pressed the soapy cloth to dark green skin to do a more thorough wash, he felt Raph's fingers twitch slightly.
He glanced at him. "Sorry."
That gaze again. "...S'alright."
He didn't bother asking how Raph had gotten it---one of the red-clad turtle's lone trips gallivanting around the shadier parts of the city, no doubt. Though, the question would prove as a useful topic for small talk if he'd need it later. (Though, he honestly couldn't remember when he'd ever had to use small talk to avoid an awkward silence with one of his brothers. Or even pondered the idea.)
They sat at a desk that Don had cleared during his short trip away from the bathroom, so that he could make sure that there was no leftover dirt and whatnot lodged in his brother's hand. When he was satisfied, he picked up a device that resembled a miniature pen, twisting it in one hand so that it made a small snapping noise.
"What's that?" Raph stared at it the way all patients would look at an unrecognizable object brought out during a doctor visit: wondering whether it hurts.
"Liquid stitches," Don answered, reviewing the directions of use from the box. "April got it for us some time ago. Luckily, it's not expired, yet."
He turned back to Raphael, pulling the latter's injured limb closer. It tensed slightly in his grasp as he brought the applicator close, though he didn't feel enough sympathy to assure Raph that it wasn't going to be painful.
Pinching the split skin edges together (Raph's jaw tightened visibly at this; Don figured it was more from apprehension than pain), he ran the saturated tip down the length of the wound. "Don't pick at it. Don't use this hand a lot. Don't take prolonged showers. If you get it wet, dab-dry it. Don't expose it to excessive heat or light." He stopped speaking for a moment, applying the second layer. "It'll fall off in two weeks, more or less. Then I'll want to check the cut to make sure it healed okay."
He paused again, this time as he let go of Raph's hand for the first time in a while, he realized. His fingers curled reflexively at the absence of it, and he looked at his brother, who was examining the mended left hand, watching the skin adhesive dry.
"...It's purple."
"...Um...yeah, coincidentally," Don answered, and he felt a smile ticking at his lips as he remembered how the discovery had boosted his mood the day he'd received the stuff. "Did you want it in red or something?"
"No. It's.... I like it."
Quiet began to drift in again, and Don expected that this was the end of Raph's need to remain with him. It was late enough, and this was the second late night in a row for Don; coffee couldn't make up for lack of sleep. ...Not healthily, anyway. He saw Raph, though, staring at the wide-open door. A rectangle of black in the dim-lit room. He wasn't scared, Don noted in study of the other turtle's expression. Moreso...just reluctant.
A thought occurred.
"You can stay," Don offered. Raph looked to him quickly, as if in disbelief, and Don asked, "Is that what you wanna do?"
Raph, with his arm on the table and his eyes on the floor, nodded once. And it was settled.
"Alrighty. That's fine." Don tapped his fingers against the tabletop a few times. "Do...you wanna talk--?"
"No."
"Oookay...." Don felt himself rolling his chair away from the table, towards safety his computers. "Um...then, I'll just be...getting some work done. Over here."
He heard Raph grunt in response, but he'd already swiveled around in his roley-chair, making towards his desk. As he pulled his keyboard towards him, though, he thought about the hard wooden chair the other turtle in the room was using.
He had to turn his head slightly to help throw his voice to his brother. "You can sit on the bed if you want--"
"I'm good," Raphael answered immediately.
The conversation elapsed to silence, then. Not full silence, since there was still the steady whisper-whistle of the computers to account for, but silence enough. Don began drumming his fingers against the keyboard, just to feign doing something, and also to fill the void where dialogue used to be (it wasn't as if Raph could see from where he was at, anyway). The result was a randomly assorted line of "s"s, "d"s, "l"s, and semicolons.
Don tried not to fidget too much as he waited for something else to happen, tried to look as casual and comfortable as he could, even if on the inside, he wanted Raphael to just leave and take this weirdness with him. That way, Don'd be able to pull himself back together by morning, and finally ask...
...about the night before.
He stopped typing.
They came swimming back in a flood of glimpses: Raph's first visit, acting out-of-character, the filled and distant gazes...and then pretending during the day that nothing had happened. And that last part was what had irked Donatello, who liked when things had logical explanations, and didn't quite enjoy how Raph had brushed him off and then just as easily requested medical attention in the darker hours of the morning.
...But Raph had been hurt when he'd come to Don. After all, Don was the only one who could help him. With things like this, at least...and...and maybe other things, too. Don honestly couldn't see Raph going to the other three members of their family for anything. So, maybe Raph just needed...something. And Don was the most reasonable choice.
He sat back from his glowing screens.
"...You've had it for a while, haven't you?" Don finally asked---Raph's chair creaked stiffly, the sound sticking out sorely from the room's humbler noises---and then added, "The cut."
Quiet again.
Don was staring at his twiddling thumbs when he decided to continue. "Raph.... I don't want you to wait to ask when you need help." He chuckled, feeling the slightest bit more confident now that he had started. "You're always coming off as 'tough' and as if you could beat down whatever's bothering you. But, you know...you don't have to deal with things alone."
Raph hadn't said a word, though Don thought that he could hear Raph's feet against the floor---and echo from earlier, maybe. In a way, he was relieved that there was no response and pushed on.
"That probably sounds strange since...since I think this is the first time any of us have just talked like this...for a long time, but...." He paused, carefully turning over what to say next. "...I wanna let you know that you can come here. Whenever you need something. Or, whenever you want, even. ...I'll always be here."
...The computers hummed back unaffectedly.
"Ugh. I don't even know where I'm trying to go with this, anymore...." Don laughed, waving off the melodrama in exchange for a lighter atmosphere and swiveling around. "I know you're not the 'talking' type, but last night--"
The wooden chair met his gaze, turned out from the table, seat empty. Room empty. There were gadgets on the floor, notebooks and textbooks, the cleared table, and the PS2, but.... And then, Don recalled the footsteps from earlier, when he had been speaking.
"...Right, then," the turtle found himself muttering as he turned back to his computer. "Of course."
o-o-o-o-o
It was the typical story, he realized, watching Raph take his usual position at the table that morning.
Don didn't have a perfect photographic memory. From his studies, he knew of theories that said everyone did, most just didn't know how to recover the information. Don didn't; it just came to him whenever he needed it, and he usually ended up remembering more than others might. He'd utilized this, trying to pick out any patterns of behavior from his home or elsewhere that matched Raph's current persona.
He hadn't found a thing. Not on that subject anyway. Instead, his mind fed him memories of himself. He'd read somewhere before that a person's tendency to recall something was mood-related; someone in a happy mood would remember all the good things in life.
Don remembered being constantly frustrated as a child. He remembered how, almost continuously, he had thought It's not fair. And more and more, Don had remembered himself waiting on his brothers.
It was always him giving ground, wasn't it? Flexing around their needs and wants. Because he was always dealing with a pressured elder, or a fractious berserker, or an immature baby whom no one expected much from.
And what was he? The pacifist. 'Donny'. The easy-going one who just went with whatever they needed to get done.
The family doormat.
And Raphael's little twists of a conflicted brother was just a tradition being repeated.
A disruption in the script of their lives? Yeah, right. Things were exactly as they had always been. And if Raph wanted to continue the diurnal charade of nothing being wrong, all the while making nightly disruptions and forcing his purple-clad brother into nonsensical guessing-games, Donatello would go along with it. Of course he would. He always would. Whatever whoever wanted, right? Whatever whoever wanted.
Don's eye-ridge twitched. He sipped his coffee.
"Do you wanna talk about something?" He was surprised at how unlike his mood his voice sounded.
Raph rotated his head a bit so that one eye peaked over. "Like what?"
"I'm asking you." The irritation was beginning to leak through, now. "Is there something bothering you?"
His brother tensed at the tone, cocking his head up and then sounding defensive of all things. "Why? Should there be?"
"..." Don matched the stare, wondering exactly when his mug's handle would break from the grip on it that just kept on tightening. He turned away from the turtle at the table. "I'm here if there is."
The same message as last night.... But today, it felt less inspired. Raph said nothing. Big surprise.
Don took in more caffeine. Clenched and unclenched his fingers. Breathed steadily.
"How long?"
He wasn't being specific. But he felt too irritable to repeat himself. How long have you been like this? How long is this going to continue? How long do you expect me to play along? It didn't matter which one; an answer to any of them would have been.... It would've been an answer, at least.
Raph never responded. His face remained barricaded by his arms.
Don resisted the urge to hurl his mug at him.
o-o-o-o-o
They were paired in the last of the rotations for sparring that day.
It was a ritual that wasn't as formal as it used to be, when everyone was present throughout the whole thing; and Splinter would observe them, voicing corrections to their moves and then give them each a review on how they had done for the day. No, the old ninja master had retreated from the dojo not long after the second rotation took place, entrusting to them the responsibility of doing what they had do and being able to note on their own what they would have to work on.
Losing the first two spars did little to improve Don's mood from the exchange that he and Raph had before breakfast, not that he'd been in the right mind-set for training all morning....
Raph lashed out. Don had seen the jerk in his brother's fist before it flew, but even then, Raph was always one to go for the first hit. Or even just throw his opponent off guard before closing in with a more defined blow. But Don blocked it and countered with a neat chop at Raph's throat, which Raph easily deflected.
...Neither of them was trying. Don exhaled, easily slipping away from what would've been a heel to his plastron. So maybe the sleep deprivation was getting to Raph, also.... Served him right. And it helped Don as well, who already felt worn out from the training and then sparring with his two other brothers. They continued the half-hearted dance, each move they made lame and predictable.
Don blocked and countered. Another dodge. Block and counter. Dodge dodge dodge.... Block.
Don blinked.
Raph's right foot swung up. Don batted it back before forcing a punch away from his face. It had taken him a while to notice, but.... He watched as Raph opted for another punch; dodged, feeling a frown twist at his mouth.
Raph was using his left hand.
His injured hand.
The hand that Don had specifically instructed him not to use. Not listening.
Raph's left knuckles jabbed forward again, but instead deflecting them, Don grabbed it. Raph stumbled, his balance stolen.
Never listening.
Don twisted---felt the skin adhesive break---felt the strength draining from Raph's arm and felt the muscles failing immediately---and Don pivoted and heaved. And he felt all of his built-up frustration and spite melt into something different, something that made his heart heavy and light at the same time---Raph's carapace hit the dojo ground....
...It was satisfaction that had filled Don's chest. The purple-clad turtle felt a smile quirk at his lips as he straightened himself, readying for his opponent's counter, if one came.
But there was Raph on the floor, pushing himself away with kicking legs, and reflexively holding his left hand close to his chest, jaw clenched shut and a hiss oozing through his bared teeth.
Don was reaching out before he knew it. "Raph--"
"I'm fine," was the loose stammer. The turtle pushed himself into a crouched stand.
"--let me see--"
"I'm fine." Firmer now, the words were a low snarl, and came with a clumsy whack to Donatello's plastron that sent him falling back.
He landed heavily on his tail, and by the time he looked up, Raph's carapace was disappearing into shadowed space.
When Don looked down, he found that the hand he had extended was the same used to cause the harm, and his palm was smudged congealing red. And then, he was straining to remember why he went for such a tactic. Grasping at the last streams of his fleeting triumph, trying to remember how angry he'd been, how many hours of sleep he'd been lacking, Raph never listening to him Raph walking all over him they all walked all over him---
Raph deserved it.
Don swallowed, curling his hand so that his fingers touched his sticky palm. That's what he'd tell him.... The next time he ran into the red-clad turtle. And yet, something to the side of his mind kept telling him otherwise. He knew that he wouldn't see Raph for the rest of the day....
He'd tell at him at night, then.
You deserved it, he'd say. And then shrug casually before going back to work on whatever he'd be working on, because it was true and Raphael had deserved it, and they would both know it, and Raph would accept it, and life would go on, and the whole incident would be forgotten. Don would mend the wound again after that.
...The blood on his hand was already beginning to dry into a brown crust, and Don was only half-aware of his other brothers finishing their own match, the two laughing about some roundabout method that Mikey had used to win.
Next Part: Change (2/2)....
Chapter One-- "Change (1)"
"Morning, Donny," Leonardo greeted as he passed by the kitchen.
Just like the blue-clad turtle did every morning, as Donatello poured his coffee and didn't even glance back at him when he said, "Good morning," in automatic reply.
And Don didn't need to ask to know that at around five, Leo had woken up and trained, and that the blue-clad turtle was passing by the kitchen only after greeting their sensei in respects, and that the same turtle was now heading back to the dojo to train even more before breakfast.
He would pass by Raph's room on the way, too, where their brother would just be waking up or sometimes even be opening the door by then.
Either way, Leo always said, "Morning, Raph."
"Yeah, yeah...," was the groaned response that would follow.
"Morning, Mikey" was a phrase that would take place later, when the youngest brother would be actually conscious.
Don had never questioned it or even thought about how things had become so predictable. It had just happened. One day, he just realized that he could imagine how events would play out in his mind and they would match almost exactly what was happening in the present. This script that had become their life.... It was familiar and it wasn't as if it were bad. In fact, when things didn't follow the pattern, that was how they'd all be able to tell that something was wrong.
As Don turned around, he wasn't surprised to see Raphael in the kitchen. Raphael whose eyes slightly sagged, still bleary from slumber, blinking slothfully as he took time to recognize his brother.
"'Sup," he finally muttered, sludging past.
"Hey," Don responded simply, in the same groggy slump.
The caffeine would hit him soon, but until then he would watch the TV (Raph turned that on in passing) with glassy, half-lidded eyes, once in a while taking another sip of coffee. Raph would bury his head in his arms, sitting at the table, still painfully half-asleep. They would remain like so until Mikey came out to make breakfast, and that's when Master Splinter would join them, soon followed by Leo just as the food was set on the table.
After the meal, they would get ten more minutes to themselves before they'd all meander to the dojo. They would run through katas, spar together as usual, and maybe learn something new to throw in; but lately, Master Splinter had been giving them more freedom when it came to training. There was no longer a strict schedule for practice; it was a rare occasion for Splinter to have them assemble before him during other times besides morning, which had become only a check-in during the fresher part of the day for progress to make sure that they were making time for themselves to train. And that was all.
Donatello once guessed that it was because of their sensei's old age. And they, Don and his brothers, were growing as well.... Maybe Splinter just wanted to allow his maturing sons more independence.
That wasn't the only difference in routine. It had been somewhat quiet lately in the lair. Well, Mike was as obnoxious as ever, but Raph and Leo seemed to be laying off each other. That in itself was a stress reducer. Don could still hear the angry shouting in the back of his mind, though, if he listened hard enough. He could remember himself and Mikey shooting glances at each other in the background of these confrontations; amused or exasperated ones if it was just some silly bickering, in rare times more alarmed ones if the argument became that intense. But Master Splinter was always there to cut it short when needed. On odd turns of thought, Don would find himself wondering if the most serious of fights between Raphael and Leo happened when there was no one to referee.
But, as far as things were going, those days seemed to be over. And Don was glad to show them out.
Michelangelo's door opened, and the youngest made his entrance with a prolonged yawn and a stretch. He blinked, clicking his tongue in a night-dry mouth; when his eyes met Donny's, he offered a dopey grin in greeting. Don raised his eye ridges in acknowledgement as he tipped his mug back again for another hit of caffeine.
Maybe it was good if at least some things changed.
o-o-o-o-o
Donatello was constantly holed up in his room, tinkering with one project or another. He would close his door when he didn't want to be disturbed (which was quite often). And it just so happened that he had unintentionally sharpened his hearing this way.
He used to not be aware of this at all, just subconsciously counting how many sit-ups Raph did in his room according to his breaths, recognizing what game Mikey was absorbed in by the tracks and sound bytes, knowing when Leo was making his nightly rounds about the lair to be sure that all was in its rightful place, and which soap drama that their sensei was tuning into. (He also used to even be able to tell which kata Leo was practicing in the dojo, but that was before the elder brother began focusing on stealth. After this, the nightly rounds became unpredictable as well.)
Don might have never realized this himself if, during light conversation, Master Splinter hadn't noticed Don's quick recognition with the names of characters from his soap dramas.
It was late night now, so there was no reason to keep his door hanging open in order to show that he was available to anyone who might need him. It remained closed.
But when the soft scrape of footfall sounded outside, Don's ears picked up on it immediately. He took a pause from his work, leaning back from where he sat on the ground, to glance at his door, as if trying to get an x-ray view of what was on the other side. He tilted his head slightly, turning an ear towards the door, and listened...and heard nothing else.
Slowly, steadily, he placed the screwdriver and hard drive he had in his hands on the floor, rising quietly. His legs felt stiff from sitting for so long, hours it must've been, and he allowed himself to lean back into a long-desired stretch. Then, fighting off the irritation that built up more easily during late hours, Don bit back a sigh and began preparing himself to assure Leo that yes, he was going to sleep soon, just not now, and the longer he'd be badgered about going to bed, the longer it was going to take for him to finish his work and actually get to bed.
Don opened the door, mouth already full with the exact words, but was stopped by a sharp intake of breath (surprise) and was able to catch sight of a dark green foot retreating from the clearer shock of light.
And even then, his bedroom's glow carried far enough for him to make out a form just across the way. A mask too dark to be orange, and too contrasting against the aqua hum of the computer screens behind him to be blue....
"Raph?" Don squinted in attempt to force his sleepy eyes to adjust to the darkness quicker.
The red-clad turtle's head moved at the sound of his name. By then, Don could at least make out where his brother's eyes were. Dark hazel blinked dazedly back at him, and three fingers raised slightly in the form of a lame wave.
"Uh...yo."
The hand lowered, but the eyes remained still and set and...oddly, unreadable.
For a calm moment, Don gazed back. Then, slumber-deprivation made off with his last nerve. He raised his hand, palm-up towards the older turtle, waiting for an explanation. Raph cocked his head slightly in question.
Don exhaled impatiently. "What?"
The former jumped. "Ah--uh--" His eyes darted around the light-shunned room as if his answer was hidden somewhere there among the shadows. When he found nothing, he turned back to Don abruptly and began retreating from view. "Nothin'---just---nevermind--"
Before another word could be said, Raphael was gone, footsteps fading along with his shape in the dark. And by that, Donatello knew that he was once again alone.
o-o-o-o-o
"'Sup."
That was what Raph said, coming into the kitchen that morning, after replying to Leo's daily greeting, after groping for the remote within the couch cushions, and after turning on the TV, making it to the kitchen....
Don returned the stare, somehow feeling awake without the help of the coffee in his hand. "Hi."
Raphael passed him, and Don watched the red-clad turtle sit at the table and curl his arms around his head and sigh.
...
The same episode they've always lived from day to day.
...
Raph must've felt Don's gaze because he glanced up, then, with sleep-glossed eyes. "What?"
Don snapped back to attention. Frowning, he studied his brother's face of sagging eyelids and drooping mouth. He changed which hand held his coffee, an idea dawning on him.
"'Nothing'," the purple-clad turtle answered, repeating Raphael's words from the night before. "'Just.... Nevermind.'"
A shrug. And Raph's head returned to the table with a heavy thud.
Don turned away, nonplussed.
o-o-o-o-o
'Business as usual'. That was the phrase for it.
Everyone joined them in the kitchen, they all ate breakfast, they trained, they sparred.... During the sparring, Don had even manipulated events slightly to assure he was partners with Raph---maybe that would help egg something out.... Don won, which did happen on occasion. Raph was the strength of the team, but Don was the brain, after all. They switched partners.
Business as usual.
And it wasn't as if Don had expected some big confrontation about it, but it was all too...anti-climactic? Was that it...?
He shook out of his thoughts several minutes later, glanced at the clock to realize the time that had passed, and then sighed. He wasn't being very much like himself, either. It was usually Mikey dazing out to who knows where, or Leonardo sifting through his thoughts in meditation.
He exhaled, pushing away from his work desk and got up from his chair.
Nip the problem at the bud....
o-o-o-o-o
Raph was in the dojo.
Alone, luckily, Donatello deducted with relief after giving the room a second eye-sweep. It was just Raph. Well, Raph, a punching bag, and a curious red CD player that sat on a stool not too far from the training turtle.
A few minutes ago, there had been an angry, screaming voice laced with heavy, pounding beats blaring from the dojo (at least, before Splinter made an easy stroll there from his room; then the volume had lowered). Don had wondered what it was coming from. The last CD player he could remember was an old, chipped thing with its sound fuzzy at best, even after Don proceeded to operate on it. It saw out its last day when Michelangelo decided he wanted to listen to music while taking a bath, and knocked it accidentally into the filled tub (while still plugged in). Mikey hadn't been in the tub, luckily, though after seeing that the CD player hadn't survived, his brothers kind of wished he had.
Although the music had been turned down, it was still loud enough to be able to disguise Don's feet against the ground. Raph hadn't noticed his presence.
"Hiya," Don finally said, after moving into Raphael's peripheral line of sight.
A brief glance. "...'Hiya'."
The conversation fell away. As did Don's hope that he could unearth it steadily. Raph certainly didn't feel like cooperating. And Don had his share of vivid dreams, but he seriously doubted what had happened was all just an elaborate joke from his mind. Though, considering the amount of late hours he'd been putting into his work....
The younger brother watched as Raph's knuckles pummeled against the dead weight, falling into sync with the beat and sometimes, the lyrics as well. Don felt something tighter than a frown pull at his mouth. He was not questioning his own sanity over something he knew was true. The brief spark of annoyance was enough to fire up his daring.
He spoke. "Last night--"
"There you are!"
Don turned at the voice, spotting Mikey striding towards them from the dojo's entrance.
"Donny! Geez! For a second, I thought you left the lair," the youngest turtle chirped with a cheerful clap to Don's shoulder. "I mean, it's weird how the last place I thought you'd be was the first place I decided to check out anyway---it's like, like, I'm psychic or something---and I am so glad for that!"
"Uh, right," Don answered, shooting a side-glance at Raph, who had made no acknowledgements towards Michelangelo's arrival, much less Don's chopped sentence.
"Since, y'know, you kinda need--"
"Mike, can you just--"
"--to fix the PS2 cuz it's broken--"
"--leave for a mo---Wait. It's what? HOW?"
"--and, well, you can pick it up from my room; I left it just outside the door for ya," Mikey finished in a flurry of words before quickly turning away. "Hey, where'd you get that?"
Don's mind was still reeling from the terms "broken" and "PS2" as Mikey's attention homed in on the red CD player.
"Found it," Raph muttered before continuing his assault on the sack of sand.
"Huh...." The orange-clad turtle pranced closer to the object of discussion, eyes aglow. "Mind if I borrow it?"
A pause on Raph's end. A few delayed punches to hit their mark. "What you need it for?"
"Uh---broken PS2? I kinda need some way to pass time."
"Then watch TV."
"But I do that all the time!"
Raph turned to face him, teeth clenched. "Then train! I dunno! But I happen to like this thing---which means I ain't about to let it end up like all the other things that somehow break in your freagin' clumsy paws."
Mikey was practically pouting as he hunched over near the device, unaffected by the dark aura emanating from his closed-fisted older brother. "But it's so...new."
'New' in two aspects. The first being that it was something fresh to the eyes; and it was a lot easier to notice these things when living in a sewer, surrounded by the same old objects way past their expiration date. The second being that...it was literally new. The sound was crisp and detailed, the surface wasn't chipped at all, and it even had the gleam of a newly bought item. Both aspects together made a very nice Mikey-calling finish.
The fact that it was shiny just made it all the more tempting for the youngest turtle brother.
"Tough. Luck," Raph answered thickly, holding his ground.
Mikey's cutesy expression soured as he ground out his next line with the full intention to manipulate the red-clad turtle into a frenzy. "Well, someone's feeling all selfish today."
The throbbing vein in Raph's forehead must have popped by then. "YOU would, TOO, if you had to deal with--"
Donatello left then, forgotten and flabbergasted.
o-o-o-o-o
He was talking to himself again. Moreso grumbling.
It tended to happen whenever he was a little more than irritated.
They all had the tendency to start conversations with themselves, actually; Don always theorized it was natural, being that there were only the five of them in the dark underground of a sewer. He even followed up with a bit of research. As long as there was no voice speaking back, they'd all be just fine.
He took off his headphones with an exhale, the music becoming microscopic buzz as he lowered them to his desk. It was now late enough into the night that even the most spastic techno beats had the same effect as slow, butter-paced jazz. He let his gaze drift ruminatingly through his room, from one gadget to another pet-project, from the shelves to the floor, a heavy-weighted textbook to a pile of scribbled notes.
At least he'd made some progress.
His gaze narrowed into a tired glare as it reached the PS2 to the side of him.
He'd made some progress on that, too.
It lay in a cleared spot on his floor, open with its parts spread out over its sides. Hadn't quite figured out what was wrong with it; he'd have to wrestle the answer from Mikey sometime the next day (wrestle because the whole time Michelangelo would probably be dodgy with answers, thinking his brother to be angry with him...which actually wasn't too far from the truth). It wasn't that Don minded fixing what his family couldn't/didn't know how to. But little avoidable things like this were what he struggled to stay completely passive with.
He had specific schedules of which thing he'd work on what night, made calculations on how long each would take to see if he could fit two project segments into one sitting.... It was all to keep his debt hours to sleep from building up. If he didn't, he'd have a hard time keeping one father and one elder brother off his case. Last minute, but "extremely urgent" matters like the one Mikey had just tossed to him really made the process tricky.
The purple-clad turtle allowed himself a yawn, his chair reclining under his weight as he reached back to stretch out a few kinks.
And then he heard it:
The gentle slide of a foot as it ceased in step.
Donatello paused.
Trying to keep his chair from squeaking, he pulled his arms back, pushing away from his desk to stand up. Then, as silently as he could, Don made his way to the door and opened it.
The turtle on the other side started at the sudden flood of light. And because of the lack of pads, belt, and mask in a nakedness that matched his own, Don was able to guess who it was. Unlike Mikey and Leo, who both frequently slept in their gear (Leo so used to wearing it that he sometimes forgot it was separate from his skin, and Mikey not caring enough to undress once sleepiness hit), Don and Raphael took the care to remove what little garb they had on before bed.
Raph had his back to the door when it opened, only turning his head to stare at his brother in surprise.
Don fiddled with the doorknob, wondering what to do next. He thought, Déjà vu. ...Sort of. Differences from last night included the fact that Raphael was much closer now. Don could reach out and grab him if he tried to run, or even be able to tackle him if need be. And Raph was in full spotlight, now. No slinking away into the darkness for him. Don opened the door a little wider, stepping through.
He said, "Hey."
He could hear the ball of saliva bobbing thickly down Raphael's throat. "...Hey."
Another pause. So, now what?
The younger of the two pushed his door the rest of the way open, stepping to the side slightly. "Do you...wanna come in?"
His brother's head moved, but then stopped in mid-shake. His body began to turn then, and then Donatello was able to see the otherwise red-clad turtle's hands. Raph was holding his left in a small towel, his right gripping it firmly. Before Don could ask, Raph was already moving towards him, holding out the covered limb with his other hand. Don looked at it, looked at the other turtle, and then stepped forward to peel back the cloth.
His eye ridges furrowed then, and he tugged his brother slightly more into the light shining from his room. "How long ago was this?"
It was a cut.
Not totally fresh, as it had begun clotting and the blood that had been soaked into the towel was dried a crusty dark roan...but it had at least happened that night. Possibly only an hour or so ago. It decorated the outer part of Raph's left hand, starting shallow but sinking into the meatier part, and Don could see the fatty tissue underneath the skin layer where the flesh was split.
It was deep, but clean at least; clean meaning it wasn't jagged, but it did have a slight curve to it. He'd have to take a closer look at the actual cleanliness later.
Raphael still hadn't answered.
Don glanced back up. The turtle in question was wearing that far-away expression: the one Don now matched with how his brother had stared at him the night before. Only this time, Raph was staring at his cut finger. Or, in the direction of it, at least.
Freeing one of his hands, Don lifted it slightly so that it was almost at height with their eyes, and then snapped his fingers.
"W-What?" Raphael stuttered, blinking at him.
"...Come on."
He tugged Raph to the bathroom and turned on the light.
"You have to rinse it out---do not use warm water." Don instructed briskly, exiting the small yellow-lit room. "I'll be right back."
He made sure to prep whatever he had to as quickly as he could, but as he set things in place and reached for other items he'd need, he allowed himself a mental breather. Because Raphael was acting strange...again. So Don had no real idea with what to expect or do. He thought maybe Raph would be easier to handle in this subdued state; sometimes, if the resident hothead was in a foul mood, it wouldn't even take the random drop of a pencil to set him off. At the same time, the unpredictability could mean the opposite, as well, and Don might have to tread even lighter.
At that thought, Don once again felt the weight of sleep deprivation eating away at his patience.
After all, this was the same brother he had found himself feeling frustrated towards just a few minutes ago (...though, most of that frustration had been put there by Mikey...but combined with lack of sleep, little somethings like that always built up).... Don sighed, shaking the thoughts out of his head; frustrated or not, he had an injured brother to tend to. He inhaled. Exhaled. And then headed back to the bathroom.
Raphael was a step or two from where Don had left him, with that hazed look about his eyes again. He was standing with his plastron against the edge of the counter, just holding his cut under the running water.
Don stepped forward. "Here."
When he took Raph's hand, the latter tensed in surprise, turning his head sharply. But Don ignored the reaction, pressing the washcloth he brought with him into the soap bar at the sink. He had to turn the faucet knob, too, so that the water was cool rather than the dead cold temperature that Raph had been using.
He figured his brother's hand would be numb by now, though as he pressed the soapy cloth to dark green skin to do a more thorough wash, he felt Raph's fingers twitch slightly.
He glanced at him. "Sorry."
That gaze again. "...S'alright."
He didn't bother asking how Raph had gotten it---one of the red-clad turtle's lone trips gallivanting around the shadier parts of the city, no doubt. Though, the question would prove as a useful topic for small talk if he'd need it later. (Though, he honestly couldn't remember when he'd ever had to use small talk to avoid an awkward silence with one of his brothers. Or even pondered the idea.)
They sat at a desk that Don had cleared during his short trip away from the bathroom, so that he could make sure that there was no leftover dirt and whatnot lodged in his brother's hand. When he was satisfied, he picked up a device that resembled a miniature pen, twisting it in one hand so that it made a small snapping noise.
"What's that?" Raph stared at it the way all patients would look at an unrecognizable object brought out during a doctor visit: wondering whether it hurts.
"Liquid stitches," Don answered, reviewing the directions of use from the box. "April got it for us some time ago. Luckily, it's not expired, yet."
He turned back to Raphael, pulling the latter's injured limb closer. It tensed slightly in his grasp as he brought the applicator close, though he didn't feel enough sympathy to assure Raph that it wasn't going to be painful.
Pinching the split skin edges together (Raph's jaw tightened visibly at this; Don figured it was more from apprehension than pain), he ran the saturated tip down the length of the wound. "Don't pick at it. Don't use this hand a lot. Don't take prolonged showers. If you get it wet, dab-dry it. Don't expose it to excessive heat or light." He stopped speaking for a moment, applying the second layer. "It'll fall off in two weeks, more or less. Then I'll want to check the cut to make sure it healed okay."
He paused again, this time as he let go of Raph's hand for the first time in a while, he realized. His fingers curled reflexively at the absence of it, and he looked at his brother, who was examining the mended left hand, watching the skin adhesive dry.
"...It's purple."
"...Um...yeah, coincidentally," Don answered, and he felt a smile ticking at his lips as he remembered how the discovery had boosted his mood the day he'd received the stuff. "Did you want it in red or something?"
"No. It's.... I like it."
Quiet began to drift in again, and Don expected that this was the end of Raph's need to remain with him. It was late enough, and this was the second late night in a row for Don; coffee couldn't make up for lack of sleep. ...Not healthily, anyway. He saw Raph, though, staring at the wide-open door. A rectangle of black in the dim-lit room. He wasn't scared, Don noted in study of the other turtle's expression. Moreso...just reluctant.
A thought occurred.
"You can stay," Don offered. Raph looked to him quickly, as if in disbelief, and Don asked, "Is that what you wanna do?"
Raph, with his arm on the table and his eyes on the floor, nodded once. And it was settled.
"Alrighty. That's fine." Don tapped his fingers against the tabletop a few times. "Do...you wanna talk--?"
"No."
"Oookay...." Don felt himself rolling his chair away from the table, towards safety his computers. "Um...then, I'll just be...getting some work done. Over here."
He heard Raph grunt in response, but he'd already swiveled around in his roley-chair, making towards his desk. As he pulled his keyboard towards him, though, he thought about the hard wooden chair the other turtle in the room was using.
He had to turn his head slightly to help throw his voice to his brother. "You can sit on the bed if you want--"
"I'm good," Raphael answered immediately.
The conversation elapsed to silence, then. Not full silence, since there was still the steady whisper-whistle of the computers to account for, but silence enough. Don began drumming his fingers against the keyboard, just to feign doing something, and also to fill the void where dialogue used to be (it wasn't as if Raph could see from where he was at, anyway). The result was a randomly assorted line of "s"s, "d"s, "l"s, and semicolons.
Don tried not to fidget too much as he waited for something else to happen, tried to look as casual and comfortable as he could, even if on the inside, he wanted Raphael to just leave and take this weirdness with him. That way, Don'd be able to pull himself back together by morning, and finally ask...
...about the night before.
He stopped typing.
They came swimming back in a flood of glimpses: Raph's first visit, acting out-of-character, the filled and distant gazes...and then pretending during the day that nothing had happened. And that last part was what had irked Donatello, who liked when things had logical explanations, and didn't quite enjoy how Raph had brushed him off and then just as easily requested medical attention in the darker hours of the morning.
...But Raph had been hurt when he'd come to Don. After all, Don was the only one who could help him. With things like this, at least...and...and maybe other things, too. Don honestly couldn't see Raph going to the other three members of their family for anything. So, maybe Raph just needed...something. And Don was the most reasonable choice.
He sat back from his glowing screens.
"...You've had it for a while, haven't you?" Don finally asked---Raph's chair creaked stiffly, the sound sticking out sorely from the room's humbler noises---and then added, "The cut."
Quiet again.
Don was staring at his twiddling thumbs when he decided to continue. "Raph.... I don't want you to wait to ask when you need help." He chuckled, feeling the slightest bit more confident now that he had started. "You're always coming off as 'tough' and as if you could beat down whatever's bothering you. But, you know...you don't have to deal with things alone."
Raph hadn't said a word, though Don thought that he could hear Raph's feet against the floor---and echo from earlier, maybe. In a way, he was relieved that there was no response and pushed on.
"That probably sounds strange since...since I think this is the first time any of us have just talked like this...for a long time, but...." He paused, carefully turning over what to say next. "...I wanna let you know that you can come here. Whenever you need something. Or, whenever you want, even. ...I'll always be here."
...The computers hummed back unaffectedly.
"Ugh. I don't even know where I'm trying to go with this, anymore...." Don laughed, waving off the melodrama in exchange for a lighter atmosphere and swiveling around. "I know you're not the 'talking' type, but last night--"
The wooden chair met his gaze, turned out from the table, seat empty. Room empty. There were gadgets on the floor, notebooks and textbooks, the cleared table, and the PS2, but.... And then, Don recalled the footsteps from earlier, when he had been speaking.
"...Right, then," the turtle found himself muttering as he turned back to his computer. "Of course."
o-o-o-o-o
It was the typical story, he realized, watching Raph take his usual position at the table that morning.
Don didn't have a perfect photographic memory. From his studies, he knew of theories that said everyone did, most just didn't know how to recover the information. Don didn't; it just came to him whenever he needed it, and he usually ended up remembering more than others might. He'd utilized this, trying to pick out any patterns of behavior from his home or elsewhere that matched Raph's current persona.
He hadn't found a thing. Not on that subject anyway. Instead, his mind fed him memories of himself. He'd read somewhere before that a person's tendency to recall something was mood-related; someone in a happy mood would remember all the good things in life.
Don remembered being constantly frustrated as a child. He remembered how, almost continuously, he had thought It's not fair. And more and more, Don had remembered himself waiting on his brothers.
It was always him giving ground, wasn't it? Flexing around their needs and wants. Because he was always dealing with a pressured elder, or a fractious berserker, or an immature baby whom no one expected much from.
And what was he? The pacifist. 'Donny'. The easy-going one who just went with whatever they needed to get done.
The family doormat.
And Raphael's little twists of a conflicted brother was just a tradition being repeated.
A disruption in the script of their lives? Yeah, right. Things were exactly as they had always been. And if Raph wanted to continue the diurnal charade of nothing being wrong, all the while making nightly disruptions and forcing his purple-clad brother into nonsensical guessing-games, Donatello would go along with it. Of course he would. He always would. Whatever whoever wanted, right? Whatever whoever wanted.
Don's eye-ridge twitched. He sipped his coffee.
"Do you wanna talk about something?" He was surprised at how unlike his mood his voice sounded.
Raph rotated his head a bit so that one eye peaked over. "Like what?"
"I'm asking you." The irritation was beginning to leak through, now. "Is there something bothering you?"
His brother tensed at the tone, cocking his head up and then sounding defensive of all things. "Why? Should there be?"
"..." Don matched the stare, wondering exactly when his mug's handle would break from the grip on it that just kept on tightening. He turned away from the turtle at the table. "I'm here if there is."
The same message as last night.... But today, it felt less inspired. Raph said nothing. Big surprise.
Don took in more caffeine. Clenched and unclenched his fingers. Breathed steadily.
"How long?"
He wasn't being specific. But he felt too irritable to repeat himself. How long have you been like this? How long is this going to continue? How long do you expect me to play along? It didn't matter which one; an answer to any of them would have been.... It would've been an answer, at least.
Raph never responded. His face remained barricaded by his arms.
Don resisted the urge to hurl his mug at him.
o-o-o-o-o
They were paired in the last of the rotations for sparring that day.
It was a ritual that wasn't as formal as it used to be, when everyone was present throughout the whole thing; and Splinter would observe them, voicing corrections to their moves and then give them each a review on how they had done for the day. No, the old ninja master had retreated from the dojo not long after the second rotation took place, entrusting to them the responsibility of doing what they had do and being able to note on their own what they would have to work on.
Losing the first two spars did little to improve Don's mood from the exchange that he and Raph had before breakfast, not that he'd been in the right mind-set for training all morning....
Raph lashed out. Don had seen the jerk in his brother's fist before it flew, but even then, Raph was always one to go for the first hit. Or even just throw his opponent off guard before closing in with a more defined blow. But Don blocked it and countered with a neat chop at Raph's throat, which Raph easily deflected.
...Neither of them was trying. Don exhaled, easily slipping away from what would've been a heel to his plastron. So maybe the sleep deprivation was getting to Raph, also.... Served him right. And it helped Don as well, who already felt worn out from the training and then sparring with his two other brothers. They continued the half-hearted dance, each move they made lame and predictable.
Don blocked and countered. Another dodge. Block and counter. Dodge dodge dodge.... Block.
Don blinked.
Raph's right foot swung up. Don batted it back before forcing a punch away from his face. It had taken him a while to notice, but.... He watched as Raph opted for another punch; dodged, feeling a frown twist at his mouth.
Raph was using his left hand.
His injured hand.
The hand that Don had specifically instructed him not to use. Not listening.
Raph's left knuckles jabbed forward again, but instead deflecting them, Don grabbed it. Raph stumbled, his balance stolen.
Never listening.
Don twisted---felt the skin adhesive break---felt the strength draining from Raph's arm and felt the muscles failing immediately---and Don pivoted and heaved. And he felt all of his built-up frustration and spite melt into something different, something that made his heart heavy and light at the same time---Raph's carapace hit the dojo ground....
...It was satisfaction that had filled Don's chest. The purple-clad turtle felt a smile quirk at his lips as he straightened himself, readying for his opponent's counter, if one came.
But there was Raph on the floor, pushing himself away with kicking legs, and reflexively holding his left hand close to his chest, jaw clenched shut and a hiss oozing through his bared teeth.
Don was reaching out before he knew it. "Raph--"
"I'm fine," was the loose stammer. The turtle pushed himself into a crouched stand.
"--let me see--"
"I'm fine." Firmer now, the words were a low snarl, and came with a clumsy whack to Donatello's plastron that sent him falling back.
He landed heavily on his tail, and by the time he looked up, Raph's carapace was disappearing into shadowed space.
When Don looked down, he found that the hand he had extended was the same used to cause the harm, and his palm was smudged congealing red. And then, he was straining to remember why he went for such a tactic. Grasping at the last streams of his fleeting triumph, trying to remember how angry he'd been, how many hours of sleep he'd been lacking, Raph never listening to him Raph walking all over him they all walked all over him---
Raph deserved it.
Don swallowed, curling his hand so that his fingers touched his sticky palm. That's what he'd tell him.... The next time he ran into the red-clad turtle. And yet, something to the side of his mind kept telling him otherwise. He knew that he wouldn't see Raph for the rest of the day....
He'd tell at him at night, then.
You deserved it, he'd say. And then shrug casually before going back to work on whatever he'd be working on, because it was true and Raphael had deserved it, and they would both know it, and Raph would accept it, and life would go on, and the whole incident would be forgotten. Don would mend the wound again after that.
...The blood on his hand was already beginning to dry into a brown crust, and Don was only half-aware of his other brothers finishing their own match, the two laughing about some roundabout method that Mikey had used to win.
Next Part: Change (2/2)....