Disclaimer: I don't own the TMNT.
Note: This story was inspired by "The Perfect Son" by Ramica and "Butterfly" by Reinbeauchaser.
Raphael's face stung from where the rain, whipped up by the wind, lashed him like glass. He could faintly hear the cars on the bridge above, the sound of their tyres on the wet concrete masking the name he screamed into the night. A flash of lightning over the East River briefly illuminated the scene before him. He desperately dove forwards, his hands clawing at the air. He felt skin on skin contact for the briefest moment, but then the hand slipped from his grasp and he could do nothing but watch in horror as his brother tumbled into the churning darkness below.
Raphael woke just as his face slammed into the concrete floor. He blinked stars from his eyes before running his tongue along his teeth. No blood and nothing was missing or chipped. This wasn't the first time he'd fallen from his hammock. The desperate struggle in his dreams had long impacted his reality, but he was damned if he was going to swap to a normal bed.
He lay on his front and tried not to listen to his brother's name echo off the quiet walls of the lair. His nightmares no longer brought anyone running, and he told himself it didn't matter. Nightmares had long been part of the fabric of this little family in the New York sewers, what made his so special?
"Just a dream," Raphael whispered to himself in the darkness. "It was just a dream."
He wasn't reassured. He knew a lie when he saw it.
Raphael could feel the tightness building in his chest and the sudden need to draw in as much oxygen as possible. He tried to bring his breathing under control, but the room suddenly seemed smaller. Much smaller. The walls felt like they were leaning over him, giant waves about to crash and suck him down, down, down, down into the churning darkness until everything was black and silent and the water was pressing all around waiting to drown–
He scrambled to his feet and headed out into the lair.
Just getting out of his room calmed him, and he took a few deep breaths. He could hear the faint sounds of his youngest brother sleeping in the room next to him, and when his breathing was under control, he padded over. Michelangelo was sprawled on his bed, his blanket on the floor and the comic book he'd been reading squashed underneath him. Raphael smirked and then tiptoed over; picking his way through the minefield that was his sibling's room. It took a few moments to free the comic, and he placed it on the bedside table. Then he looked down at his brother.
Michelangelo had a soft smile on his face. It pulled at the corners of his mouth and it looked like he had a secret only he knew; like the location of the last piece of chocolate cake. Raphael smirked again before bending to pick up the blanket. And stopped. He hadn't realised in the dark it wasn't his brother's usual blanket, but now he could feel it. This one wasn't as soft as Michelangelo liked, or demanded. It was rough, as if the person who owned it wanted to be uncomfortable. Heart suddenly pounding, he turned the blanket over in his hands and squinted in the dark. The name sewn into the corner was unmistakable. A cold feeling washed over Raphael.
"Jerk..." he growled, twisting the blanket in his hands. He dumped the blanket in a heap on his brother and stormed back out into the lair.
He stood, clenching and unclenching his fists as he counted to ten. And counted again. On the third go, his rage had faded enough for him to consider his next move, outside of going back and giving his brother a good kick. He glanced around the lair looking at his options. Donatello's room was in darkness and so was his laboratory. Not that he wanted to talk to him anyway. He didn't feel much like television, but then he spotted a faint flicker of light coming from the last occupied room.
He sighed. These late night meetings had become too common for his liking, but he didn't fight the inevitable. Let the two insomniacs lean on each other. He padded over and knocked, but didn't wait for an invitation to slide the door open. He never did.
Candlelight bounced off the walls giving the room a warm feeling. Raphael's eyes took in the untouched bed, the half-eaten dinner on the low table, and settled on his Master kneeling by a small shrine. Splinter had only recently recovered from a bad bout of the flu, and he couldn't ignore his father looked older and tireder then Raphael felt he should. How long did rats live for? He had no idea but pushed the thought away as Splinter turned and offered him a warm smile, gently waving him over. Raphael tried to return the smile but it turned into a grimace.
He shut the door behind him and knelt beside his father.
"Tea?"
Raphael hated the stuff but nodded all the same. It was part of this nightly routine and if he'd looked up, he would have caught the amused look on his father's face.
"Be careful my son," Master Splinter warned tenderly, pushing a prepared cup into his hands. "It is hot."
Raphael groaned. The tea was always hot but it was their 'in' joke and another part of the ritual. The Dad joke made drinking the weakly flavoured water bearable. He could feel Master Splinter watching him.
"Are you unable to sleep my son?"
"I was, but woke up." He replied, his voice rough. He put his cup down and sighed. The dream was fresh in his memory and his arm still hurt. It had been a long time since he'd had a full night's dreamless sleep.
Splinter nodded.
"I too have had trouble sleeping."
Raphael glanced sideways at his father. The candle light flickered across him, highlighting the changing colour of his fur and the shadows under his eyes.
"Donatello could give you something?"
Splinter looked at him fondly.
"Advice you could well use, my son."
Raphael bit back a short reply that would have at the least earnt him a sharp look and at the worst, some form of punishment. Instead, Raphael pretended he hadn't heard him and took another sip of tea. Splinter didn't push and they sat in silence before Raphael cleared his throat.
"Mike's raiding his stuff again." He tried to keep the anger out of his voice, but he felt it seep in anyway. He didn't know what result he hoped for, but he felt like he had to tell someone.
Master Splinter sighed.
"Your brothers find comfort in different ways. Donatello buries himself in his work. Michelangelo likes to keep your brothers possessions near. You, my son ..." his voice trailed off.
He placed his cup down.
"For me, it is the small things. You and your brothers are all different yet you all walk the same." He said wistfully, staring into his tea "Sometimes, when I'm not concentrating, my memory plays tricks on me and I don't realise it is you knocking on my door..."
Splinter trailed off again and Raphael finally raised his head, focusing on the shrine in front of him.
It was simple and its simpleness gnawed at Raphael.
How do you sum up a life cut short on three small shelves? He thought. He deserves so much more.
A small bonsai tree sat proudly on the middle shelf, the last present Splinter received before his family had been torn apart. It was flanked by a photograph on either side, one with the whole family and friends and the other, a photo of four brothers. A single photo sat on the top shelf.
It was only after he disappeared, the brothers realised they had few pictures of Leonardo. He had usually been behind the camera and they'd had to crop his individual image from a larger shot.
Raphael clenched his fists.
That was one of the many things he was going to change when he found his brother. Family photos. They'd drown in them.
Drowning ...
Raphael shuddered and his father's hand landed lightly on his shoulder, squeezing in comfort.
The bottom shelf held his brothers twin katana.
Raphael reached out a shaky hand and briefly touched the nearest one, running his hand slowly over the hilt. It was covered in the same material as his brother's mask. They'd never found the mask he was wearing that night. They'd never found him.
"Moving on is not forgetting, my son."
Raphael wrenched his hand back like he'd been burnt.
"You sound like Don." He muttered darkly. His eyes flickered towards the door, as if he could pierce through them, across the lair and into his brother's room and blind him with reason. Make him see. Truly see.
"I have spoken to your brother over the evenings you have been out. He said he has tried many times to talk to you."
Raphael snorted. 'Talk' was a rather long stretch. His last 'talk' with Donatello had ended in a screaming match that had been building for months. They had barely spoken since. Michelangelo had said he wouldn't take sides, but that to Raphael was as good as throwing the towel in with the enemy. Just thinking about his brother sent his hands shaking and to hide it, he grabbed his cup and raised it to his lips.
"Your brother would not like to see you so unhappy."
Raphael's eyes flashed and he slammed the cup down.
"He's out there." He hissed. "He's out there somewhere and while they're mourning and 'moving on' – he made quotation marks in the air - I'm doing something about it. I'm turning New York upside down to find him. There's no evidence he didn't survive that fall."
He glared at his father.
"If he's dead, where's the body?"
Splinter looked at him gently, tears glistening in his eyes.
"My son," he said, hesitantly reaching out his hand and laying it on Raphael's arm. "Your brother loved you. He loved his family. If your brother survived, he would have returned."
Splinter smiled at him gently, a smile that only held sadness.
"It has been three years. You need to let him go."
Raphael snatched his arm back and clambered to his feet. This was the first time Master Splinter had broached the topic and he knew it only meant one thing.
He's giving up too, Raphael thought. He thinks he's dead.
I don't have time for this.
"I'm going out."
He knew he was being rude but he didn't wait for a dismissal. He headed for the door and as he opened it, Raphael said over his shoulder.
"I don't care what you say. I don't care what Don says or Mike or Casey. I'm not giving up. I'm never giving up."
He slammed the door shut and looked out into the lair.
"I'm going to find him," he snarled into the silence around him. It was a promise he had made to himself over the many years. "I'm going to find him. I'm going to bring him home."