"GAAAAh! It's back to polka!" Mikey hollered, "You GOTTA get some new songs on here, D!"
Annoyed, Donatello rolled his eyes. No appreciation.
Okay, was polka sexy? No. No, it was not. I mean, they had a TV, after all, Donatello wasn't a complete idiot – he knew the "cool" stuff was all thumping bass and shaking your butt around. That's probably what Mikey would prefer. And it's not like he couldn't appreciate a good beat. But as usual, his brothers prized style over substance, when he would give anything, anything just to…
Donatello sighed and glanced down at the three fingers on his hand.
How many times, when he'd been assembling a particularly delicate piece of machinery, had he wished for real, human hands? With slender, easy-to-manipulate, dexterous fingers instead of thick, green sausages blocking his line of sight and dropping the screwdriver again? How many times did he have to reinvent the wheel and design his own tools, instead of fumbling hopelessly with implements designed for non-circus-freaks? Trouble finding left-handed scissors? Yeah, how about finding left-handed scissors he could ACTUALLY fit his gross, gargantuan thumb through? Or how many times had he held his breath while, with tweezers and soldering iron, he attempted to assemble a circuit board, only to have the tweezers go flying out of his sweaty mitts, or to burn himself with the soldering iron, cussing and sucking the burn off his stupid clown thumb?
Yeah, polka wasn't sexy. But every time he listened to the accordion fly through detailed passagework, scales and arpeggios bubbling and flowing like water, he couldn't help but feel that unique blend of wonder and longing…when he heard a talented artist, truly talented, play an impressive cadenza - it made his heart beat a little faster, made him feel a bit like smiling and a bit like crying.
He glanced down at his hands again, and tried to picture them making that kind of music. Imagined what it would be like to possess that kind of freedom, precision, and dexterity with the keys – one of his fingers would probably play three notes at once. He pictured his thick, stupid hands simply trying to hold an accordion. Or a violin. Or play the piano.
Or pretty much any instrument, ever, other than the drum, maybe.
He snorted softly. Yeah, that's what these hands were good at. All they were good for.
Hitting things.
For the millionth time, against his will, he imagined what it would be like if April were to put her hand in his, and his heart lurched, knowing at once how badly he wanted it to happen, and also, how absurd it would be…like a toddler holding a big green baseball mitt. Why did he torture himself like this, it's not like that was ever –
Mikey interrupted his thoughts, still scrolling through his playlist.
"Polka…polka…Beeth Oven's piano concert-o number five…Wait, he wrote FIVE of these?! Get a new idea, man."
"It's Beethoven, Mikey" Leo corrected with a smile, "Not 'Beeth Oven.'"
"Wait, like the movie with the dog?"
"No, not like the movie with the dog," Donatello snapped.
"Whatever bro," Mikey sailed on, "You need some actual music on this music player. Oo! I'm downloading Anaconda. 'Mah Anaconda don't! Mah Anaconda don't! Mah Anaconda – '"
Donatello revisited, just for a moment, a familiar daydream…of wearing a suit and tie, taking a deep, nervous breath, and then stepping out into the spotlight at Alice Tully hall to thunderous applause. Bowing politely, then tucking the violin under his chin, closing his eyes, and after a breathless pause, launching into Paganini's first violin Caprice, making the violin sing and fly – with his skinny, dexterous, human fingers. His brothers' jaws hanging open from the first row – finally admitting he'd done something they couldn't do better, something they had to admit was not just nerdy, or useful, but something impressive, something…special. Splinter nodding in rhythm, his eyes watering the way they had the day Leo mastered the kata gankaku for the first time – so proud of his smart, talented son. April gasping, her hands flying up to her mouth, in awe of his talent, a blush creeping into her cheeks as she leaned in to whisper to her Dad, "isn't he great?" and Kirby nodding in agreement, in approval, stroking his beard and thinking "now here's a smart, talented young man…a cultured young man…a young man with a future. Just the sort of young man I'd want for my…"
Donnie sighed.
No appreciation.