Raphael licked his lips and tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. His mouth was a desert, a raw, parched void that yearned desperately to be quenched. His breath could find no passage through that arid wasteland in which his tongue seemed to swell until it threatened to choke him.
Again and again, April's arm lifted and fell, lifted and fell in a steady rhythm that held him hypnotised and frozen in place, unable to do anything but stare with a longing like thirst after forty days without a drop.
Her hair – her long, silken auburn hair that always tumbled so loose and wavy around her face – undulated beneath the pull of the brush, the glow of the television picking out strands of gold and red and deep burgundy, gleaming like the embers of a fire.
It was movie night and the five of them were propped around the plasma screen on sofas and bean bags and piles of cushions, pizza boxes liberally distributed into whatever inches of space remained between them as they clustered close in easy camaraderie. They were marathonning The Expendables series and whilst Raphael had been at first eager and riveted to the audacious spectacle of camp action, it hadn't been too long before his gaze had been drawn to April first once, then twice, then time and again until finally it was fixed on her entirely and the flashing and explosions that pulsed from the giant screen faded into the background, ignored. The sounds of his brothers – Michelangelo's ecstatic whoops at every explosion and barrage of gunfire, Donatello's clipped criticism of the logistical impossibilities the film constantly doled out, and Leonardo's elaborating on battle strategies he thought superior – barely registered to him, but if anyone noticed Raphael wasn't making his usual scornful remarks in response to their carry-on, they didn't mention it. He just hoped he wouldn't get an interrogation, with a side helping of teasing, over it later on.
She'd chosen to sit on a beanbag in front of the sofa, positioned off to his right, comfortably snuggling with Mikey in a way that made Raphael's blood boil even though he was absolutely certain April did not return his brother's puppy-like infatuation. For April, it was a familial comfort she sought from the companionable press of their shoulders. Still, Raphael could not suppress the twinge of jealousy as he wished – as he had never wished before they met April O'Neil but had many times since – that he could be as easily affectionate and expressive as his gregarious little brother.
After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, April had sat up and rummaged in her bag, finding the brush and commencing with the grooming she did with no seeming purpose in mind, and it was at that point that Raphael's mouth had evaporated of all moisture and he could only watch entranced, and aware of the dull, heavy thud of his heart against his plastron.
In the darkened den, sitting behind her with the others all focused on the extravaganza on the screen, he had felt safe to watch her, his gaze following a lingering path down the shining waterfall of her hair and his groin pulsed as, unbidden, an image of his hands plunging into that glorious, soft mane and lifting fistfuls of it to his nose to inhale sprang vividly into his mind.
Raphael shifted, his weight making the sofa creak and he was grateful for the cacophony of sound that blared from the speakers, disguising his movement – as though merely adjusting his position would be some sort of deadly giveaway that would betray him to them all.
April shifted the brush to the crown of her head then, sweeping her hair back off her face. He could glimpse only a sliver of her profile. Unconsciously, his head tilted to the side in an effort to see more of her, his tongue once again flicking across his parched lips as he caught a glimpse of hers, parted, her huge eyes wide and absorbing the endless parade of ridiculous action that unfolded before them.
Then she was letting the brush drop casually into the cushions, lifting both hands to smooth through her hair and gather it together, sweeping it upwards, the hundreds of thousands of sleek strands shining and shimmering with the motion so that the palms of his calloused hands practically itched to be soothed by the feel of it all beneath his own stroking touch.
Again his breath caught in his throat, again he swallowed and worked his jaw, attempting to build up enough saliva to quench the suffocating dryness that consumed his mouth.
April's hands twisted around and around her hair, coaxing it higher onto her scalp in one bundle then, with a practiced movement, flicked an elastic tie from around her wrist and wrapped it over several times, securing the whole lot in a high ponytail that revealed to him in suddenly agonising detail the long, slender lines of her neck and the narrow sweep of her shoulders, the delicate shape of her jaw and the curve of her cheek.
In a moment of desperate frustration, Raphael remembered the beer can he'd been clutching in one hand for the last goddamn hour and drained the whole thing in one, urgent gulp even though it had long gone warm.
It didn't help.
Suddenly April was scooting backwards over the beanbags and cushions towards him, one fist rubbing at sleepy eyes as she pushed herself onto the sofa beside him.
"Do you mind?" she asked him sleepily but with a note of uncertainty and he realised he was sitting too rigid, too withdrawn and wished again he knew how to exude an inviting warmth or a welcoming friendliness or anything other than the defensive, always a little hostile, remoteness that he felt so secure within.
"Go for your life," he muttered, his voice embarrassingly croaky, and then she was curled up beside him, close but not so close they were touching – just close enough that he could feel the warmth of her radiating, making his skin prickle as though it strove to reach out and make contact with hers.
No longer able to watch her openly, he cast her a surreptitious glance from the corner of his eye and felt his heart clutch at the sight of that gorgeous profile, every angle and plane of her face seeming enhanced, cast into sharper relief with her hair pulled back like that. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest and she gazed at the television with lips slackly parted, seeming at once engrossed and yet barely focused, her eyes glazing over.
With an almighty effort, he dragged his own gaze back to the screen, realising at some stage they had started the third movie and he couldn't, for the life of him, recall anything about the second. Not that it particularly mattered. Trying to force himself to relax, Raphael determined to focus on the film and stop letting himself get carried away with ridiculous fantasies – especially now that the object of them was sitting mere inches from him.
But as he sat there, burly arms crossed over his plastron, so intent on concentrating on the film that he barely registered it at all, April's slight figure began to slide sidewards until, abruptly, her head was on his shoulder and he started, the movie once again a forgotten buzz, looking down in alarm to where she had inexplicably decided to rest.
She'd fallen asleep.
Heart pounding, Raphael stiffened up once more, at a loss for what to do – surely she didn't want to be leant up against him like that? Surely the solid curve of his muscle was no comfortable resting spot? Surely he should move her – urge her to lie down, shift himself onto the floor, leave her to rest in peace? But if he did that, he might disturb her sleep and he couldn't quite bring himself to risk it. Maybe if he knew how to be like Michelangelo – nurturing, comforting and at ease with touching and being touched – he would know what to do. But he only knew how to be himself and all he could do right then was sit there, with the woman he was almost certain he was falling in love with asleep with her head resting on his shoulder, and tensely endure.
Raphael practically held his breath, he was so anxious even the slightest motion might awaken her, and he was cognizant enough to recognise the selfish impulse behind his care – he didn't want this to end, this accidental connection that left him uncomfortably trapped with his arms folded and her cheekbone digging into his deltoid, a little of her drool beginning to collect on his skin. Again his eyes roamed her face, exquisite even in graceless slumber – maybe more so – and his chest tightened against his plastron.
He recalled that she had chosen the sofa as drowsiness had first begun to overwhelm her. That she'd known he was sitting there, that she could've stayed on the floor and curled up in the beanbags or leaned against Michelangelo, but that she'd decided on the sofa – next to him – instead. What did that mean? Could it mean anything?
Raphael's gaze, helplessly tender, flickered up to where her hair swept back over her head, meeting in the ponytail on her crown, giving her face a more exposed, vulnerable look. Daring to tilt his head a little towards her, he flared his nostrils and inhaled in one great, intoxicating gulp the agonisingly sweet scent of all that hair that now tickled in tendrils just as soft and silky as he had imagined along the back of his arm.
It probably meant nothing. It had to mean nothing.
But right then, he didn't care.