A.N: Written for the Mike/Leo fanbook.
Dust
His voice always sent a shiver down his spine.
Tonight was no different, though it was for a less pleasurable reason. His younger brother's scream of pain continued to echo around his head as if it were still happening. It could have been for all he knew. There were still noises of clashing metal, panicked shouts and the thud of bodies hitting the floor.
The bitter, coppery smell of blood was still so thick he could almost taste it.
It clogged up his throat, clouded his tongue until he thought he was going to be sick. Blood had only made him throw up once; many, many years ago after his first kill. He'd almost forgotten about it, but now the memories brought everything back with a vengeance.
His stomach was churning violently and he could feel his throat begin to constrict. Light-headedness washed over him like a fever, warping his bearings and causing him to stumble. Before he could trip or even open his mouth, a rough, scarred and too harsh hand gripped him and steadied him. Raph hurt. Raph nearly always hurt.
And even now he was a trap. Raphael was a cage, snaring him with bitter words and too strong hands. He couldn't breathe in this enclosure; bars that felt like fingers were creeping around his windpipe. He had to get out! He had to escape this prison before it crushed him. But escaping meant destroying their family, and while he still drew breath, that wasn't an option.
"Breathe Leo, for fuck's sake,"
He hadn't even noticed his shallow gasps until Raph's voice cut through his haze like his own swords. He could hear every syllable shake with a well-hidden fear and a not so well-hidden irritation. Raph was all hard edges and if you weren't careful, his barbs ran deep. So deep Raph could heal them with a kiss, if he wanted to.
Donatello was sharp too, sharp tongue and sharp mind. But there was smoothness there too. Sympathetic eyes and a knowing smile. His cybernetic arm might be as cold as ice, but Donny could still warm you to the core.
It was Michelangelo who was the soft one. His fingertips were bubbles and his lips were marshmallows. Every touch a tender one, one to be savoured like a pleasant dream. He was the slightest strip of sunlight in a black sky. He was a cool drop of water in a scorching desert. He was everything.
And Leo was nothing. A wisp of dust carried away by a fleeting breeze.
He tried to make a conscious effort to calm his awkward breathing. It was too loud in the darkness. He could hear it over the chaos. The world was upside down and he was floating in a black devastation.
All black now. No colour anymore. He could feel them slowly escaping his memory, trickles of rainbow rinsing clear. He could remember what they looked like now, but he feared he wouldn't recall a thing in five years time.
If he was still alive of course.
The next hour passed by in a mist. Raph must have taken them to the safe house – he could smell antiseptic (sharp, sobering) mixed with the blood, and stale food rations (fusty, like rotting cabbage). They left him in the corner to panic and scratch at the walls.
Mike's screams turned to wracked sobs.
He almost lost it then. He felt his sanity slipping and he clutched and clawed at it desperately, tumbling into the pit of eternal darkness. That was his life now. What was the point? He was nothing. A wisp of dust carried away by a fleeting breeze.
But before he could snap he felt it beating; slow and sluggish, but definitely there. It made him freeze and gasp, torn in two from all directions. Gravity told him his bottom was planted firmly on the floor but he felt like he was falling. There was no light to guide him.
He endured another ten minutes of this agony (the concrete beneath his palms tore his skin like a grater) before he felt icy cold metal finger caress his face. It was a long, frantic moment before he realised it was Donatello. Grounding him, rooting him. He wanted to yell, but the sounds died in his throat. Don knew what he wanted to say anyway.
He couldn't walk. The previous battle coupled with stress and emotion turned his legs to jelly, but his brother supported him with a wordless patience. Whispers followed them, and he didn't know who was there. He always drowned out the voices that were unfamiliar. Everything was always too loud now.
Even his own voice hurt his ears. He barely spoke, used his hands to ask questions, his lips to whisper love and reassurance. It was only during fights and times like this when he was certain his voice still worked. When cracks of emotion broke free.
The smell of blood started to vanish. Instead there was clean linen and more searing antiseptic. Don was tired; Leo could feel it in the way he held him and the sound of his feet shuffling on the concrete. Something wasn't being said. It hung in the air, thick and clogging like smog.
He was about to demand to know what it was, but then he heard it and stumbled. Mike's laboured breathing, littered with pained and heartbroken whimpers. He shivered violently and lunged forward, scrambling towards the devastating noise. His voice always sent a shiver down his spine.
Crippling fright wormed its way along his muscles like a parasite. He stubbed his toe on something hard and metallic but the pain barely registered in his head. A consequence of refusing the cane April acquired for him. Too proud. Too proud to admit he was a victim to disability. Still half believed that he would wake up one day and the world would be filled with glorious colour once more.
It was stupid to dream but he did it anyway.
He knew he'd reached the bed when he found purchase on soft sheets and the crying was so loud he could feel it vibrate in his chest. His breath hitched in his throat and he reached like a desperate child aching for its mother. His hands brushed shaking skin and he explored it frantically. Slid his palms over rough scales and smooth bandages.
Michelangelo's own hands made him jump. Clammy, needy and protective all at once. They did this every time. He had to check that his brother was in one piece and Mike had to reassure himself that Leo hadn't been swallowed by the darkness. The wretched sound of his name on his younger brother's lips broke his heart. It was too much. If he was damaged any more tonight he would shatter into a thousand pieces.
His fingers suddenly ran out of flesh to touch.
He felt his body cease completely. Even his breath, even the blood in his veins. Immovable. Something that hadn't been said. A strangled sob fought its way out of his mouth. Blindly, he groped for the limb that wasn't there anymore. Just air. Air that sickened him to the core.
Michelangelo's left arm had been shorn off just above the elbow. Instead there were damp wrappings, inches thick. He could feel every hole in the gauze with his weathered fingertips. Mike's whimpers in his ear were like gunshots. It was no wonder he screamed.
He'd lost part of himself out there.
Leo couldn't give that back. He was nothing. A wisp of dust carried away by a fleeting breeze. He drew his brother close, cursing himself as words failed to come. He pressed rough fingertips and a desperate mouth to his face. Touched wetness, tasted saltwater. Bittersweet on his lips. Michelangelo drank him in and begged for more besides.
Part of him was missing, and a ghost taunted him just out of reach.
What could they do? They hadn't prepared for this. Donatello had made a conscious decision to remove his own arm – they couldn't save it and they all knew he was secretly in love with the idea of merging flesh and bone with cold steel and shocking electricity. Michelangelo's had been snatched from him without warning. He couldn't be lost. He was everything.
"I love you,"
The sound was alien, a croak laden with neglect and heartache. He didn't recognise it as his own voice at all, but Michelangelo did and that was what mattered. His crying was renewed, overwhelmed by whatever emotion he heard in those fractured words. He meant for them to be dripping with love and affection. It hadn't sounded like that to him, but his brother must have realised anyway.
The kiss was distressed, breathless and bruising. He could have lost himself in it. But he was all too aware that only one hand grabbed for him. He didn't need his eyes to imagine his brother's expression. He could hear it in his voice, feel it in his kiss. They were aching for each other, and they would always ache. It was a dull throb in their chests, a searing jolt in their hearts.
He remembered the last time they had kissed like this. He remembered the pain in his eyes that was so excruciating he thought he would die. He remembered drowning in his brother's kiss. He remembered the despair he felt when he realised the remainder of his life would be in darkness. He remembered the fraught, animalistic way they had made love that night. He remembered the way Mikey had held him.
So he tried to recreate that. He wrapped his arms tight around his brother's shaking frame and held on for dear life. He focussed hard on those feelings of strength and safety, and hoped that Mikey would latch onto them. He needn't have worried. His brother buried into him as if it were where he belonged. Entwined together as if they were once the same being, like jigsaw pieces. Bent with jagged edges, but still able to slot together.
This life was hard. This life was full of darkness and sadness and uncertainty. They had already lost so much. How much more would be stolen from them? He was already losing Raph. He could feel their connection slowly withering away, the thread wearing away strand by strand. One day it will snap and Raph will disappear. And it wouldn't be long before Donatello was absorbed by his machinery. It had already begun, creeping up his arm like steel ivy.
He couldn't lose Mikey. He was the slightest strip of sunlight in a black sky. He was a cool drop of water in a scorching desert. He was everything. Leo was nothing. A wisp of dust carried away by a fleeting breeze. Mikey was the only one keeping the wind at bay. Mikey was the only one clutching him tightly.
And now he had lost a hand and Leo could feel his grip slipping.
Eventually, Mikey stopped sobbing. The hiccups and gasps were a little less painful to listen to. More kisses, tender like feathers and as soothing as cool rain on singed skin. He wanted time to stand still. He wanted to envelope them in a bubble and watch the world pass them by. There would be just Mikey with his bubble fingertips and marshmallow lips.
Forever.
"I love you too,"
His voice always sent a shiver down his spine.
The End