Beginning
Raphael knew sleep would not find him. No, it would evade him, again—slip through his fingers like a thousand tiny grains of sand. Low rumbles of thunder were the evenings chorus to a merciless rainfall beating against the street and pavement above head as he slipped out of bed, thoughts drifting to Leonardo.
They kept up hope, knowing his resilience and willpower, but the scarce communication—and then none at all—quickly wore them ragged. Everyone tried to remain hopeful and calm, keeping their innermost thoughts to themselves, but Raphael could tell early on the fear and doubt they each harbored. He wondered, as he knew they all did, if something terrible had befallen Leonardo. If maybe he'd simply forgotten them, as ridiculous a thought that was. he almost didn't believe Leonardo would return at all. He struggled with being wrong and admitting it, but the reward of that amazing emotional weight leaving his shoulders if he did return, but also with the reality of his bones, splintered and picked clean by wildlife, possibly scattered in some foreign jungle, forever lost.
He lit the candle near his bed, watched it dance quietly as he sat, leaned back; tried to conjure up his brothers voice inside his head. Something about calligraphy, and balancing the mind and body. Boring, and sensitive—too sensitive for a leader, he always thought—but often times as equally headstrong as Raphael himself, whether or not he would admit it. Their last conversation came to him—one of quiet civility on Leonardo's side (brusque and contained bitterness on his own side), not a battle of words and wits and volume. At the time, he'd noticed nothing out of the ordinary, but now, it felt wrong. Dirty. Premeditated. Almost as if he knew all along.
...Was his intention to leave with a clean slate and as little guilt as possible, just in case?
Raphael saw red. "That lousy, good for nothing, sonova—"
Eyes flitted to the left, then the right. He spotted a pencil and grabbed it, nearly snapping it in two. Instead, he leaned forward over a sheet of paper and began sketching, cursing under his breath. Some type of suit. No, bigger. More intimidating. Faceless. Cold. Strong. He paused, caught his breath—had he been holding it the entire time?—listened hard for the low murmur of infomercials, or the tap-tap-tap of a computer keyboard. Silence.
There was no one to judge him.
"Why not?" was his first thought. Up until Leo left, they were protectors, then all of a sudden they were downgraded to ghosts, myths; idly sitting by, doing nothing, while scumbags terrorized the innocent. Leo had his chance and blew it, and Don...Don was trying, but any one of them could tell their hearts really weren't into it anymore.
So why not?
He gazed down at the sketch, tentatively held it up to the flickering candle.
"If they won't do it..."
I thought maybe writing fanfiction on my days off would help me relax, so I'm using prompts to get started. I'm not the greatest writer (haven't touched the stuff since HS, though I read almost all day long!), so if anyone spots any mistakes, or has any tips or anything, please speak up. Thanks. Enjoy! ツ