"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Donatello's said, his voice doing that pedantic nervous dance it always did.
"What's the problem, dude?' Michelangelo asked, gathering April O'Neil's signature yellow leather jacket in his hands. "I'm sure April will totally appreciate me bringing her jacket back to her."
"Yeah, but Raph won't," the bespectacled turtle replied flatly.
The youngest turtle rolled his baby blue eyes. "Raph doesn't own her, Donnie."
"Suit yourself," Donatello rubbed his eyes under his glasses. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
Michelangelo barely heard his brother's words of warning as he lept over the pizza couch, April's jacket in hand. An unwieldy grin broke across his face as he picked up speed. This was a perfect opportunity to show her just how thoughtful he was. She had left her jacket on the couch; he had noticed, and he (not Raphael) would return it to her. And being the wonderful, well-mannered young lady she was, she would thank him - of course. She could thank him with a hug. Or maybe even a kiss. Michelangelo's felt himself begin to blush as he imagined the possibilities. The youngest turtle reeled down the sewer pipe, his orange bandana fluttering behind him. He had to be quick if he wanted to catch her before she went top-side.
He knew just where they would be. Second pipe to the right and straight on til the closest manhole. Raphael had probably come to think of it as "their" spot, given how much time they had been been spending their lately, but Michelangelo was about to change that. The turtle in orange stopped to straighten himself just before turning around the final bend. He paused. What would he say to her? A grin spread across his face as he held up her jacket with one hand, and gestured to it with the other, letting his free hand fall down his torso, illustrating the line of his well defined abs.
"Forget something, angelcakes?" he asked the darkness as he wiggled his brow ridge.
Satisfied with his plan of attack, he slipped around the corner. They were still there, under the manhole. Michelangelo's eyes widened in the dim light.
He stood frozen, watching them. Raphael's mouth was pressed against hers. Her full pink lips parted, slowly, drawing him closer to her. He was running his hands over her shoulders, up her neck, to her face. He was kissing her harder. She pushed herself up on the tips of her toes; even with her heeled boots, the height difference between them was still absurd, but not insurmountable. Raphael leaned down, taking her face in his hand, but only long enough to brush his thumb her flushing pink cheek. Before Michelangelo knew it, his brother's lips were there, on her cheek, on her neck, trailing down her throat.
April leaned back, and the curtain of her hair fell back, revealing the gleaming white skin of her throat. Raphael slipped into the space between her neck and her shoulder almost seamlessly. A cascade of that beautiful red brown hair spilled over her shoulders, swinging across her back. The way she smelled hit Michelangelo like a shock wave, fast, and relentless, and electrifying. His fingers gripped the leather of her jacket just a little harder.
"Oh," he said in a small voice.
Michelangelo's eyes widened. He hadn't meant to speak. That noise that was barely a word had just fallen out of his mouth. And now they knew. Raphael glanced up and gave him the look. The youngest turtle swallowed loudly; he knew that look all too well. That brow creased, jaw clenched, I'm Coming For You look of Raphael's that set Michelangelo's own teeth on edge.
"Oh no."
"Michelangelo -" his brother began.
The youngest turtle dropped April's yellow jacket and ran. His shell necklaces and sunglasses slapped against his plastron as he bolted down the tunnel, the exchange between April and his biggest brother echoing behind him.
"What did you do?!" April shouted.
Raphael grumbled. "Hey. You kissed me."
"YOU KISSED ME BACK -"
"Don't worry; I'll take care of Mikey."
As if Michelangelo wanted anything to do with Raphael right now. He knew what happened when someone got between Raphael something he wanted. The most recent Hawaiian Pizza incident came to mind. And all that had happened over a single piece of pizza. This was April. April O'Neil, the most beautiful girl in the world. Michelangelo felt his knees turning to rubber beneath him, but he kept running.
The signs had all been there, right in front of his face. Michelangelo was silly, but he wasn't stupid. He had seen how close they sat next to each other on the pizza couch. He had noticed how she never asked anyone but him to walk her out. And he was absolutely certain he would not be able to unsee that damnable dopey grin Raphael got when he thought no one was watching. The signs had all been there. But Michelangelo had ignored them, because doing anything else just made his heart ache.
Instead of entering the lair, he swung up through the tunnel, and crawled into one of his many hiding places. Shimmying himself and his hulking shell into this particular small space was no easy task, but at least it would allow him to be alone. There was some small comfort in the knowledge that out of all his brothers, he was the only one small enough to fit in this particular vent. It might have been small, and dank, but this place was his.
Michelangelo sat in silence for some time, before he wrapped his arms around his knees, drawing them in close to his torso. He adored April. From the minute he had first laid eyes on her, he had thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world - even more beautiful than Gwen Stefani. The turtle had thought he had made it perfectly clear how he felt, showering her with compliments; informing her of his super secret stash of orange soda behind the fridge; letting her pick what they were going to watch on movie night.
"So much for dibs," he sighed sadly to himself.
He closed his eyes, and his mind was flooded with images of April, surrendering to his brother's touch. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, and tried to count to ten. Of all his brothers, Michelangelo was not the best at meditation. He wasn't the worst either, thanks to Raphael, but he still didn't consider himself to be all that good at it. He took a deep breath. Even if he wasn't particularly skilled when it came to meditation, he could at least try. Counting to ten without thinking of anything else was one of the first meditation exercises Splinter had taught them; years later, Michelangelo still struggled with it.
The youngest turtle took another breath, and began to count. As he approached seven, he heard a tap below him. He sighed, and made a mental note that this spot had been found out, too. Donatello always found him. It was only a matter of time. It probably had not helped that this time, he was hiding just above the kitchen. The bo staff rapped against the vent again.
"Dude. I got all the way to seven that time," Michelangelo groaned. "On my first try!" He blinked, pausing for a moment. "Wait. How did you find me?"
"You were counting - out loud."
"Oh."
Michelangelo scooted next to the vent opening, and wrenched it apart with his bare hands. He fell to the kitchen floor with a thud. If Leonardo were here, he would tell him how Michelangelo needed to work on his landings. But there was no Leonardo tonight; only Donatello, who had been right, as usual. The youngest turtle's lips sunk into a frown. He shouldn't have gone.
"Saved you the last piece of pizza," his brother said, gently. "Do you want me to microwave it for you?
"I don't want any more pizza," Michelangelo lamented, plopping down at the kitchen table. He dramatically hurled himself forward, dropping his face on the table.
Donatello's brow ridge raised, ever so slightly. "I'll just throw it in for a minute and forty-five seconds."
Michelangelo sat there, head down, eyes closed as the microwave whirred to life. It felt like an eternity went by, waiting for it to beep. He smelled the pizza before he saw it, and when he looked up, Donatello was sitting across the table from him.
"Pepperoni," he said, his lips turning up into a small awkward smile.
The youngest turtle's face scrunched up, trying to stifle the smile he felt cropping up without his consent. How dare Donatello interrupt his pout with pizza. Pepperoni pizza, no less. Michelangelo sighed. "Thanks, bro."
Michelangelo took a tender bite of the freshly microwaved slice, and forced himself to focus. There was nothing else. Only pizza. He chewed, slowly, cathartically. He counted to ten. There was nothing else, only pizza.
The youngest turtle's focus was interrupted when Donatello carefully emptied a bag of coffee grounds into the filter of the coffeemaker. Michelangelo slouched in his chair, tenderly holding the last sliver of the last slice of pizza between two fingers. He sighed. The crust was just never as good after being microwaved. How is it always too hard AND too soft at the same time? Michelangelo wondered. But pizza wasn't the only thing on his mind. He cast his gaze to the floor.
"What the hell does she see in him?"
The turtle in purple shrugged his narrow shoulders as he filled the coffee pot with water. "Perhaps it's the pheromones."
Michelangelo shoved the remaining pizza crust into his mouth. He chewed as he mulled over the reality of Raphael and April. At the very least, he took solace in knowing that his genius brother was just as confused as he was.
"Donnie. Did you ever think -"
"No." Michelangelo did not need to finish in order for Donatello to respond. The bespectacled turtle shook his head, slowly and deliberately. And then he spoke so softly his brother could barely hear him over the bubbling sounds of the old coffee maker. "It was so improbable it was practically impossible."
"Never say never, I guess."
Donatello's lips curled up into a reluctant smile at his brother's inimitable optimism as he stood slowly; the light on the coffee maker was flashing. He returned to the table with a cup of coffee in one hand, and an orange soda in the other.
"Aw man. You know about the soda too?" his younger brother bemoaned.
"Of course I know about the soda."
Michelangelo sighed. Donatello really did know everything. The two sat at the table; Donatello with his coffee, and Michelangelo with his orange soda. The turtle in purple sipped gingerly at the scalding hot brew; he could have cut it with milk and sped up the cooling time, but preferred to drink it black. So he waited. Michelangelo gently tapped his foot and slurped his soda, and then, a smile crossed his face.
"Donnie. What are the chances -"
"Don't ask."