What They Carry in Their Shells
by KC
Summary: Everyone has baggage. A turtle can never put his down.
Pairings: OT4
Offered to SiliconGlass, aka Xile, whose rants that turtlecest is disgusting, bestial, perverted, disgusting, and requires its writers to be shamed and/or cured would ring far more credible if he did not have anti-homosexual rants that gays are disgusting, bestial, perverted, disgusting, and need to be shamed and/or cured.
A snail carries its home on its back. A turtle carries its shell. All the clutter that accumulates in a home, the junk drawers that overflow, the stain you always meant to clean up, the walls that need more paint and the bookshelf that never gets dusted, all piling up in memories, unspoken thoughts that there's never a right time for. All jumbled together and hauled around because it's impossible to simply throw it out, afraid that something valuable might be lost.
So Raphael and Leonardo look at each other, about to talk, then turn aside. Raphael makes a joke about something on tv. Leonardo relaxes as the tension slips away. Another confrontation postponed.
Raphael carries his belt, knee and elbow pads, mask, sai, and a deep confidence in the power of his own fists. It makes up for the last thing he carries, a heart tumbling around in its own emotions.
When Leonardo gets up from the couch, heading to the kitchen, he finds Donatello already filling the kettle with bottled water. His brother looks up, reads his look and nods, adding a little more before capping the bottle again and putting it back in the fridge.
Clean water is too precious to waste. Coffee and tea are made only a cup at a time. Leonardo brings out two large mugs and then fishes out the instant coffee and green tea, preparing both.
"Still on eggshells with Raph?" Donatello asks as he sets the pot to boil, turning to face him.
"Kind of," Leonardo shrugs. "As usual."
Donatello smiles and watches him work. "Both of you wanna make up. You know that, right?"
"Sure," Leonardo says, without much conviction.
Laughing, Donatello steps close and puts his arms around him, resting his chin on his brother's shoulder. He nuzzles Leonardo's cheek, running his hand down his shell.
"You're in a good mood," Leonardo says, smiling despite himself.
"Mikey," Donatello says. "He helped me fix the van's engines. And then...well, I had to show him my appreciation for all his work."
"Of course," Leonardo chuckles. He can't make himself moody again. Donatello's happiness is infectious, and a good roll on the mattress always lifts his spirits. "Don't suppose you'd be willing...?"
"Nope," Donatello says far too cheerfully. "You and Raph have to get along. Then we'll have fun."
Leonardo narrows his eyes. "That sounds suspiciously like a Mikey plan."
"That's because it is," Donatello says with a smile. "He's with Raph right now."
"Geez." Leonardo sighs and opens the refrigerator, looking for something to go with tea. "Not everything can be fixed so fast."
"Well..." Donatello says, dragging out the syllable. He jumps on the counter and watches his big brother. "It's just you guys argue so much, even now. You'd think being together would make you guys friendlier to each other, but it's just as bad. And...it's not fun watching you two."
"You think I enjoy fighting with him?" Leonardo asks. "But he never listens and he always treats me like I'm an idiot that doesn't get anything."
"He'd probably say the same thing," Donatello says softly.
Leonardo doesn't argue that. The tea kettle whistles, and he lets Donatello fill his coffee up before taking the rest for his tea. Taking a long sip, he watches his brother head out of the room, head slightly lowered. No doubt Donatello feels like he didn't make any progress on softening Leonardo's irritation.
Donatello carries his belt, knee and elbow pads, mask, coffee, his genius and a growing burden to somehow keep the peace in the family. He treats them like a complex machine, constantly searching for the secret that makes them tick and always frustrated that the solution slips out of his hand.
Leonardo finishes the tea, puts the dish away, then reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a beer. It's cold, with perspiration running down the sides, and he grabs the bottle opener before he heads back.
He spots Michelangelo leaning over the couch, leaning draped over Raphael and whispering in his ear with an impish grin. They both glance at Leonardo as he comes in, and Michelangelo whispers one more word to Raphael, who glares and reaches around to smack his little brother. As usual, Michelangelo dances out of reach and backs away, laughing that Raphael is "too slow."
"Rotten brat," Raphael mutters. "He's getting more annoying every day."
"He's just good at getting under your skin," Leonardo says, sitting down on the sofa with his brother again. He sets the beer with the bottle opener on the coffee table and leans back as if it doesn't exist.
"Whoa," Michelangelo gasps, grabbing the sofa's arm and doing a quick handstand. "Big brother brings a peace offering! Will the surly one accept, or will there be an epic frostiness in the bed tonight-ack!"
A cushion lands solidly in his face, and he topples over and backs off again, slinging the cushion back at Leonardo, who catches it again.
"Mikey," Leonardo warns him. "Lay off, or I'll remember you haven't finished laundry yet."
"Oh, that wounds me to the heart," Michelangelo cries dramatically, collapsing backwards as if struck by an arrow. "Cut down and sent to the soap mines. See if I do your sheets, you big mean-ack!"
Sent away with another cushion to the face, Michelangelo doesn't walk off so much as he saunters, then cartwheels, out of the room.
Michelangelo carries his belt, knee and elbow pads, mask, nunchucks, candy, pen and notebook, a light heart and the key to the family that Donatello had been searching for. The key takes a light hand to turn, and sometimes he turns it so skillfully that it seems like he hasn't done anything at all.
Raphael reaches forward and grabs the bottle, popping it open and taking a long draft. As he settles back in his seat, letting the alcohol slowly hit him, he glances at his brother. When he sees that Leonardo is staring at the tv instead, he turns slightly and studies his brother in earnest.
Leonardo carries his belt, knee and elbow pads, mask, two hidden knives, uncounted shuriken, the weight of the family and too much stubborn pride for his own good. Almost as much as Raphael.
The beer's pretty good. Cold at least, and Raphael figures it's a good enough peace offering. He sits up, leans over to Leonardo and puts his hand under his brother's chin, forcibly tilts his head up, and then steals a kiss before Leonardo can pull away. But Leonardo doesn't pull away.
Each of them carries his belt, knee and elbow pads, mask, hidden weapons, some sharp, some subtle, and the expertise to wield those weapons. Each of them carries a shell, carting around his home on his back, jumbled memories, cluttered emotional junk drawers, dealing with the mess because the precious bits are too important to toss out.
end