"Touch"

Like all truly, heinously terrible ideas, the depths of this particular idea's true terribleness had only been revealed ex post facto. Michelangelo reflected on this fundamental truth as he tried not to vomit.

Donatello kept on walking towards the kitchen without missing a beat. Maybe he didn't notice. No. He noticed. Did he notice? He had to have noticed how he and Mike had accidentally brushed shoulders. Right?

Swaying, Michelangelo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He tried to fight it, but it was pointless. Against his will, a wave of memories slammed through his mind--visceral, clear, Las Vegas bright. Don's hands. Don's mouth. The strange, quiet sounds that Mike used to think were so funny.

"It's just two guys havin' fun. Like they do in frat houses! I mean, how can you be against havin' fun, Donny?"

It took him a minute or two to fight down the sudden, strong urge to bash in Don's head with the nearest large object. Instead, Mike silently watched his brother pour a glass of orange juice. It took him another few minutes to fight down the wave of nausea that resulted from fantasizing about bludgeoning your own brother.

"I don't know, Mike ..."

Don turned around, his face completely and carefully blank. "Thirsty? I could get you a glass."

"No, thanks."

Michelangelo desperately wanted Don to touch him. To touch him like he used to. A quick hug. A playful shove. A gentle, affectionate headrub. Don had always been the brother who touched him most frequently, and nowadays Mike felt his skin constantly itch, constantly crawl, with the aching need for physical contact.

But whenever Donatello got within three feet of him, Mike's body went into a cold sweat. Sometimes accompanied by dry heaves, other times by the blind and irrational desire to violently lash out. Today was apparently going to be a "lashing out" day. Those were always the worst.

"Aw, c'mon. What's the worst that'll happen?"

Donatello drained his juice, tilting back his head. Mike watched his brother's Adam's apple bob up and down with every gulp. It was disgusting. The way Don drank and ate--hurriedly, open-mouthed, like a starving jackal--it was disgusting. Don was disgusting.

No. No, that wasn't fair. It was Mike that was the problem; it was Mike that was sick in the head. Oh, God, was he ever. Sick in the stomach, too, now that he thought about it.

"I ... I guess you have a point, Mikey. If we don't like it, we just won't try it again. Right?"

After Don finished washing his glass, he turned to head back out the same way he'd come in. Mike stood frozen in place. His heart thudded weakly in his ears as Don approached. His mind raced, as he tried to decide what to do. To decide what he wanted to do. But then Don was there, within arm's reach, and--oh, God--please--oh, please don't--Don paused.

He reached out, his hand hovering over Michelangelo's shoulder. Mike grit his teeth and managed to contain most of his shudder. But not all of it.

Donatello took back his hand. Without comment, he continued on to the computer nook.

"Right! Exactly. See, bro? I knew you'd come around to appreciate my brilliance."