"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."


As the week progressed, the busy afternoons of New York turned crisp and windy. The oncoming of an early winter loomed nearer. Days were no warmer; clouds remained ever present in the sky, and the peeking rays of sun were often brief and fleeting.

Gentle rains moistened the ground and left glittering morning frost clinging to buildings and traffic lights. Bustling people, once in shorts and loose clothing, now hurried about in thick woolen coats and heavy boots. The city's seemingly constant noise was now smothered by the monochrome weather, with the only sign of a day ending being the routine glow of street-lamps while their own little dome of sky bled a darker shade of grey, then became engulfed in a sheet black.

It was not rare for the night to reveal bright jagged stripes of electricity among coiled bouts of cloud, crackling like the harsh snap of a whip. Following it resonate drum rolls of thunder being chased by whistling winds, declaring forceful smattering rain drops.

These were nights that Michelangelo could not bring himself to sleep through. Leave it to his attraction for the beautifully dangerous to draw his upper body out of his open bedside window. Icy water beat down and prickled his skin numb, soaking through his shirt that seemed torn between fluttering with the wind and sealing itself to his wet skin. His hair matted itself against his skull, sandy curls falling in soft waves behind his ears.

Not in rare occasion, he would find himself lost in a world of his own after the storm was long gone, and all that remained was the scent. His clothes and hair dripped dry while minutes of standing and staring out at nothing melded into hours. Unsurprisingly, it is always Leonardo's warm hand that pulls him away from the cold, steering him into his arms after locking the window shut.

Like clockwork, he creeps in at two a.m. Each time, Mikey never hears him, never knows he's there until Leo stands right behind him, with the warmth of his bare chest rolling off in waves against his own stiff nightshirt. A hand finds his- larger, but not unfamiliar in the slightest. It guides his aching body to the bed, eases him beneath the covers, and locks their fingers tight until sleeps beckoning becomes too strong to ignore.

On a good morning, Mikey still finds him sleeping beside him, or trapping him in his arms until his alarm goes off. It is with how quick he responds, silencing the repetitive beeps the second they begin, that he suspects Leo never slept at all. He can't pretend he doesn't understand why.

Feigning ignorance is the best he can do when Leonardo begins to sit up, gently nudging him awake as well, even when knows neither of them were asleep to begin with. The morning is still and grey, casting in a cool light from the window; long shadows stretched over the light of his room. They sit in silence, with little space in between; Michelangelo looking up at his brother with a patient stare, whilst Leonardo studies something on the wall.

"You can't keep doing this," he states, now turning to stare back.

There has a solid moment where the younger simply blinks, as if he doesn't already know how to respond. A minute passes before he reaches up, softly kissing his brother's cheek. He stands and the bed creaks with the loss of weight.

"Okay." Is all he can say back, with a soft smile, and empty eyes.

Leo lingers on the bed. He watches Mikey turn away, walking to his doorless closet to pull out a shirt, and replace the one he was already wearing. He's still there when Mikey turns back around, approaching him with insufficient curiosity. It is a staring game again- this time with a disapproving frown to rival Mikey's patience.

The soft back of his fingers caress Leo's downturned tips, forcing his face into a more neutral expressing. They sweep across his high cheek bone, and glide past his dark hairline, pushing his bangs back with his palm. His short nails dance idly on his scalp, and down to the nape of his neck.

And finally, that impenetrable guard slips, and Michelangelo can't remember a time where his oldest brother looked so lost. Something about that forlorn expression must have caused his own face to do something he was unaware of. Hot tears cascaded over his fingers.

Why does he feel so much relief knowing that for once, they were not his own?

Michelangelo found trembling hands grasping at his waist, and his brothers face pressed hard into his stomach.

The soft shuddering sobs shook the both of them until they were in the bed, laying down with Leo now trapped in Mikey's embrace. Eventually all noise tapered off with a few heavy sighs. It was unclear of who they came from. Though, as it was often known to do, the silence was broken. A hoarse voice clambered through.

"I love you."

Of course.

"I know... I love you too, Leo."

He knew that already.

"Then don't leave me," he whispered.

Never.

But the word got caught in Michelangelo's throat.

One could think that morning never happened with how Mikey's stationary little life continued on.

He couldn't say that soothing his family's breakdown was a common occurrence, but their pent up frustration; the anger and confusion that caused them to crumble…

Their problems eased with a new day and a lesson learned.

Mikey couldn't help but envy.

How could he not, when they fixed themselves right where the hurt began?

Everything had become so numb, so quickly. The days were a blur of medication and a consistent churning in his gut that ranged from mildly annoying, to completely unbearable. Yet it wasn't a physical hurt. There was no real pinpoint to his heavy discomfort, but the surrealism that he might have always carried the emptiness terrified him to no end.

It was selfish of him to want something better, after all he's been given already. Though still, his craving for something tangible and engaging, good or bad...

Insurmountable.

He could continue the happy-go-lucky facade. Things could continue with their ignorance; it would be a weight off of everyone's shoulders. Thus, Michelangelo wished for the worst with no idea what the best could be.

The answer came in a simple text.


Ahhh, its been hella long since I've touched this story! A lot of shit has happened, but I'm hoping to start a semblance of regular updates soon, so thank you for the encouragement! This chapter is way shorter than what I wanted it to be, but I don't want to rush before I can go back and edit the previous chapters! Much love 3