Summary: A troubled Michelangelo debates the meaning of brotherhood. (One Shot.)
Rating: Rated 'T' just to be safe. There are some mild incestuous references made, but, like I said, it's very mild.
Explanation: The topic of this story has been in the back of my mind for awhile now, I just never knew the right way to get it down on paper.
I originally planned on writing this through Raphael's eyes, but whenever I try to focus on him as the main character, he starts to sound like an underpaid extra from Little Caesar. So, I went to the tried and true fall-back option, Michelangelo. Gotta' love him.
Note that the tenses aren't perfect in this story. I have trouble with them while writing in the first person.
So I'll stop this by saying that I really loved writing this story. Reviews would be very much appreciated.
Enjoy.
As I spun it between my fingers, my nunchaku became little more than a circular blur as it cut through the cool November air.
I'd picked a bad day to come topside, but that didn't surprise me. I'd been having a streak of bad luck recently, leaving me wondering about the last time I had broken a mirror. The wind was howling around me, and by choosing to sit on a rooftop, the only protection I had from it was the large sweatshirt that clung to my torso. It was the same article of clothing I had worn to go 'undercover' to a fighting ring with my brothers a few long years ago. I still don't understand how we had gotten away with that. A couple of guys weighed down in who knows how many layers of clothing didn't hide the fact their skin was green and had a height that could give Danny DeVito a run for his money. I guess the guys there were too drugged up or beat up to notice. At least I got a free sweatshirt out of it!
I had left for April's apartment a few hours ago. I had taken my time, wandering the desolate sewers until I was in the heart of lower Manhattan and hadn't even realized it. Surfacing, I trod through the shadows towards Second Time Around. I had second thoughts when I reached the side door. My mind had been wandering all day, and I didn't think that I could concentrate on whatever movie April would supply for our entertainment. Besides, I hadn't called her in advance to inform her that I would be showing up. She really hated it when I did things like that. Sure, she might be used to it, but would never fail to chew me out on how she might have had company, and how would be ever be able to explain it to them if a five-foot turtle burst through her front door. I knew the only company she would ever have would be Casey, and she would be the only one explaining anything if I happened to show up.
And so, after a few minutes of debating, with my hand poised readily above the doorknob, I put the key away.
I wandered to the roof shortly after, looking over the edge at Greenwich Village in wonder. The sun was setting, bathing the buildings in a deep red light. If it weren't for the wind shaking the tree tops, it would have looked positively warm.
My arms folded over my chest, pressing the orange fabric of my sweatshirt against my plastron. It was only by coincidence I'd gotten stuck with the orange jacket, but was undoubtedly fitting. Through my shivering, I could feel my heart beating against my scute. I don't know as much as I should have the anatomy of a turtle - I'm willing to bet most humans know just as little about themselves - and had never understood what sort of addict would name the chest plates scutes. It was Latin, I guess. I could ask Donnie about it, but he's already explained it to me, and repeating my question would just show that I didn't listen to him when he talked technical. I did my best to act like his lessons on genetics interested me, since it meant so much to him.
I had never figured out how we could all be so different. It was hard to believe the four of us were brothers. Leonardo is as serious as I am playful, and Donatello's as much a pacifist as Raphael is a fighter. I'd rather give up my comic collection than spend as much time as Donnie does slaving over some new invention of his, or taking another one of our toasters apart to use its springs and gears. Raphael would rather take his studies topside than to spend another minute in the dojo with Leonardo, who insisted we respect our Sensei's legacy by practicing harder, longer, and more often than we had ever had before. Don and I had given up trying to argue with our eldest brother. He was the undisputed leader of us all, his title meaning even more during the past year, with Splinter's death fresh in our hearts. Raphael was just too proud to succumb to the ridiculous training regiments. Their arguments were heated and opinions one-sided. At the end of the day, when it was all said and done, they were still brothers, and needed each other. Now more than ever, probably. Even if they won't admit it, they would be lost on their own.
We're a family. A strange one, but what family isn't? Our differences are numerous, and we can be downright dysfunctional at times, but that doesn't change anything. Lately, I've been debating a lot of hypothetical things, most of which are over my head. Chewing over the meaning of life is more of a thing Leonardo would do, I was stuck on situations that affected me without being philosophical. I couldn't get over a thought I had had a few weeks ago. It wasn't the first time it passed through my mind, but I had never paid any attention to it before.
I was wondering about what made a brother. If I were still a kid, the question would be easy to answer. If you had the same parents, you were siblings. Splinter was our father, and therefore, we were brothers. I never questioned it, because I had no reason to. It made sense then, and in many ways, it still does. But with age came a desire for a more logical answer. We obviously weren't related by blood with Splinter. Could that be the reason we never called him our father? Not out loud, that is. In our heads and our hearts he was as much a father as we would ever care to have, but he was always 'Sensei' or 'Master,' but never 'Dad.' I'm not sure about the significance of that, but I know it's there. We knew we never had Splinter's blood, but had never been so certain about ourselves.
We'd had lived as normal turtles in a jar, for God's sake. Who knows where our family tree branched off to lead us there. We could have come from some whole-sale breeder, that seems like it would be logical. Somebody who sells to pet stores. Or maybe that kid found us in a pond or something. It's all a guess, and we will never know. That is, unless we find the kid who dropped the jar twenty-odd years ago. The chances of that are less than… Well, mutant reptiles running around the sewers of New York City. So I guess it has to be possible. I don't have the slightest desire to even try.
I was troubled by it all. In a dichotomy. A binary opposition. A situation Donatello would use really big words to describe.
We might not have the same blood pulsing through our veins, but that doesn't count for anything anyway, at least not for me. I'm sure the others feel the same way. We grew up together, spent every day together for nearly twenty years, learned together, trudged through life's difficulties together. We were more like brothers than half of the people out there that are really related.
I wanted to believe that, and I had convinced myself to accept it ever since I'd begun to have doubts. But lately, I had been wondering if that were the best thing for us. We were raised alone, taught by our Sensei that the outside world would shun us. Hate us. Fear us.
That had affected us, more than he had ever meant it to. We had come to accept that we would only receive affection and care from amongst ourselves. Our love was brotherly and basic, but I couldn't help but feel that would have to change at some point. We are adults, and our emotions have matured.
Splinter had been trying to protect us, but in some ways he made life harder. I could never voice these concerns to my brothers. The loss of our sensei was still too fresh. To question the ways in which he raised us would be sacrilege. Maybe when our grief lessened, and we begin to move forward, could I be more expressive of my thoughts.
If we ever move forward.
I lifted my hands over my head and locked them together to relieve the pressure that had gathered in my lower back, having sat in one position for so long. My knees creaked achingly as I raised to my feet, and the underside of my legs were numb where they had been rested upon the cement. I felt terrible, inside and out, and desperately needed to get my mind off everything.
I eyed the nearby fire escape ladder wearily, wondering if I had the tolerance to put up with any of April's complaints about my unexpected visit. It was better than going home to wallow in my thoughts, I concluded, and began my decent down it.
In comparison to the recent hellish events, April's ranting should seem rather tame.