Summary: Strange circumstances lead Raphael to ask for help, in his own ways. One Shot.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the Ninja Turtles, MTV, or Motrin.
Rating: This story contains a bit of harsh language. Incestuous actions are vaguely implied, but that's really up to your imagination.
For my readers: I seemed to get a lot a feedback on Blood Brothers telling me to advance the plot. All I can say to that is… What plot? It's a One Shot. I'm glad you liked it, but that's all you get. And if you didn't read it, you just wasted thirty seconds of your life reading this, and you will never get that time back.
This is a somewhat plotless story (I've been writing a lot of them. Maybe I have commitment issues.). Some meaningless drabble for my own personal enjoyment, and hopefully yours as well.
The boys are in early twenties in this… Yes, Mikey too. Even though he does have a segment with him playing with action figures. You're never too old for that!
Maybe I should stop playing my music so damn loud. I couldn't hear anything over the ringing in my ears, and the start of a blinding headache was growing behind my right eye. I have no idea why I torture myself whenever I put my headphones on. I crank the volume up until the stereo's speakers pulse angrily, testing the strength of my eardrums. They'd done all right so far. That was a good sign.
My musical palette was far from refined. In fact, it was extremely basic. I listened to rock. Nothing special. Not dark rock, black rock, classic rock, new rock, or Sedimentary rock. Just music with a lot of guitar and a couple angry guys screaming their souls into their microphones. I'm not like my brothers, they're a bit more complex than me.
I would have thought Michelangelo would be more into whatever music was playing on MTV that week, but the kid's got taste. I'll give him that. He's got the specifics that I lack. He'll tell you he likes rock, but not the stuff I listen to. No, that's not the right rock. He'll tell your he likes classic rock, and produce a list of bands from his memory. He pisses me off when he does that.
But, at least he listens to good music. The other two don't, that's for sure. Leo's into the meditative wind chime crap; those tapes work better than sleeping pills to zone you out at night. And Donnie, Donnie just doesn't bother with music. He says he's too busy for it.
Donatello was the main reason I had to wear headphones now. I used to blast it through the lair, listening to the sound vibrate and echo against the concrete walls. It was a great affect, as close to a live concert as I was ever going to get. And without any of the annoying fans. I guess Don's annoyance at my music had been building up for awhile, because one day he just snapped. And when that boy throws a shit fit, it's something worth watching. He had walked calmly into my bedroom, where I'd run a series of extension cords to provide me with some electricity, with his bo staff in his hands. Before I could stop him, he proceeded to beat my stereo into an unrecognizable pile of electronic parts. I was too stunned by his behavior to do anything, and watched him sheath his staff, and leave without a word.
I'd taught him a lesson about touching my stuff a few days later. I wonder if he got a scar where I'd broken that lamp against his shoulder…
I pressed the butt of my palm into my eye, massaging the pain. After about an hour, the headache would subside, but not before it proliferated around the area of my temple. I pounded a fingertip against the 'Stop' button on my CD player and tossed the headphones aside with a grunt. From my spot on the couch, I could see the majority of the lair. My brothers were all around, doing things characteristic, and somewhat cliché, of their personalities.
Michelangelo was the closest to me, sitting on the edge of the pool that existed in the center of our home, with his legs draped into the water to his knees. He had never stopped arguing with Donnie that the water must be dirty, and never paid attention when Donatello explained that it was fed directly from the river. He didn't seem to mind it now, though. He paraded a pair of action figures along the edge of the concrete, one in either hand, before casually dropping one into the water. With a muffled screech, he waved the other toy madly. I guessed he was pretending to be a superhero, because he took on a proud façade and assured the figure in a voice that was not his own that everything would be fine, before diving into the pool to retrieve his sunken doll.
I had a feeling he would never outgrow those stupid games of his. Maybe that was a good thing. One of us had to have some innocence.
Leonardo was not far off, meditating with his legs and hands pulled into the Half Lotus Position. If he hadn't been concentrating so hard, he would have chastised Mikey for his childish behavior, and ordered him out of the pool. He could be such a tight ass sometimes.
Donatello was at his desk, immune to everything, with his head shoved so close to the computer screen I was sure he nose could be touching it. His fingers danced over the keys. He was probably developing a new cure for some disease I'd never heard of. Another accomplishment to add to his generous supply. He raised from his seat, and wandered away, though my eyes did not follow him.
Maybe we weren't as complex as I thought. You'd never find Leonardo thrashing in the water, playing with some comic-inspired toys, or Mikey taking his place on the meditation mat. Or Donatello, for that matter. It was like someone had taken a well-rounded personality and broken it into four parts, one for each of us.
The throbbing in my head was growing stronger, migrating across my forehead, and traveling back towards my ear. If I took something for it now, maybe I could stop it before it got any worse. I was nauseated when I stood up too fast, a curtain of red flashing before my eyes.
The dizziness nearly sent me toppling over, but a hand around my waist steadied me before I fell. I twitched my head to the side, looking my brother up and down, before grunting, "Good timin', Don."
"Were you drinking?" he asked. His tone was not accusatory as he helped me back onto the couch. "Or listening to that music of yours?"
"Mm, that one," I replied begrudgingly.
"You're a real dumbass."
I grinned and nodded. Yeah, I really was.
Donatello produced a small bottle of aspirin to relieve my pain, and dropped it into my open palm. I had a feeling he had noticed me with my headphones on, and had anticipated my headache.
The contents shifted and rattled and the turned the container over. Motrin. That was some powerful shit. I wound my fingers around the cap and tugged at it. "It's child-proof," I growled, twisting the cap viciously. The ridged plastic bit at my flesh, pinching it as I attempted to prove myself capable of outsmarting a security devise meant for children. It wasn't a struggle anymore, it was a battle. Donatello finally interrupted my efforts before I managed to hurt myself.
"God, you're hopeless." He tried to sound exasperated as he took the pill bottle from me, but humor laced the edges of his words. The cap popped off in his hands without a trace of exertion. "Here," he tipped the bottle, dumping a pair of yellow and white capsules into my outstretched palm.
I shoved the pills into my mouth and swallowed them dry. Donnie looked disgusted by this, and offered to get me a glass of water. I simply shook my head. It was a tempting offer, however, as a bitter aftertaste was present on my tongue. Smacking it against the roof of my mouth, I attempted to rid myself of the flavor.
"You do want a glass of water, don't you?" Donnie smirked, standing over me with his hands on his hips.
"Yes," I mumbled, defeated. I replaced the cap on the aspirin bottle -- which turned out to be much easier than taking it off -- and tossed it onto the couch cushion beside me.
"You gotta' admit that you'd be lost without me, first," he sung, grinning smugly.
My eyes narrowed, I had a reputation to protect.
Donnie saw the fire in my eyes, and came to the conclusion that I wouldn't be saying any such thing. He turned away quickly, and headed towards the kitchen. As he passed the pool, Michelangelo splashed a bit of water at his ankles, before disappearing beneath the surface to avoid retaliation. I chuckled softly, and sunk back into the couch.
Lost? Yeah, Don. I probably would be.