And he didn't dare listen to the shouts from behind him, he just ran, that was all he could think of, running and running. He needed to get away from all the pain inside him: his head, his stomach, all his joints: weights and chains of fire and ice, and he hadn't asked for it, he didn't know how to stop it...
Michelangelo tripped over a jutting pipe and stumbled, his legendary balance utterly failing him. In that desperate moment he didn't know what to do, so the fall was too hard. The way his hands and face slammed down with pulsing force scraping against the sewer wall and sewer ground was rough and dragging.
He exhaled in a defeated whine. He couldn't even run away properly. He couldn't do anything right, not even take a fall. He failed at everything now, even failing.
Pushing himself up, Mikey sat back and wheezed, tears slipping into his mouth. Why did being so sad have to hurt so much?
A violent throbbing sting rang up from his hands and cut through the fog to get his attention. He brought his hands up and stared. They were bleeding intensely, fingertips to wrists covered in a thick sheen oozing down his arms. He sniffled and tasted more blood. His whole face hurt.
He blinked. The pain... felt good. It was sweet. Like a warm blanket. It felt like a comfort. He licked around his mouth, his own blood like chocolate on his tongue. It was a beautiful beat, welling up from his veins, a drum playing a lullabye.
Michelangelo smiled.
When his brothers' voices reached him, he remained completely still, laughing inside. He felt the body pains fading slowly to the background in favor of the new whispering pulse in his mind.
...
Donatello realized he had already failed when they stumbled into a random tunnel and found Mikey.
His only younger brother, their baby brother, was sitting knees to chest, hands spread palms up and flowing blood. His nose was bleeding profusely, and Don noticed bloody scrapes on his chin and upper lip. There was a gash between his eyes.
His eyes were glazed, dilated, and spacey.
Raph muttered a soft curse.
Swift and silent, Leo moved in, murmuring, arms gently around Mikey so carefully, since that memory of his feral panic right before he ran away was fresh in all their minds. Mikey merely smiled, as if telling himself a private joke. A chill ran up Donnie's spine.
He let Raph go help their little brother stand and walk, since he knew that once back home, Don himself would be the one to administer the care. He took the lead back to the lair, and he swore he could hear Mikey whispering nonsensical things, but the others didn't say anything so he stayed quiet.
In the lab, they sat Mike on the cushioned table, Raph like a stabilizing pillar when Michelangelo swayed a little. Donnie swiftly took care of the facial wounds, but felt himself tremble a little when cleaning and wrapping his only younger brother's hands. Leo was cleaning the forehead gash, commenting about stitches. Mikey had not made a sound and Leo was worrying about concussion, infection. Donatello drew in a deep breath and went to examine. Yes, it would need stitches. Yes, Mikey had a mild concussion. Don wanted him to stay in the lab for a while.
And Mikey just smiled.
They helped him lie down and he was quiet as Donnie numbed the wound and began suturing. Raphael said something was wrong because Mikey was never quiet.
Donatello looked deeply into the clouded, faraway, wounded eyes of his baby brother, his only little brother, and he tried not to cry.
Because he knew that Michelangelo had welcomed the pain, had enjoyed it, had wanted it, and was hurting even more.
And Donnie knew he might lose his only little brother if they didn't do something quickly.
And Mikey just looked back at him, looked through him, and smiled. And his glassy eyes rolled back and slipped closed and he relaxed into unconsciousness.
This time Donnie cried, and Leo and Raph wrapped their arms around him.