Vehemence

Raph was a lot of things, but chicken wasn't one of them. Unfortunately for him, neither was eloquent or romantic.

He'd tried to do what Leo had said. Really tried. Tried so hard, in fact, that he stayed awake a full night pacing back and forth, reciting nonsense aloud and scrapping it with a vicious shake of his head, a few mutters, and then a "Don, look, I—" that was undoubtedly followed by another idea that was doomed to be scrapped as well. It was all a vicious cycle.

After that night, Raph went back to the drawing board. Sure, he'd been all fired up and ready to go and spill his heart out after talking to Leo, but Leo was just like that. He could be motivational when he wanted to. But the motivation rarely lasted more than a few hours, usually less, and Raph had lost the spunk and the drive over a week ago, and still hadn't said anything. Leo had sent him curious, hopeful looks for a while, as if waiting for Raph to grin and give him a thumbs-up for his efforts, but Raph had always scowled and stormed off instead.

But he wasn't a chicken. No, that wasn't why he hadn't said anything. It was that he just wasn't eloquent or romantic. Something he was was passionate, but having passion didn't count for much. He knew he could have all the feelings in the world, but if he couldn't voice them, they meant practically nothing. And what could he even say to someone with the brain power to build motorcycles, weapon-wielding trucks, operable submarines and countless other awesome things that left the rest of them gawking in amazement? What could he say that would impress someone like Donatello? What the shell did Raphael have to offer him? He was angry and rash and hotheaded. He was strong, yeah, but, then again, so was Leonardo and Michelangelo and Donatello himself, so what did it matter? Sure, he did know a little about repairs, and he knew enough first aid to get by, but it was nothing compared to Donnie. He couldn't help but feel a stab of inadequacy, just thinking about it.

And even if he could bring himself to approach his brother, and had something to offer him—maybe even knew a little about what he wanted to say—what good would it do him? He wasn't romantic; couldn't talk about flowers and hearts and mushy gobbly gook like in Splinter's soaps or Leo's books (even if he tried to hide it) or even Mikey's video games. And he knew Don wasn't some girl that needed wooing, but he couldn't help but feel it was needed. Didn't Don deserve a little romantic mush? Didn't people typically want that? What did Donnie want, anyway?

Probably not his brother.

And that was another issue. One Raph tried not to think about, but undoubtedly did. Because even if Donnie didn't mind that he wasn't a genius or a great leader or someone with good humor; even if Don didn't care that he was awkward and the thought of Valentine's Day made him sick, it all really boiled down to one key argument that he couldn't even talk himself into thinking would be petty enough to be overlooked.

Don was his brother. Maybe not blood brother—he didn't know for sure if that was the case or not—but they'd grown up as brothers. Who was to say Donnie had ever even considered him? Surely he had pretty girls to think about, anyway.

And it was that—all of that, condensed into a flash of thought that lasted only about five seconds—that had Raphael stuttering and mumbling when asked why he'd knocked on Don's door.

"I'm not gonna bite, Raph," Don raised an eye ridge at the nervous look entering Raph's eye. He was stuttering again, rubbing at the lack of his neck, and shuffling his feet.

"Ya see, Don, I was just…Don, look, I…I mean." It was the same spiel he'd given two days ago; four days ago; seven days ago. And Raph knew it. Knew it well enough that he just gave up, like he did the last three times. "Ah, it's nothin'. Don't worry 'bout it." And Don frowned. Just like he did the last three times. Opened his mouth. Just like he did the last three times. And was interrupted. Just like he was the last three times.

"Really, Donnie. Jus' don't worry 'bout it." And then Raph left. Just like he did the last three times. Left to go and beat up a punching bag, or possibly some thug on the street, or maybe even Casey if he managed to look at him wrong.

But there was one thing that had changed, only Raph didn't know about it until after he'd effectively pummeled Casey into the ground and sidestepped April's accusatory glare and all too familiar hand-on-hip stance. And that thing; that wild card was Leo. Leo, the little punk, had watched him make a fool of himself.

"You call that a love confession?" He was just taunting Raphael now.

"So what if I do? It not up ta' yer standards?" Leo crossed his arms and tilted his head back; taking on that superior stance Raph hated so much. The stance Raph knew Leo knew Raph hated so much.

"I'm starting to think my baby brother deserves better." It took Raph a lot of willpower not to snap. To spill all of his pent-up insecurities. 'Don't you get it,' he wanted to scream. 'Of course Don deserves better. Of course he does!' But Raph, instead, clenched his hands into fists and pushed past his blue-masked brother.

"So why don't you go an' spill yer heart out, if ya' think yer better'an me and I'm not good enough." A hand stopped him. Raph spun around, eyes livid. Why was everyone stopping him? That's all it ever seemed to be. Not a request, but a demand. A physical demand.

"Raph, you know I didn't mean it like that."

"So how did ya' mean it?! I know what ya' meant! I'm too stupid, too hotheaded. Too much of a coward, right? Too sick 'cause I gotta be if I'm even thinkin' 'bout all this!" A second hand joined the first, and Raph noticed that Leo had a hand on a shoulder each, and was calmly looked into his eyes.

"Raphael. There's no pressure. If you don't want to tell him, you don't have to. But I don't think you're sick. And if you do, I guess there's no point in pushing this any further." And then Leo was gone and Raph was left alone with his thoughts once again. His terrible, ugly thoughts.

Raphael stepped back until his shell hit the wall and then slid until he touched the ground, legs brought up to a quivering plastron, one hand pressed shakily to his mask.

Not a single tear fell.

But plenty soaked the material in front of his eyes.

Things went back to normal, once again. Normal under a sketchy definition, but normal nonetheless. Don stopped asking Raph about what he kept trying to tell him, and Leo stopped giving him those hopeful looks. Raph even stopped going to Donnie's room every night to sleep, and, after a while, Donnie stopped asking about that, too.

Things were okay, for a while. A month, at least. They went on their normal patrols, did their normal training with Splinter, and fought over the remote and videogame privileges. Like normal. But that normalcy was granted at a price: Raph's nightmares were back, and worse than ever. He awoke with his heart pounding more often than not and usually with bitter tears stinging his eyes.

Instead of going to Donnie's room, Raph would flee to the dojo or to the surface, to beat something—or, as it was in most cases, someone—up. But one night, instead of the flimsy normalcy Raph had been clinging to, he got a situation he hadn't been expecting: Don was waiting for him in front of the door to the lair. He had his shell to it, and was hunched over, as if he was staring at the ground. Raph had cautiously crept forward, waiting for some sort of lecture about leaving early in the morning, but had received none. Upon closer inspection, Raph had come to the conclusion that Donnie was asleep.

A fond smile stitched itself across his face, unbidden, and he couldn't help but just watch him for a moment before he brought the dozing turtle into his arms. It was awkward to carry one of his brothers. They were all relatively the same size and weight, though Don wasn't nearly so bulky, and the shell made any carrying stance difficult. But he managed to ease his deadweight brother onto his shell enough to get the sleepy turtle back to his room.

Once there, he'd deposited Don onto his bed and took time to tuck him in, meticulously easing the blanket over and around him. He tried to ignore the way his own hands would linger, or the way his eyes would get caught on Donnie's peaceful face.

When his fingers gently touched Don's cheek, he pulled away as if stung. Hands turned to fists, and Raphael quickly wheeled around and went to leave: to escape. He needed to get away. To make someone pay for the emotions plaguing his heart.

Fortunately for the sorry sap of the day, he was stopped. Not by a hand, but by a voice. A voice filled with sleep and confusion.

"Raphie?" Raph froze and peeked back over his shoulder. Not enough to get a good look, but enough to show Don he had his attention.

"What is it, Don?" His brother scooted over, easily messing up the perfect cocoon Raph had constructed for him, and patted the spot beside him.

It was an open invitation.

The next morning, Raph found himself unable to return to his sketchy normalcy. He'd awoken beside Donnie and had quickly fled; willing himself not to look too long, touch too much. He'd thought he could forget about it; push it back into his mind to be forcefully forgotten along with the feel of Donnie's skin and the slightly-strangled sound of his own name on Donnie's lips. But when Don had entered the kitchen looking and sounding much happier and better-rested than he had in a long time, it was hard for Raph to write the night away.

All they'd done was laid beside one another: hadn't even hardly touched, but it had made Donnie happy, and, even if he didn't want to admit it, it had made Raph feel the same. He was sick of forcing himself away from his brother. Sick of trying to forget and pretend. But he knew that was really all he could do. That, or confess.

The day after he lost his normalcy, the rest of the lair did, too.

It had started off well. He'd slept in Don's room a second night in a row, and had awoken in high spirits: the nightmares had gone away. But, where there was a happy Raphael, there was always a sneaky Michelangelo laying in wait to fix that. Sure enough, by the end of practice with Splinter and lunch, Mikey struck.

"I didn't do it!" Mikey loudly announced when Raph's eyes found his by chance. He signed in reply.

"Do what, Mikey?" He only hoped it was nothing he had to deal with. Or that Donnie had to clean up.

"Oh, nothing!" Mikey looked at him with that big sheepish grin on his face that usually meant Raph's day was about to take a turn for the worse. "It has absolutely nothing to do with your Shell Cycle or anything!"

And thus, Raph's day took a turn for the worse.

"What? Mike, you've got thirty seconds before I kick yer shell!" Livid, Raph advanced on his brother, who looked to be getting more and more nervous.

"Eep!" Mikey so eloquently replied. "But, don't you wanna save your bike, first?"

"Save?" Raph growled through clenched teeth. "This ain't over!" Hands existing as fists, Raph fled to the garage to, hopefully, save his precious Shell Cycle.

He'd had a million images in his mind: The Shell Cycle left a broken mess. Wheels missing or slashed open. The handlebar torn off. Bits and pieces scratched and torn and precariously stuck together by a bit of scrap metal. He even imagined it as a pile of parts. But, worst of all, he couldn't help but picture it covered in bright pink paint. What he hadn't been expecting, however, was what he got. Which, he supposed, made sense in the way only anything relating to Mikey could.

His Shell Cycle was in perfect order. No pieces missing or added or damaged. And, best of all, there was no pink paint. In fact, it looked just the way it did when he'd parked it there last. Something wasn't right.

It was confirmed when Raph heard the telltale sounds of the door opening again, as well as heavy panting and a cry of "Mikey!" from whoever had decided to give him company.

"I thought I told you never to mess with the…Battle Shell." Donnie raised an eye ridge in Raphael's direction after concluding that Michelangelo was, in fact, not wrecking his precious truck.

"Raphael? Have you seen Mikey? I heard he was—"

"Oh, I seen Mikey. And I'm about ta see him again fer lyin' to me! Little punk was tryin' to distract me from somethin' else!" But as he advanced on the door, it was closed, as if the lift had been summoned to the lair. Raphael raised an eye ride in confusion.

"Think Mikey'd have tha nerve ta come in here with us after that?" Raph ran a hand over his face and shook his head. "What'm I sayin'. It's Mikey." Don crossed his arms and frowned when the lift didn't come back up.

"If that is Mikey, I don't think he has any intention of coming up here."

"Whadda ya' sayin', Donnie?" Don sighed and ran a hand along the door, looking back at Raph with a troubled expression on his face.

"I'm saying: I think he managed to lock us in on this side." Raph stared at Don. Don looked back, shrugging to his question before he even managed to ask it. "Don't ask me how. There are things about this place I haven't figured out yet."

Raph shook his head, as if to clear it, and turned to go toward the other exit.

"Whateva'. We can still get ta tha surface and find a manhole or somethin'." Muttering under his breath about dead little brothers, Raph went to tug the warehouse door open…but to no avail. It was locked.

"Mikey! That lil' punk!" Don sighed and advanced on his fuming brother.

"What'd Mikey do now?"

"He locked this door, too! What's up with that? Tha lock shouldn't be on tha outside." Raph pounded a hand on the door angrily, eyes sweeping over the rest of the garage for some sort of alternate exit.

"We could force our way out with the Battle Shell," Don suggested, a thoughtful hand on his chin, "but I'd need to build a new door, and I just don't have the metal for it right now. And if Mikey is behind this, he'll at least come let us out soon enough. If not by himself, then Leo will probably ask questions until he does."

Raph sighed at Donnie's logic. Of course, he should have expected it. That was just how Don was. And right then he seemed to think his logical explanation was good enough, for he moved away from the door and wandered over to some mess he'd left the last time he was in the warehouse. Raph figured that if Don was cool and relaxed, he could be, too. Or, well. Try to be. Raph didn't really do cool and relaxed.

He couldn't help but wonder what the little shell head had been thinking, though. Probably nothing, knowing Mikey, but there had to be some explanation for what he'd done. He'd pissed Raph off and led him to the warehouse. Then he'd freaked Donnie out and led him to the warehouse. The warehouse he'd locked on both sides. He'd led Raph and his not-quite-so-secret love interest into a relatively small room and locked them in there together for a questionable amount of time. Raph sighed in irritation. Of course that was it. It was so thoughtless and cliché: it had to be Mikey. He'd probably overheard him and Leo talking. Or maybe he'd talked to Leo. Surely he hadn't figured it out by himself.

A sudden surge of panic coursed through him, and questions bombarded his mind. Was he being too obvious? If Mikey could tell, Donnie was sure to find out! Did Raph look at Don funny? Did he touch him too often? Did he smile in that lovey-dovey way he sometimes thought he felt himself slipping into? The thought left a trail of slimy horror down his back and under his shell.

Or maybe Leo told him. But…Leo wouldn't betray him like that. Raph had made absolutely certain Leo wouldn't tell anyone. Especially Mikey: the big-mouth. No, Raph decided, Leo certainly wouldn't be that thoughtless. But, regardless, Mikey knew. Raph knew he knew. And Raph also knew that this was some not-so-elaborate scheme concocted by the orange-masked turtle. A scheme he wasn't sure what to make of.

It had been over a month since he'd last tried to confess to Don. Leo had gradually stopped dragging Mikey away from the lair or trying to convince Splinter to go topside or to meditate. He'd stopped keeping Casey and April away when Raph finally brought up his confidence. Stopped leaving little encouraging hints or giving him those little nudges when Don was in his room alone. Ever since that last conversation they'd had about it.

Raph had tried not to think of confessing much, since then. He'd convinced himself it was a terrible idea. That Don could never feel the same. That what he felt was wrong and went against all he'd been taught. But occasionally, little deceptive thoughts would slip through. Thoughts that made him doubt his strict verdict that nothing could ever be. About how Don would give him shy smiles. Or how he'd ask Raph to go junkyard hopping with him. Or how he'd excitedly call Raph into his lab to check over the new designs and ideas for the Shell Cycle. Or the fact that Leo: the level-headed one had been the one to encourage him to say something.

But could he? Raph was brave to the point of stupidity at times, but he couldn't help but feel a paralyzing fear at the thought of spilling his feelings: exposing his heart completely to another being. He'd long ago realized that confessing: exposing himself, would leave him bare for Don to pass judgment. Judgment he'd never been sure he was ready for. He'd never had any of his brothers hurt him, not really. They'd never thought to, and had never been in much of a position to. But if he were to offer himself over to Donatello…it would be the first time he could really be denied or shot down by his family to the point of hurting and breaking. And that scared him.

"Raph?" Don's soft voice broke Raphael from his metal battle. He was looking over at the bulkier turtle with concern lighting his eyes. "If looks could kill, that wrench would be long gone by now, bro'."

"Donnie…" Was he ready to confess? Was he ready to give himself over for Donatello's judgment? When he turned his head to meet Don's gentle, caring and understanding eyes…he thought he was.

Don looked at him curiously; his eyes filled with an emotion Raph couldn't put his finger on. But it was too late to doubt and reconsider. His lips were already forming the words.

"Don. I love you."

Suddenly, the door to the outside world was opened, and a loudly cheering Mikey shattered the moment.

"Ha! I told you my plan would work, Leo!" But Raph tuned him out. His eyes were focused only on Donnie. Donnie, who was looking surprised, with wide eyes turned toward Mikey. As if he'd been caught doing something horrible.

The next moment, Raphael was gone, running from the garage and pushing roughly past Mikey, who stumbled and called after him. He didn't bother grabbing the Shell Cycle. Didn't bother pausing when Leo's voice joined Mikey's. Didn't bother looking back. He didn't need to. Don's eyes were permanently pressed into his thoughts.

He ran. Ran until his legs ached and his feet went numb. Ran until his lungs were charred from the fire that consumed them. Until his eyes could spill no more tears. He ran and ran and ran. But he could never escape that look.

He didn't know much about where he ended up: only that it was on the other side of the city. But considering the fact that he'd thought about fleeing to New Jersey during a moment of wild insecurity, that wasn't so bad. Could have been worse.

He eventually settled down on the tallest building he could find, behind a ledge that cast a large shadow. The moon was out by then, high in the sky, but Raph's ninja instincts pressed him to find somewhere to hide, somewhere to flee. Nowhere was safe, it told him. Enemies could be anywhere. But he forced himself to stay in the meager hiding spot he'd found. His body hurt and his heart ached, and he just didn't want to run any longer. Running helped, but not for long. And whenever he'd rest to catch his breath, the thoughts would catch up to him again and wrap around his heart, like a vice.

"Raph."

They were coming again. He could hear Don calling his name, like he had earlier.

"Raph."

The memories were insistent, pulling him down until his head was below water and he could do nothing but fight in vain against invisible bonds while his air supply was cut off and he was left to—

"Raph!"

Startled, Raphael picked his head up, turning wild eyes to Donatello, who walked towards him, bo at his back and bag slung across a shoulder, like usual. The only thing different about this Donatello was his eyes. They looked weary.

"It's a good thing you had your Shell Cell with you." Don remarked as he advanced. "I was able to track you that way." Raph couldn't help but wonder if he was having a dream. "I guess I shouldn't have told you that, though. Now I'll need to put some sort of chip under your skin, so you can't leave the Cell around and expect us not to find you. Especially if you plan on coming out this far very often." Raph stared at Don. Don ignored the look as he came closer and crouched down, eyes finally meeting Raph's.

"Don?" Raph couldn't help but notice how strangled his voice sounded. How desperate and needy and pathetic it sounded.

"Raph." To contrast, Don's voice was light and concerned and gentle, so godforsaken gentle that it nearly broke Raph's heart a second time.

"What tha shell're you doin' here, Brainiac? I thought—"

"You never did give me a chance to reply, bonehead." And then Don leaned over and kissed him, and for a moment, all the pain went away. The building they were seated on went away. The lair, the city itself. All the people. All of Raph's insecurities. The facts he'd used for months to justify and to attack his own feelings and thoughts. Everything suddenly was no more. All but Donatello and the soft hands cupping his cheeks; the lips pressing against his.

For a moment, all Raph knew was Donnie. And he thought, pretty damn cheesily, that it was the best moment he'd ever had.