Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He got up. He started the coffee machine, making sure to put the exact scoops needed and enough leftovers for an eventual third cup if it was that kind of day. It always was that kind of day. Today he was thinking he’d make avocado toast for breakfast. April had brought a bag of avocados yesterday, sometimes the variety was more effective than even a third coffee. 

Sometimes his brothers almost smiled. 

There were motions to this sort of thing. You made things with your hands to keep them from shaking, you washed blankets and folded them on empty couches. You kept the TV on playing old movies just to pretend it wasn’t silent. 

He’s been moving in the same path for long enough to be an expert. No one notices. He doesn’t need them to notice. 

The coffee pot is full, the kitchen is warm. If he’s alone then he’s alone and finding tasks to be busy with. To keep his hands moving. 

“Hi,” A voice greets him. Mikey blinks up, he’d been making toast, probably; half unconsciously. A familiar dotted face stares back, impassive and steady. 

Giorgio, the last little light. It pulls a smile on his cheeks from some tired place within himself that’s still curved comfortable and safe. “Hi sweet kid, want some breakfast?” 

Gio settles himself against the counter, arms crossed and wide eyed. He nods slowly. 

It’s one of those mornings again— he’s aware of the way the silence clings to the bones of this place, shaves it cold and hollow with memories no one wants to think on. There’s no movement down the hall to Donnie’s lab, but the door is shut fast and firm. The wide open spaces where the skate ramp had once stood are stark. It’s a morning that feels haunted, except they’d all want for the haunting if they could. 

“April brought groceries?” Gio asks quietly. It’s more a prompt than a genuine question.

Gio had fallen into their lives at a point where the safety net had more holes than threads to hold. He was young, had the signs of a life hard won and fought through, but he tried. Absorbed absolutely anything his family would give him, even when it was nothing at all. Dark eyes, taking in any and all of the light he could just to find himself. 

It was a tragedy in three parts just to watch him thrive off wavering candlelights and embers, wandering around the halls like a detective finding hints of some past crime. 

Mikey squares himself. Finds that thread left in him that’s farther and farther away every day. Gio deserves the light, he can make some for him. He can. 

“She did, I’m going to introduce you to the wild world of avocado on toast today. How’s that sound?” 

Gio shrugs, curiosity flickering in his dark gaze. He’d take anything any of them laid out for him like it was a gift. Mikey’s throat ached with the old wound of wishing. 

“You know, it’s funny. The first time I ever got my hands on fruit like this was because of April. Hard to buy things in stores, you know?” Gio did not know, Gio grew up somewhere far away in between pages, but he tilted his head at Mikey like he understood anyways. Mikey’s grin grew stronger. “I think it was peppers. Thought it would be neat to make these stuffed ones I’d seen on TV, use up all these special spices. Man, they were good .” He turns back to the fruit in front of him, carefully and easily slicing around the pit in the center. 

“Raph had two, ate them so fast I didn’t even see them go. So I thought I’d make him a third. Asked if he’d want this next one with more spice.” He shakes his head fondly. “And he just sort of squints at me, you know? He says, ‘are peppers not always spicy?’ So that’s how we found out he was allergic. The guy didn’t even stop trying to eat them after.” 

Gio huffs a breath, it’s as good as an outloud laugh. The bones in Mikey’s hands feel warmer as he carefully scoops the halves of the fruit into a bowl. 

He knows the version of Raph that Gio knows is… different. That he barely talks, let alone plays along. It’s another ache, another ghost. Mikey scoops out the pit from another avocado, and crushes it in with the rest. 

Mikey doesn’t want the kitchen to be silent. He’s so, so tired of silence. “You want to hear a story?” 

The quiet telltale noise of a kitchen chair sliding back answers his question for him, Gio props his chin up under his hand. The pilot light in Mikey’s chest flickers fondly. 

There are a thousand versions of a thousand moments he could pick from, they all hurt like pressing on an open wound. Some are more like bruises, though. Some he thinks are better to hurt. 

“There was this chef I knew. Had this crazy accident with mutagen, somehow instead of using it to make his cooking show more popular it made him desire eating people. Go figure.” He scoops out a portion of the spread onto a piece of toast, scraping it across as he talks. “Had a vendetta for people that told him no, funny that. He’d decided once that his whole plan would be to poison every other potential competition, which was crazy but you have to believe me when I say his pastries were actually that good.” 

“Better than yours?” Gio cuts in softly. 

He’s so, so grateful for the little bits of love Gio’s found here. How he radiates all of it back out so loudly in his own way. “Hah, I learned everything I know from watching him, but I will take that compliment.” He grabs two plates and slides them across the table, dragging his knuckle gently across Gio’s cheek as he goes. 

“We drove Raph up the wall. ” He remembers fondly. “He was dead set on trying to teach us to handle problems, and we were distracted by how delicious these things were.” 

Gio arches a brow. Mikey laughs, holding up a hand. “Survival instincts developed later.” 

He sits across from the kid, who hasn’t even made a move for his toast. Dark eyes serious and trained on him like anytime Mikey talked about who they had been before. Echoes of echoes, ghosts haunting themselves. 

“You wouldn’t believe it. All of us blearily goofing around and Raph panicking, trying to get us to take any part of it seriously. And our blue just walks up to a guy we needed information from, sweating up to his eyeballs and manages to charm his way almost entirely through the whole thing.” 

His smile turns inwards. They’d all relied on Raph so much, then, but there’d been these moments where Leo would just… clue in to what needed to happen. Pull an answer out of thin air like he’d known it all along and was just hoping someone else would give it a shot first. He’d always seen twenty steps ahead. 

Gio shifts. Reaches for his toast and takes a careful bite. Mikey pulls himself back to the present, makes sure his smile is warm and fond. 

“If we’d had you back then, I’m sure you’d have thought we were all completely off our rockers. Raph would have been delighted to have a back up.” 

He loves you, Mikey thinks. He does, I swear. He’d have loved to have loved you. 

The kid hums, considers. “Depends.”

“On?” 

Gio shrugs. “How good were these pastries?”

The kitchen is warm, the laugh that bursts from him is bright. Real, for a second, caught in this space between loss. He faults that for the way he forgets himself.

“Leo would have loved you,” he says. 

The moment freezes. Ices. 

Gio’s eyes are shining, but careful across from him. 

He doesn’t say his name; he thinks it, a thousand times a thousand ways, but he doesn’t say it. He can feel the flinch like a wounded noise in the stillness of his home. Ghosts misplaced and unsettled. 

Right. 

The smile fades. 

He misses the flash in Gio’s eyes. 

“You know,” Mikey makes himself say, a limping version of his usual cheer strangling itself in his voice. “I think I’ll save the rest for later. Maybe when Raph and Donnie are up.” 

“Right,” Gio says, softly. 

Raph and Donnie are never up. Dad’s room is a black hole. April hasn’t stayed in the lair longer than saying hi in months. Ten years stretches itself long and warped across the stone floors, a shadow that never sits right. 

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” He says to Gio’s careful dark gaze. I’m sorry , he means. I don’t have more to give you. I’ll be better next time. 

Gio shifts, scoops Mikey’s plate from in front of him. It’s okay, it means. I know. It’s plenty. This is enough. 

There were motions to this sort of thing. You tried to be someone larger than yourself. You watched your family drift farther and farther away. You were never enough on your own. 

The coffee pot is full, the kitchen is empty. He can’t pretend his hands don’t shake when he stops moving. 

Gio didn’t need a lot of love, he thrived like a weed on the barest scraps of it; a dandelion pushing through old slabs of shattered concrete. A kid growing despite himself in the middle of a ruined family. 

He should have it, though. The kind that was loud, was obvious. Didn’t need explanations or excuses, the kind that just was. 

Mikey’s family did love Gio, he knew they did. It was just… All of their love had gone somewhere else. Down a rabbit hole, following a comet in the night sky. Flashfire quick and burnt up in the atmosphere. It existed, it was there, but quieter; the feeling of heat after the sun has left.

Raph sometimes brushed his hand across Gio’s head when he made the infrequent journey from the practice area to the front door. Dad called him ‘Grey’ in the same way he’d used Orange and Red and once, Blue. April had gotten into a kick of looking for all the types of food Gio had missed out on through his ambiguous years before them, roped the kid and Mikey into trying out recipes together too. 

Don kept looking forward. Mikey couldn’t ask anything more of him. 

The love was still there, though, because it always was. It just wasn’t always the kind that Mikey thought the kid deserved. The kind he himself had been lucky enough to know when he was younger. 

You should get to be greedy, Mikey thinks, watching the kid try and fail another time to breach the threshold into Donnie’s room. You should never have to question it. 

A larger lump in his throat he clears away with a harsh blink, sorry Leo, you left me pretty big shoes to fill. 

“Morning,” He tries for a smile, forcing everything else back under the constant thrum of movement he’d been surviving off for ten years and four months. Gio blinks up at him, as unphased as ever by his brother's complete lack of interest. 

Mikey notes it anyways, the twinge of a furrowed brow, the unsure creep of his shoulders. He stores it in the place behind his heart he’s built for all the protective instincts he doesn’t know what he can do with. He puts a hand on the kid's shoulder. 

(He leans into it, of course he leans into it. Fractions of fractions of a family he should have always known.) 

“Hi Mike.”

“Hi, I have something for you.” 

Gio’s perpetually flat expression melts into a sidestep of curiosity. “For me?” 

Mikey giggles, rubs a hand across his spotted head. “See any other little brother’s around? Yes, for you, kiddo.” He leads them towards the kitchen, to the bench stools against the counter. He tries to make it bright in here, he remembers the kitchen always being warm. The kitchen should be warm for him, too.

Gio lets himself be led easily, dark eyes wide and trusting. He is a nineteen year old built in heaps and parts and scraps off self determination, of needing to survive and surviving it alone, but sometimes it all melts into something malleable; something Mikey can almost see the shape of, reaching all the way back half their lives into the past. He tries to be a good big brother the way he learned. 

He holds out a sweater, fresh from the dryer and as soft as anything with wear. Bright red and too large, the perfect shape Mikey had always thought, to feel like you were carrying home with you in your arms. 

“Loved to borrow this thing when I was younger. Figured it was time to pass the mantle officially,” He tosses it to Gio. 

The kid stares at it, at him. Holding it as though the sweater were a fine piece of china and not a decades worn old thing they’d all lovingly had a hand in weathering. Mikey huffs a laugh, feels his smile hang lopsided. “You’re supposed to wear it, Gogo.” 

His jaw works. “Isn’t it…” he hesitates, gaze snapping over to the practice room. “Isn’t this Raphael’s?” 

Raph’s, Mikey thinks with heartbreak in his hands. Raphie’s. Formalities don’t belong here, I’m sorry I can’t make you believe me. 

Mikey nods. “Mhm. Said you should have it, you know. Little brother special.” 

He hadn’t really, he didn’t say much of anything to anyone. He’d seen Mikey take it, though. It was as good as giving. 

Gio’s dark eyes snap up to his, something overwhelmed building in his expression before he scrunches his hands and pulls the whole thing over his head. Mikey is right, it’s far too big. The bottom of it brushes his shins. 

“It’s too big,” Gio says quietly. 

Mikey’s not having that today, he shakes his head, stepping forwards. “No, it’s perfect. Exactly right. You’re practically as tall as me, kid, do you think I pulled this off any better when I was your age? Right of passage.” He bends, and carefully tucks the ends of the sleeves into themselves, rolling it all to Gio’s forearm. 

“See? Perfect fit.” 

There’s a moment— Gio looking up at him, eyes wide. Sleeves poofed and large, hood a halo around his neck— he sees a flash of blue. 

“Yeah?” Gio says, flatly as he does. Mikey thinks he detects a hint of nerves in there, something akin to a kid who was once shy. He nudges Gio’s chin with his knuckle. 

“Would I lie?” He grins. 

He isn’t expecting the serious stare in return. “No,” Gio says, confidently. Without hesitating. Like it isn’t a hole puncher through the core of him, like he’s maybe been hearing the ‘they love you’s’ all along, like he can feel it in the hems. 

The kid looks down at the sewn on pocket at the front, shoves his hands in delicately like he’s unearthing a spider web from the dew. “Thank you,” He adds, after a moment. “I won’t wreck it.”

Mikey’s heart springs another leak. “You couldn’t possibly, buddy.” 

When the opportunity came, Gio jumped at the chance. Mike let him, god help him, he did. Fighting himself and the cobweb reminders of a brother he was trying to save, that it wasn’t a trade. That he wouldn’t, that losing Gio would be another piece of himself left behind. 

It didn’t help that Gio had folded the sweater so nicely. That he’d pressed it into Mikey’s hands and smiled in that tiny, sweet way of his, that he was sure Raph would want it back. 

He’d want you back, he’d wanted to say. He just doesn’t know it yet. 

Gio looked at him like forgiveness and regret all in one. 

Sometimes it goes like this: 

You’re a brother, you’re a part of a whole, and then you’re a part of a fracture. Sometimes you love, and you love, and you lose anyways, and what’s left behind is still beautiful, but it looks like somewhere you’ve never been before. You miss what it was, but the places where you were are small and curved and perfect, and what you’d had to become in the remnants is not anything like it had been at all. 

Sometimes someone has to go, and it’s not always you. He tries to be okay with that, he doesn’t think he does a very good job. 

Chapter Text

The shopkeeper was glaring at him.

Gio was only peripherally aware of it, in a disinterested sort of way, cataloguing the stare into the side of his head with a coloured flag that said, 'might be an issue.' If it was just for him, whatever, but he had eyes on the turtles dashing between the stalls of the Hidden City farmer's market, and if it was trouble for them, then Gio was gonna be trouble for everyone. 

It was a lizard yokai with shimmering scales, keeping close watch. The way she kept flickering her gaze to Gio's hands finally tipped him off – she thought he was going to steal. The idea almost made him snort, but he kept an entirely impassive expression. Mikey called it his 'resting murder face', Donnie called it 'a remarkable show of restraint could you please-please-please teach me how to be an emotionless bad boy too?', and it was Leo who pinned him with 'it's not about how Gigi looks, it's about where he's looking.'

In this moment, Gio was looking at Mikey crawling underneath a fruit stand while Leo talked to the vendor in animated tones. If anyone needed to be watched for shoplifting, it was definitely those two. However if anyone tried to correctly accuse them of doing so, Gio would have to intervene. And escort them off the premises. 

Perhaps that was reading in his expression, the absolute whole-hearted intent for violence at the slightest provocation, or maybe it was the black spiked leather jacket he was wearing (borrowed from April, but who knew that outside their family?) combined with the closed arms-crossed posture leaning against the wall. Even if he wasn't going to steal, Gio had been on the streets enough of his life that he often let off bad news on purpose just so people would leave him alone. Right now, it was earning him a glare burning into the side of his face. He thought about turning and snapping his teeth at the stare. It wasn't worth the effort. 

The lizard shopkeeper sighed, put upon, and muttered something under her breath. She shuffled around her stall to get a better view of Gio, her own arms crossed, chin up. "Hey. You."

Mikey popped out the other side clear of the stall to triumphantly raise two oranges in the air. Leo gave an exaggerated fist-pump and ruffled Mikey's non-existent hair as they scampered down the aisle.

"Buy something or get a move on." The lizard insisted, mouth curling up in a snarl. 

Gio ignored her. His dark eyes flickered over the crowds to spot Raph's tall head bonking into some of the hanging lanterns and apologizing profusely. Finding him helped to pinpoint April, who had reusable bags hanging off her elbow as she hugged Raph's huge bicep and helped him to duck around the sparkling colourful lights. 

"There's no reason for you to be here." The lizard said.

Some of the breath left Gio's chest against his will. A shiver ran down his spine, barely suppressed from showing outwardly, and he couldn't help but think someone just walked over my grave.

Another aggravated huff from the lizard. Gio kept his back against the wall, the only concession for his physical discomfort was how he let himself clench his hands into tight fists under the sleeves of April's leather jacket. It had roses sown inside. She'd gotten too warm running around with Donnie chasing pigeons when they had lunch in the park and told Gio that she was using him as a coat rack. He'd replied, flatly, "I'm honoured."

He hadn't spotted Donnie in a hot minute, but a flash of purple revealed the genius was lecturing a vendor with both hands gesturing at top speed, a manic sort of 'now you have to learn about my special interest' expression on his face, while the winged and feathered yokai looked on with wide, overwhelmed eyes. Good. He was having fun. 

It was hard to spot, but the poke of the hockey stick over the crowd alerted him to Casey Junior threading through. Somewhere in the midst of all the chaos Mikey had joined him, and was dragging him by hand with intent. Gio traced their path until they arrived at a cotton candy stand. That made sense. They were still getting the kid to try new things. But then where did Leo –

"Didn't anyone tell you, Georgie-Boy, that you're a turtle and not a hedgehog?" Leo grinned at him, all his teeth, reaching out to flick one of the spikes 

Gio exhaled a light huff. He said, "What were the oranges for?"

"What oranges?" Leo said, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth. 

Gio fixed him with a level stare. Leo laughed, and jostled his shoulder, "Geez, prickly like one too! Are you going to shoot your quills at me?"

"Puh-lease , Nardo. Try to have some sense of the animal kingdom, we are part of it." Donnie sprawled himself over Leo's shoulder as he spoke, apparently finished harassing the shop vendors and had come to grace them with his presence. "That's porcupines."

"Are you a porcupine?" Leo asked Gio, with fake seriousness.

"I'm a turtle." Gio replied. 

Leo threw his head back and laughed like he'd never once been a scared, trembling little kid in Gio's arms. He effortlessly slotted himself into Gio's space, taking his hand and threading their fingers together. "Come on, enough of the lone-wolf schtick. We just established, you're a turtle. Come eat tiny hot dogs, it's enriching. I'm enriching you."

Donnie casually took Gio's other arm to lock them together by the elbows and slouch his hands into his pockets. "They are cut into little octopus shapes."

"We just had lunch." Gio pointed out, without much hope of deterring the full force of the disaster twins. It was like standing in a hurricane. How odd it was, to be battered back and forth between such a strong force, when his experience of Donatello had previously been a whispered breeze over a smooth lake surface? 

The sudden whirlwind of nonsense and affection that was the twins had the shopkeeper make a sound, deep in her throat, and Gio didn't turn. But for a moment, in his peripherals, he could see her face. He made out that she was surprised. Everything about her posture said she hadn't been expecting him to have people there with him. And the tension was falling out of her shoulders. As if she was saying, oh, nevermind. He can't be bad if he's loved.

It was a brand new experience for Gio. And as the twins both exclaimed that everyone knew market food didn't count, it was apparent mini hot dogs were gonna be a new experience for him too.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Georgie,” Raph says, “got a second?”

Gio pauses agreeably on his way through the room. He tilts his head, as good as asking the obvious question out loud. 

Smiling, Raph pats the seat next to his. His big brother course-corrects immediately and joins him on the sofa. 

He’s so quiet so much of the time, unlike all the other noisy larger-than-life personalities in their family, but Raph knows he feels twice as much as he lets on. There’s enough light in the room that it brings out a hint of the warm brown hiding in those dark eyes. 

“I wanted to show you the latest dorky scheme Lee and Dee came up with,” Raph says, so casual. He definitely does not have an ulterior motive. 

“I’ll brace myself,” Gio says dryly, as if he’s not charmed by every ridiculous thing the twins do. 

Gio seems fine, but Raph knows he didn’t imagine the flinch he saw earlier in the evening. Following the police scanner on patrol had taken them right to the Foot Clan, up to no good as usual, because some losers just don’t learn. When a well-aimed crossbow bolt missed the tip of his ear by an inch for the grave crime of daring to so much as scowl in Donnie’s direction, the Lieutenant had thrown his arms up like he regretted his whole career and shouted at Gio, “What do you care, anyway? You’re not even one of them!”

Three little brothers gasped in tandem, offended and shocked, but Raphael had only seen the way Gio’s fist clenched white around his bow briefly before it loosened into a normal grip again. 

He’s still getting used to it, Raph thinks. Belonging somewhere. Being one equal part of a silly, perfect whole. 

So Raph tugs on the soft gray string inside him, twisted in snug with orange and purple and blue, and melds with it just enough to send along a memory. 

The memory was one of a very late night Raph had gotten out of bed for water and discovered two turtles in the kitchen making break and bake chocolate chip cookies and cupcakes from a box of funfetti cake mix. Leo was sitting on the counter, swinging his feet and eating a square of raw cookie dough, and Gio was wearing an apron of Mikey’s that said “I Cook As Good As I Look.”

“We couldn’t sleep,” Gio said plainly, his voice rarely wavering from its usual flatness. He would sound calm at the end of the world, Raph sometimes thought. Only to remember an instant later, oh, wait, he did sound calm at the end of the world. 

“‘We’, huh?” Raph said, leaning against the counter next to Leo. “You’re a bad influence, Leon.”

“Nothing and no one can influence Gigi,” Leo replied. “He’s officially de-influenced. Ask him what TikTok is.” 

Well-versed in the art of Leo trying to dodge a conversation, Raph ignored that and said, “If Mikey finds out you were up all night again, it’s gonna be hell on earth for you tomorrow.”

“Can I buy your silence?” Leo offered cheekily. He offered Raph a cookie dough square, smiling as if it wasn’t three o’clock in the morning and there weren’t shadows beneath his eyes. 

Raph took the cookie dough and said “No,” as he ate it, just to hear Leo’s offended squawk. 

Gio sent Leo off to look for more frosting in the pantry, presumably to stop their scuffling from reaching wake-everyone-else-in-the-lair levels. When it was just the two eldest brothers for a moment, Raph said, “You don’t have to do this.” 

He didn’t want Giorgio to think he had to do anything to belong there. He didn’t have to stay up baking treats for no other reason than to make a sleepless night a little more bearable. It was kind of him to do it, but he didn’t have to. Raph just wanted to make sure he knew that. 

Gio took the first two trays of cookies out of the oven, transferring them to a cooling rack the way he’d seen Mikey do a dozen times, and said, “I’m the oldest. It’s my job.”

And it was hard to argue something that had been Raph’s truth for so long. He stayed where he was, absorbing the warmth of the kitchen, reluctant to leave it. 

Leo came back at a run with a tub of cream cheese frosting, hoisting himself back onto the counter and popping the lid off the tub. Raph drew the line at eating frosting straight out of the container and swiped it from him. 

“All of your teeth will rot out of your head, and then what,” Raph said dryly. 

“Donnie will make me robot teeth or something? They’ll probably be Bluetooth enabled so I could play TSwift literally everywhere I go.”

“You already do that.” 

Gio reached over and deposited a warm cookie from the rack into one of Leo’s hands. Confiscated frosting forgotten, Leo broke it into two pieces and popped one half into his mouth, exhaling comically when it was hotter than he expected. 

“You’re gonna spoil him,” Raph said. It was already much too late for that, as Leo had been spoiled in various ways by everyone in their family since the day he was born, but it was worth saying anyway. 

“That’s my job, too,” Gio said, and handed the next cookie to Raph. 

In an instant, Raph felt younger-brother and cared for, indulged the way only little turtles were. It was a silly, small thing—a passing moment on a random Tuesday morning that would be folded into the rest of the week and all but forgotten in time—but Raph would remember this part. Looking at Gio and thinking I love you. I’m glad you’re here. 

Gio goes still as he processes the information. The Hamato ninpo feels brand-new to him at this point, for all that it had been sleeping deep down inside his soul this whole time, and they have to remember that he hasn’t had years to get accustomed to foreign thoughts and emotions crowding into his head at any random minute of the day like the rest of them have had. 

“All good?” Raph says carefully. 

His big brother blinks rapidly, a glassiness in his eyes that might have been a trick of the light but might not have been, and dips his chin in a punchy nod. 

Something about the memory has unmoored him, but Raph can’t think of what. He passed it along slowly, and chose one he thought would be easy to absorb, but maybe they’ll have to go even slower and easier still. 

“I can tell them not to,” Raph starts to say, but Gio shakes his head. 

“It’s fine,” he says. Then, very deliberately, “Thank you.” 

Raph should be the one saying that, he thinks ruefully. He’d said it already, of course—they all had—but there weren’t enough thank yous in the world for this brother who appeared out of thin air specifically to bring Leonardo home from a place it was impossible to come home from. Whose caring didn’t stop or stall outside of life-or-death situations, any sleepless night as significant to him as the actual apocalypse. Who didn’t seem to know what to do with their gratitude when he had it, putting it up on a shelf somewhere to take it down and roll it around in his hands every now and then. 

One day they’d be able to show him. One day it would stick. Until then—

Operation AirDrop is a go, Raph sends in his little brothers’ various directions. He instantly gets three responses, an ecstatic fizzy pop of confetti that is trademark Michelangelo and electric chaotic glee from the twins. Gio’s expression shifts into one of curiosity as he tries to parse through that sudden burst of feedback he must have felt from the periphery. 

Raph smiles and drapes an arm around Gio’s shoulders. In part to hold him down if he tries to flee their little siblings’ enthusiastic arrival, but mostly because he’s got almost two decades of hugs to catch up on and every second counts. 

Sometimes Gio looks sidelong at him, like he’s surprised to find Raph beside him at all. Other times Gio leans against him, like he’s soaking up the sun after years and years of winter. Today’s a sunny day, it seems, because he presses the side of his face against Raph’s shoulder and that quiet gray string in Raph’s heart thrums with something very hopeful and tentative that he’s afraid to pin down with a name, just in case it startles away. 

Chapter Text

The night Mikey has to say goodbye to Klunk is just a regular day in December. 

Life is funny like that, he thinks; you find things and lose them in nearly perfect semicircles. The world feels like it’s supposed to stop right there in its tracks, the sun burnt right up in the sky, but it goes on. People step across the grates on their way to work, cars beep in the streets, and nothing changes. It’s a hole punch through the wet paper of your heart, a boulder in the middle of a river, but somehow you breathe around it anyway. The ripples grow farther and farther out to the horizon until you nearly convince yourself they’re leaving. 

You’re the orbit: the tragedy stays. You never learn. 

Regular days for him are a long continuous trudge down an empty hallway anyways. There’s nothing to count meaning by, really. Home hasn’t felt like home in a long time, just a place he has to go. Sometimes he fantasizes about getting up, springing up from the cold couch like he used to have the energy for and sprinting straight down the sewers all the way out to Times Square. Sometimes there’s a rage in him that could demand that the world shut itself down the same way his family has.

Parts of him crave the idea of just running until it stops feeling like sludge and concrete in his heart just to exist here like this. He stares at the front door without meaning to, drawn back again and again. Sometimes he thinks he can almost break through the pins-and-needles numbness in his scarred hands and move , and then he’ll hear Don’s chair squeak down the hallway, or the click of Dad’s door, and it leaves him all at once.  

For a while the gravity well that kept him locked in step was just as simple as Klunk. The world’s sweetest cat, but not quite talented enough to open his special kidney care food all on his own. No one was left to love him right if Mikey went away, so he stayed put. 

Don regularly got too swooped up in his projects and missed hours entirely, even before everything else. He couldn’t feed himself at the right times without Mikey sliding post it notes or leaving saran wrapped bowls in the fridge for him to graze on, let alone a pet. Raph… slept. More than he probably should. Crept around in the shadows and worked himself half to death at whatever odd jobs he found when he wasn’t. And Dad was— well. Mikey wasn’t sure how Dad felt most of the time. He couldn’t leave Klunk with him either way. 

(There’d been a long warm stretch of sepia toned years where he’d have thought of Dad and warmth as the same words spelled in different ways. None of the words fit together like that anymore.

If he closes his eyes, he’s back there. Nursing a fractured elbow and staring up at the sky like it could house a miracle. Listening to the static coated goodbye message of someone none of them could bear to lose. None of them ever left the island, not really. They’re all watching the sky tearing itself apart and drifting farther away.)

Once, he’d have said that Klunk was spoiled rotten, completely overflowing with love and attention in all the ways the smartest cat in the world should be. Before Klunk needed special diet wet food only, Don had rigged up an automatic feeder for him and a machine that would give him scritches behind his ears if Mikey was away on a mission too long. Raph would let him climb all over his shoulders when he worked out and send Snapchat selfies to their group chat of the two of them with silly captions most days. 

Leo used to call him Sunspot. 

Finding Klunk had been something special, he used to brag about it a lot. Kismet souls colliding, he’d say because he read it somewhere on an artist's post and adopted it for them. A soul cat, because Klunk was the perfect cat and so sweet, and always rubbed his fluffy head right under Mikey’s chin when he was stressed over a drawing or a comic cliffhanger or when he was sorting through grocery lists. 

Now, it’s hard to think anything cosmic could have ever minded him. He thinks it’s the way things go: something good comes in, and it can’t stay.

Mikey can’t make it stay.

The regular day in December stands out even without the semi circles funneling back. A regular day is also a bad day; most days float somewhere ambiguously between barely manageable and knock down all out brawls to claw through the evening. There’s something frigid around each step forwards, even before Mikey knows. 

When Mikey wakes up he knows that Dad hasn’t moved since last evening, his room still and dark, and Don’s circular stages have taken him all the way back to bargaining. He’s lost in another project around timelines and paradoxes that Mikey knows will only sink him down further into that barbed wire place the grief sits. He’s fixated on something, a project to help dad’s memory maybe. Or to mend his own. The way Donnie’s eyes land just to the left of Mikey’s face when he stops by still cranks up the dread in his chest like a vat of acid boiling over. 

(‘I can fix this,’ he’ll say, not with words but in the set of his jaw and the sudden feverish flicker of his hands. It never lasts, it’ll tire him out worse and drag him farther out to sea to believe it. “There’s a new study,” he says instead. “They found proof, traces of old collapsed universes.” Mikey will nod, carefully wedging himself on the ledge of Don’s empty cup laden desk, trying not to drum his fingers or let any of his nerves through. 

“There’s been ones, maybe just like ours. Expanding all the way outward and sinking back in, the science is there.” 

Mikey will steel himself, brace for impact. “The science for what, Don.”

He can never say it, Donnie can never make himself believe it. There’s another universe out there to him where he’s still one part of two wholes; it’s not the one that Mikey got for them.)

Don’s mostly outside himself these days. He says a lot of harsh words and burr laced insults for the want of being alone. Mikey can’t fault him for it, has only ever been grateful that he has the miracle of Don sticking with them anyways. It’s hard not to think Donnie knows, with every inch he creeps forward into this half-life. The magnitude Mikey failed him. He’s never blamed Donnie.

He ends up calling April, just for the excuse to be somewhere else for a minute. To satiate his guilty, constant urge to run. She’s always happy to have him, even though she doesn’t come by much anymore, even though she glances at him sideways sometimes with a resigned sort of helpless loss he can’t hold enough of for both of them. The relief is enough, to know there’s a world still outside of the haunted house his life has become, even if he also wants it to stop.

She hands him tea, brewed exactly like he likes it (like Leo taught him to like best) and he listens to the clock ticking loudly on her yellow painted wall. He still thinks he could run. He always thinks he could run. He can’t leave Klunk. 

Klunk’s getting old.

April takes a breath in, pauses. Gives him another quick side glance before saying, “How’re things?” All hesitantly and unsure, like she thinks Mike might be mad. He doesn’t have it in him to be mad about anything anymore, least of all his big sister that won’t come home. 

He manages a shrug for her. It’s been okay , he means to say, because it’s what he always says. 

“Worried it’s too cold down there for Klunk,” he says instead. 

April’s eyes widen slightly before she schools herself. Her hands are tight around her own mug. “You can bring him up here, Mom won’t mind.” 

(She’s been taking care of her mother lately, she’d had a bad fall. June was always happy to see Mikey just like April was. Everyone was always happy to see him. He wonders if they would still if they knew.)

Klunk would love the windows. All the smells and the carpet. They’d remember to feed him, too. Could probably get him the vet care he needs, and would have the funds to fix whatever might be wrong. It would be an excuse for Mikey to— 

No, he smiles ruefully. He was never going to run. 

(He can’t be the thing that leaves, he knows he’s always going to be the thing that's left.) 

“Thanks, Apricot,” he pats her knee. “Think that might be a big scare for him, is all.” 

She nods like she knew what his answer would be already. “Well, if you change your mind. He’s always welcome.” 

You’re always welcome, she means. Like she has to say it, like things have strained so far apart it might be a question anymore.  Like it maybe doesn’t go both ways. 

The old him would have had some inspirational thing to say, some soft spoken hand-held speech to convince her that her place with them will never change. The new him knows they lost all of their words the moment the purple in the sky ripped apart into orange and green. He mostly just lets her hold his hand and pretend like the pieces of their hurt are something that can be scooped into anything meaningful. 

“Love seeing you, M,” she says kindly, every time, but he knows Casey stays there most weekends when he works late at his new job, and the unspoken everything between them is making her choose between family in a way she shouldn’t need to. She has a job, a career now. She has responsibilities they never had as kids when she could drop her bags off at the dinner table and slouch her way onto their overstuffed couch. She can’t be there and up here helping Casey sort things out, she can’t be there and watch them anymore than Mikey can.

(The thing about grieving is that it never folds up small enough to carry only within yourself. It spills out, black holes and whirlpools in everything you’ve ever loved. It hurts everyone with you, and there’s nowhere for the love or the blame to go.)

It’s hard for her, too. Big sisters and big brothers and all. It’s hard for Mikey to let himself be little anymore. He can manage.

He never stays longer than a few hours, drives the smaller motorcycle Donnie made for them years ago so nobody will miss him too much. Don has trackers upon trackers, and the loss has made his need to know a more paranoid fragile thing, but he never asks. 

Going home isn’t anything— Don’s stuck on the evening to late night shifts at his remote gig, which suits his sleep schedule mostly alright. It means he won’t be around for Mike to talk to, because the job restructuring means that he has to take incoming calls instead of the management role he’d been promised. Raph hasn’t said anything more than a hollow ‘hey’ at him in weeks. He pretends the way he has Dad’s schedule mapped out in his mind as a series of Do Not Enter’s is normal. 

The radio plays a song he’s growing to hate. He takes the long way home and turns the volume up.

It’s winter, there’s the barest hint of snow in the air that twirls under the streetlight on their garage’s street. He remembers the first time they ever came up top in the winter, the way his hand had been firmly wrapped in Raph’s mitted one because he’d wandered off so much as a kid. The way Leo had tried to dare Mikey to stick his tongue to a fence and Donnie had burst into a series of lectures about frostbite. He remembers the smirk Leo gave him, the secret one he used to have only for baby brothers, before he’d shoved a handful of snow down the back of Raph’s too big parka. 

The winter is just cold now. The snow only means driving will be harder in the morning— he tries to remember if he has ingredients for anything special for dinner and gives up. No one will eat it anyways.

April likes to give him care packages for the weeks he doesn’t stop by, and thoughtfully includes a special goodie bag of cat toys and treats. He’s been using them sparingly, mostly because Don says they don’t have the budget for the kind of treats Klunk likes. He wonders if Donnie has factored in the pizza he hasn’t been ordering— mostly because he keeps defaulting to toppings Leo likes and losing his appetite— but he’s not sure it matters. Regardless, it feels like an anniversary of something. 

Tonight is a good night to spoil his best pal, an early Christmas present. 

The Lair is empty and dark when he wanders in, and the sigh he lets out echoes into nothing. Klunk doesn’t meow happily and trot over to him like he used to, but he’s older now and sometimes naps under Mikey’s bed where it’s warm. The familiar tuft of greying orange appears like clockwork the moment Mikey has a throw over his legs and a crinkling package in his hands.

“There you are, buddy,” Mikey coo’s at him, leaning down to lift him onto his lap. Jumping is harder for him, he’s done enough research about kitty arthritis and its signs. Klunk’s getting old in all the ways Mikey feels. 

He’ll be twenty five next year. Every stolen second feels like an eternity and nothing at all. 

His big brother had been sixteen: the year Mikey turned sixteen, he’d spent the entire day curled up on Leo’s bed. Raph had left a lopsided cupcake in the doorway with a single candle, and sat down on the floor beside him without saying anything. They stopped counting Donnie’s. 

(Leo used to sing him to sleep sitting on the floor beside him, just there. He’d wake up bleary as anything at two in the morning and find him with his head tilted back, tapping the beat to his favorite song softly on the sheets by Mikey’s ankle, scrolling through his phone. The missing of it is a hole he’ll spend his whole life dancing around, he understands why Raph sleeps.) 

Holding Klunk feels like nothing, his skin holding a heartbeat and a warm pocket of love in between his bones, and nothing else. He’s still soft; Mikey presses his face into the back of Klunk’s head and thinks about universes. 

(In the morning, Klunk will be gone. He’ll do Mikey the favor of not having to contend with medical details they don’t have access to, or the horrible long drawn out playing god decision he doesn’t want to make. Quietly slipping out the back door, smartest boy in the world as always. Mikey will doze off on the couch and find him, and tears he doesn’t think he has left in him will burst through anyways, and he’ll sit for hours just outside of Donnie’s door without ever daring to make a sound. 

Raph will find him, of all people. He won’t remember throwing himself into the crush of Raph’s arms, or the way he’ll press his beak into the divot of his shoulder. He’ll remember his heart spilling over and shattering in the cold winter air and think that he only has his family when they’re all sinking down with him.)

He’s alone in his loving of Klunk. Klunk’s always been his. Maybe it will be a comfort to think of a pawprint just his size living inside Mikey’s heart, or to imagine Leo lurking nearby, just outside of Mikey’s broken ninpo. Ready to scoop his Sunspot into his arms and doze off on the couch together again. Maybe Don will stumble out for his mid day coffee and find Mikey curled over something that’s already wandered away, and remember himself outside his grief long enough to hold Mikey under his chin like he used to. 

In the morning is a long time away. 

When he’d found Klunk it had been on a day like this. Mid December, frosty outside in the thin sheet of snow that ever existed in New York. It had been a lot louder then. April and Dad and  Hueso, and a family that existed in shared spaces like it was the one place they always fit. Warmer and lighter, lights thrown on and noise everywhere. 

Now, he keeps blankets stocked on his favorite corner of the couch, and folds them up neat for guests they don’t have. He gets colder, easier. 

He’s had Klunk for twelve years. They’d been coming back from April’s place, the new lair still feeling expansive and unexplored, feeling light and jazzed up in the way youth does. He remembers that there’d been a mugging in an alleyway, that the fight with Shredder was still fresh on their minds. Mikey’d been all but unstoppable. He’d shared a half glance with Leo before his big brother had smiled back, all smiling easy confidence as he opened up a portal for him and said ‘showin’ them the Angie special?’. 

He almost hadn’t seen the cat behind the dumpster at all until he’d thrown one of the thugs into a wall and the ka-thunk of the lid had scared the thing straight out into Mikey’s arms. The way he’d immediately started purring while Mikey had stood there stunned made his brothers snicker.

‘Told you to stop going dumpster diving, Angie, he thinks you smell like munched up fish food,’ Leo’d joked. 

‘Great, another thing for Raph to be allergic to,’ Donnie had sighed. 

‘Raph’s not allergic!’ Raph had complained, eyes watering. ‘This is adorable! He matches your mask, little man.’ 

Mikey had held the tiny, scrunched up ball of hackled fur and gotten an almost instant green eyed blink back. ‘Yeah? How’s that sound, buddy? Wanna match with me?’ 

The cat had sneezed, and carefully stretched a paw up to hook onto the ledge of Mikey’s plastron. He remembered thinking Gram Gram might have sent him at first, or that they’d found each other in some other past life, or that he had a magic way with cats. He thinks now that Klunk just loved like that. 

Big and open, bright enough for the whole world.

Leo and Klunk had spent a lot of time together, he remembers. When he was smaller and more likely to spring up on all of them around corners and fight their bandanas from the backs of their shells, it seemed like he ran off an endless battery. With Leo’s chronic issues with sleep, it made for a perfect pair. 

Sometimes he’d wander in to fry up breakfast, turn on the big overhead lights in the kitchen, and find Leo curled up just outside on the couch. Klunk bundled in a tiny ball right on his stomach, snoring with him. 

Semi circles stretching out beyond the horizon. His blankets stay folded.

Klunk rumbles at him now, wide green eyes staring at him as he stretches slowly on his lap. Mikey lets him purr and nudge his cheek into his finger happily. “Long day of catching Z’s, my man? Least one of us has it all figured out.” 

Klunk pads at his legs, curling slowly into the divot and settling down. Burying his face between his paws as the TV lights bounce off his fur in the background. 

He doesn’t move very fast anymore. He can’t jump, he doesn’t eat all of his food. Mikey watches his sweet boy pace aimlessly around stone floors like he can’t remember where to go. Everything Mikey has in his day to day is someone else's, but Klunk has always been his. 

“I love you,” Mikey tells the sunshine burst of peppered fur right there on his lap. “I wish you could stay.”

Tomorrow, he’ll have to consider how thin Klunk is getting, or the way he paces aimlessly, or the rabbit-quick way he breathes. Tomorrow, he might creep into Raph’s room and see if his big brother is awake enough to let him crawl into bed beside him like he used to, like he’s still small enough to want things and ask for them.

Tomorrow he’ll have to be okay with another kind of missing, even if he doesn’t want to. 

Right now, Klunk is warm against his knee. He’s loved because Mikey loves him. They don’t have anywhere else they’re supposed to be.

Mikey scratches the top of Klunk’s head and tries to be something warm enough to stick around for. He knows the leaving is not up to either of them anyway.

__

There’s a gentler world, one where Mikey gets to know he was always strong enough. One where there’s no floodwaters to sink in, no need to float. He hasn't lost anyone he wasn't ready to lose.

An unfamiliar turtle brings his big brother home, and there’s nothing at all to miss. 

Sometimes Mikey wakes up feeling lost, a deep dark place he can’t name sputtering and going dark for all of a moment, terrifying him in a way he can’t explain. The kitchen lights, he thinks, nonsensically, and scrambles out of bed in a flurry just to make sure they’re still on. 

It’s never cold here, not even in the winter. The couch is messy with snack bowls they forgot to put away, and dragged in blankets from all of their bedrooms. He shivers anyways. 

Days like this he thinks of ripples in pond water. Big long stretches of silver circles spinning out infinitely. He thinks about the news on TV he heard the other day, about universes from millennia ago: there’s an old sob caught in his ribs he thinks must not belong to him. 

The front door slides open, a quiet click. Mikey peeks around the corner from the kitchen-- he's making cookies, gingersnap, supposedly Leo's favorite.

Gio stands there, strangely soaking wet and bedraggled in a way Mikey’s sure he’s never seen. In the six months he’s known the guy, he’s always been a steady, stoic source of calm and cool. Sometimes it’s funny to watch, Gio with his flat expression in between the twins, bouncing and raving off some bit only they understand, hands on his shoulders like he’s a launching pad for their next insanity. He always thinks Gio looks happy underneath it, though, the kind that’s soul deep.

Dark eyes blink at him in the darkness across the Lair. “Oh,” Gio says, simply. “You’re up.” 

Mikey plods forwards, as unafraid as anything with Gio. “You’re freezing,” he gasps, pulling at Gio’s scarf. It’s bunched up strangely at his front, he hopes he didn’t rip it again. Gio had gotten all quiet sad last time, which was a travesty worth committing several crimes for. “Were you sewer swimming? It’s December!” 

Gio shakes his head, pauses. Nods. Mikey plants his hands firmly on his hips with his lower lip jut out— Gio always gives him a strange look when he lectures him like this, but he listens. Mikey sees him listen. “Turtles don’t do well in winter, you know. If you froze into a popsicle, I’d have to fish you out, and that would definitely bother Raph.” 

“Sorry,” Gio says, all fond and sly like a secret he’s keeping. “Emergency.” 

He holds the wet front of his scarf out, and a tiny orange head pushes through.

“Oh,” Mikey says.  Green eyes blink at him, it sneezes. 

“You found a cat.” 

Gio shrugs. “He found me.” 

Mikey reaches forward tentatively, the poor thing's hair sticks straight up on the top of its head. Damp as anything. The cat sniffs at his hand, then rumbles happily at him, pushing its face directly into his palm. 

Gio pushes the pile of fabric into Mikey’s arms. “He looks like you.” 

Yeah , he thinks of ponds and ripples and universes. He does, doesn’t he. 

"I think he should stay," Gio offers, something quietly nervous underneath his usual unaffected air. That can't stand, not in Mikey's house. 

Mikey pulls Gio into the warm of the living room, fussing. "Of course he can," Mikey says mock offended, in a voice that feels older than him. It's obvious, it all clicks together. He can see Raph cooing at him, and Donnie making tiny inventions and pretending to be indifferent, and Leo teaching him tricks in the middle of the night when he can't sleep. 

And-- Gio. Curled up in a blanket in the living room, carefully petting him between his ears with the quiet hum of a TV just ahead. The thought makes his eyes burn. He meets Gio's gaze with a nod. 

"He's home." 

Chapter Text

Growing up, Donnie watched every single end-of-the-world, zombie apocalypse, nuclear fallout movie he could get his three digit hands on. He played every video game, he read every book, because the idea fascinated and terrified him in turns. 

“You hate change.” Leo said to him, the two of them in the living room as Donnie ranted about the plot holes in ‘The Day The Earth Stopped’ — mostly because they'd accidentally mistook it for 'The Day The Earth Stood Still' and found it to be absolute trash. Leo was upside down on a beanbag chair, feet on Donnie’s lap in the armchair. He’d watched the whole movie from that inverted perspective, and said it had not improved the quality. 

"I hate change." Donnie agreed, the statement a question. 

"So like, the world ending is the biggest change ever. All the things that make up your routine would be gone. Why seek out the idea?" Leo spun a finger in faked whimsy, betrayed by the minute notch between his brow, worried. He was worried about Donnie obsessing over the end of the world. The twists and turns Leo's mind took were endearing, even if it wasn't that deep.

"That's exactly why." Donnie shrugged, tapping away at his phone to find an actual copy of 'The Day The Earth Stood Still' to cleanse their palate. "Because… I'm curious. What I would do if I was in that position. It's like a thought exercise. How would I be myself when everything else is different? What does existence mean when stripped of all the things you know and take for granted? I don't want it to happen, but I like to be prepared."

"Right." Leo rolled off the bean bag, swapping to upright, that concern still lingering. "And? What's the consensus? What does the end of the world look like to you?"

"Keanu Reeves." Donnie showed off the copy of 'The Day The Earth Stood Still' he'd found on his phone. "You in?"

Leo snorted. "Yeah, yeah, I'll get more popcorn."

..

The end of the world was the snap-shut of a portal that saved billions of lives. 

An oxymoron. Donnie didn't really care. He would've preferred if they could've saved just one. 

..

There was a poem. Donnie and Leo used to memorize poetry together, so they could bounce back and forth the stanzas and rhymes, to recite in dramatic poses or leave on a voicemail or whisper over late-night coffee. As a result, Donnie collected poetry books like candy and dug into their sweet decadent words as a giddy hobby that Leo always matched him wit for wit. 

And when Leo left and never came home again, there was a poem that lived in his head. June Gehringer. The first time they read it, Leo had laughed. Startled, almost too-loud, brilliant and sharp. He always liked a poem that ended in a way someone didn't expect. 

It said:

the worst part of love is / that I remember it

I walk around all day / thinking: I'm going to die / in the universe / you loved me in

I get so jealous of euthanized dogs

In his weakest moments, Donnie invented machines that could pry the memory of Leo's love from his head. But he could never make his hands actually build them. It would simply be too horrible. Too unimaginable, because if you removed Leonardo from the interwoven mesh of Donatello, there would be nothing remaining. There was no part of him that could be extracted without some part of his twin clinging to the pieces. 

But in every other moment, Donnie thought about euthanized dogs. And the searing, hot knife of jealousy that carved out his heart from its cavity over and over and over when he thought about Casey's future. The end of the world, he claimed. But all Donnie could think about was how Casey told him that his Donnie had died before Leo. And this Donnie would've given anything to have died first. 

It was a selfish, nasty thought. To wish this pain upon Leo. But the clawing envy tore and tore and tore him apart, moment after moment, that there was a Donatello that never had to live like this, this half-life. 

He would take the apocalypse. He would take the destruction of everything. He would take it, he would, he would grin and bear every moment if only Leo was at his side. Because he knew now what the end of the world felt like, it was a half finished poem. It was no new voicemails. It was drinking late-night coffee alone accumulating things to say to someone who would never get to hear them. 

When Donnie was younger, he’d watched every post-apocalyptic movie he could find, chin in hands and analyzing their every decision, cataloguing with a curious and desperate fear how he would do it better, if it were him. If the worst came to pass. And he was wrong, he was wrong, he was wrong. 

The end of the world wasn’t the death of billions and the destruction of his carefully ordered routine. Donnie would give anything to have that. 

They put down dogs to save them from suffering. It was the more humane option. 

Donnie would never recover from that kind of love. 

..

(( in another world, even as everything falls, they have hope ))

.. 

When Donnie met Gio, he was angry. 

A simmering, quiet anger. There was no replacing what he’d lost. To bring a mockery in, to try and claim he had three brothers again — it was laughable. He may have even laughed in someone’s face — it was hard to remember. The pain made it all numb and aching and fiercely horrible. Donnie knew he was horrible, without someone to soften his edges. Someone who never even had to try. 

And Donnie was jealous. Jealous of euthanized dogs but also jealous of this Hamato brother who didn’t know Leo — that he didn’t have to remember his love. And an equal gutted sorrow, that Leo would’ve loved him so much.

Donnie was wrong, he couldn't cope with the end of the world, and he hid himself in his lab. He didn’t dare touch this kid, even as the anger and the jealousy wore off and left something hollow and cold.

Looking at the young turtle in the corner of his eye, Donnie thought — I could’ve loved you too. 

It wasn’t fair to Gio. The young turtle's defensive resting expression of murder, the rough around the edges, tense muscles like he was always ready to run. He hadn’t exactly grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth. And maybe love tore apart but what did the absence create? The quiet hunger in Gio’s eyes, an appetite Donnie could no longer fill. He couldn’t love right anymore, he let down his brothers his father his sister with snapping words and icy isolation and barbs he meant. 

What Gio needed was Leo. He’d love him so good that the kid would forget what it was like to be lonely. Donnie couldn’t fill those shoes — not when the world was over and there was nothing left. 

Except there was. There was there was there was. Donnie stayed because he was too loyal to leave these idiots alone, to let the lair go dark without his genius, to let his precious baby brother and his beloved older brother down again. He stayed for them and tried not to let the resentment shine through, the jealousy, the dog whimpering alone. Put me out of my misery. 

Too loyal. Loyal to a fault. 

And there was something left, in the dark eyes of a young turtle, or maybe it was easier to say something found, something they hadn’t had before. Donnie thought his heart had hardened to rock, that he’d lost all plasticity, that he’d loved in any way he was possibly capable of and there was nothing more to discover. 

And then. During a stilted family time that Donnie endured at gunpoint by the peanut butter to his jelly, he examined Gio’s crossbow, and monotonely declared it to be fucking badass. 

And Giorgio’s eyes snapped up to him, those dark, rich eyes practically sparkling, even as his mouth didn’t move, still a flat line. But he stared at Donnie like he’d knitted the constellations in the sky just for him.

Donnie had to leave immediately. Because the rock solid heart had a gooey core, protected by indifference and anger but not infallible to the starstruck gaze of little turtles. Small and young and broken and here. Found. 

Mikey called to his back. But Donnie couldn’t stay, he couldn’t stay, he couldn’t stay and love again. It would hurt him. It would hurt Gio. Donnie couldn’t love right anymore. 

It was too late to stop Donnie from becoming attached to the inherited eyes staring out, but he could still protect Gio from the fallout. Locked in his lab, leaving only for emergencies, or for the briefest moment of fresh air. Donnie kept a counter with the number of words he’d said to the found brother and it barely passed double digits. 

But he watched. 

What else was there to do? Donnie had total control over the security cameras and an insatiable sense of curiosity that the end of the would could not even stifle. He watched.

Gio reminded Donnie of a cockroach. Impossible to kill, resilient, and forever unwanted until you found the weird kid who loves bugs. The hard outer shell. It wasn’t a kind comparison, but no one was ever coming to him for kind comparisons. 

(( if leo were here, then donnie would’ve endured the comparisons, the off putting demeanour hiding a soft center. leo would've pinch donnie’s cheek and grinned, shit eating and correct ))

It dug a deeper trench in his heart. Watching Gio drift through the lair, hesitant to touch, hesitant to stay, the kind of kid who swallowed his reactions like he used to get twice for flinching — it ached in a way he hadn’t still thought possible. And there was simply no way that he, this half-person he was, could ever be something that wouldn’t fragment Gio worse. Gio was stained glass — broken, put back together into something beautiful — but fragile. Donnie was a car crash. Donnie was the glass shards left behind on the highway, crunching under tires.

No. Donnie watched. 

..

Donnie watched and Donnie learned. A lesson in getting to know someone third hand. 

Gio had bad dreams. There was no plausible way to guess what the content was, but without fail Gio would wake in the middle of the night and walk a lap of the lair, arms tucked too-tight across his chest, chin down.

Donnie, in his lab, watching the cameras with half an eye as he lifted his goggles. Hesitated. It was reminiscent of things that hurt, a grinning and tired striped face peeking into his lab and hanging out into the wee hours. 

Donnie did not invite Gio inside. But he activated the remote start for the kettle in the kitchen, something he designed to save time not having to stand in the kitchen waiting for it to boil. In the past, that was his only reprieve — the break from work spent with his siblings in the kitchen, often laughing until his tea went cold. Now he’d specifically automated that to avoid any unnecessary time having contact with another person. Donnie knew he wasn’t fit for consumption anymore. 

Gio would see the steam as he passed the kitchen and pause. Looking around. He always made himself a cup of a tea when the nightmares came. Donnie merely expedited the process. 

He was all about efficiency, he told himself, and turned back to his work. Not lingering on the way Gio curled around the mug like it was the only warmth he’d ever felt.

.. 

Donnie had the same dream every night. Every night Donnie had his twin, holding onto him like a life raft, and begging and pleading, “Please don’t leave me. Please come back.”

..

What did the end of the world look like?

Motionless.

Watching from the cameras, Donnie remained stagnant and trapped in his bubble of self imposed isolation, and listened to Mikey talk about them. About how Raph carried them, how Raph guided them, how Raph was their beating heart. That April was fearless and tenacious and strong. And how Donnie danced.

"Danced?" Gio repeated, the low tone just barely tracing the line one might call incredulous. 

"The best dancer you've ever seen." Mikey was grinning into his palm, from an elbow leaned into the table and not hiding the grief stricken sparkle in his eyes. To mourn one twin was to mourn both. "There's nothing else like it. When L– … when we got him going in the kitchen he'd sing and dance and spin you around and laugh so loud. I don't want you to think… it's hard, okay? He's really so much more. They both are. It's just…"

"Hard." Gio finished, and it was a facsimile of understanding, one that Donnie didn't believe and didn't deserve. 

..

(( there is a world where even though everything falls and the sky is red but there’s still time for dancing, four colours all together, so lightheaded when he throws his head back to laugh and feel momentary elation in movement. it is not this world. ))

.. 

In this world, they dance around each other. 

Donnie isolated himself to keep his vicious cycle of grief contained to him alone, even as the gaping absences only made it worse, and Raphael kept himself out of the way. They rarely, rarely intersected, and even rarer without walking away more hurt than before they encountered. 

But sometimes they couldn’t stop the tides from gently buoying them back together. The middle of the night, shadows cross-cut over tired hallways — Donnie emerging to fetch a piece from the garage and Raph obviously just coming home, battered and eyes dark. 

And for a moment, they stopped. Opposite sides of what might as well be a canyon. And the wave crashed over Donnie’s head, knees weak with the strength of it — he saw Raph’s face and experienced almost nauseating levels of homesickness, the kind that had little kids bawling to go home while at summer camp or from driving past your childhood home. 

The pause was fleeting, because Donnie ran. He had to, before his traitorous mouth spit the ‘I miss you’ living on his tongue begging to be said. 

..

Donnie's latest project was hacking all the streetlights in NYC.

It should've been harder. Really. But it was ridiculously easy, and writing the program to fulfill his needs took more time than actually getting into the government system. Gio took the same path to the Hidden City entrance, and Donnie just… ensured his trip was smooth. He wondered if Gio even noticed that he no longer got stopped by any red lights, or if he didn't even consider that the fundamental law of the universe was that Donnie could plausibly be behind anything if it had a machine somewhere in there. 

Tracking him out of the lair was easy, as there was a ping from the security system even if Donnie never told Gio that he was constantly notified with his comings and goings. It wasn't his business to police him, obviously the kid already raised himself and didn't need another hovering older brother when Mikey was doing such a good job that it often burnt a cocky-smiled-shadow in Donnie's mind when he looked at them interacting. But the return trip took a bit of pattern recognition software that wasn't flawless, so Donnie had set the system to notify him when there was a possible hit of anyone Gio-like emerging from the Hidden City portal to manually activate the Green Light Protocol.

It was just past midnight. Donnie was working, dividing himself between four different projects to best reduce the chance of a thought occurring. His security monitor pinged, Donnie glanced over to confirm it was Gio sliding his way home through the shadows before activating the protocol – then paused. Stilling almost comically between all his multi-tasking, one hand on a keyboard and the other covered in engine grease. Then he tapped twice on the screen to zoom in on the blood dripping down Gio's arm.

Hm. 

Something deadened and quiet roared weakly in his chest, an old sensation buried in a landfill of misery. Donnie watched the security feed until the pulsing ache had him up and moving, pulling up what little information on Gio he had on his bracer as he staked out the front door. The lair was quiet and sleepy. 

The security system welcomed Gio back in without hesitation. But he stopped in his tracks before entering, eyes widening at Donnie standing there waiting.

Donnie couldn't help but mirror the surprise, as the wound was worse than what he'd even seen on the security feed. It looked like someone tried to hack off Gio's arm at the bicep, blood pouring between his fingers. The most jarring part was perhaps that Gio didn't even seem distressed, merely applying an even pressure and angling so the blood didn't drip on the floor. A placid expression, a still body of water, the only sign of acknowledgement was the wide whites of his eyes like Donnie had blown a gentle rippling breeze over his established norm.

"Oh… uh, hi, Donatello." Gio said, fingers tightening around the bloody wound. The unphased and stiff posture reminded Donnie more of a soldier than a child. Though the young shone through when he added, "... please don't tell Mikey."

Well. Donnie barely talked to anyone anyway. That wouldn't be hard. He strode away down the hall, heels clicking on the floor, and summoned without turning around, "Come with me."

Audible hesitation, but then the kid hurried to follow. Because he was a kid, not a soldier, and he shouldn't be casually bleeding like it didn't matter. Leo would've – Leo would've taken it as a personal affront, to show up in their home bleeding and hurt, and not receive care. Donnie wasn't the best at 'care', but once in a while he had to indulge the ghost hanging over him so he didn't go insane. 

“Sit.” Donnie pointed at the med-bay cot, and Gio sat. Compliant. Donnie dug through the cabinets, mentally creating a checklist of all the holes in their supplies. This wasn’t Donnie’s domain, and he hadn’t taken over in some irrational fear that if he took Leo’s task, then there’d be no reason for him to come home. 

But of course Leo wasn’t coming home. It had been ten years. And now there was a child in here bleeding and Donnie was so woefully unprepared. It was a spit in the face of the philosophy of Donatello, he should be prepared, as the real key to fixing problems was to ensure they never happened in the first place. Preventative maintenance. 

Gio didn’t flinch even as Donnie cleaned the wounds. He held still and waiting, though the wide whites of his eyes never left Donnie as he worked. What was he doing out there that led to these kinds of injuries, and what had he been up to until now that gave him this kind of non-reaction to them?

Donnie needed to get some trackers on him. Just for information gathering. He wouldn’t get close, he wouldn’t ruin this, he’d just… 

He had to stop his ministrations to take a slow, deep breath. Heart squeezing. 

“Donatello?” Gio wondered, in a quiet voice. 

“Hm.” Donnie tied off the bandage and strode away with a snap of his heels. “Be more careful.”

“Yes sir.” Gio replied.

Donnie didn’t look back. He couldn’t. 

.. 

Donnie didn’t let himself think about how he was losing another brother before he even got to have him. Instead he thought, as he designed a crossbow arrow: let’s hear it for preventative maintenance! 

..

For this Donatello, the world ends for only as long as it takes for his found big brother to carry Leo home in his arms.

..

“It’s a party in here.” Donnie greeted as he swanned into the kitchen, heading straight for the kettle to fill it with water for his tea.

It was the middle of the night. Leo was leaning chin in hand at the table and offered his twin a gooey smile. “Hi Tello.”

“You should be sleeping.” Gio said, sitting beside Leo with his own mug, half empty. It wasn't an order, merely an observation.

“I should be doing a lot of things.” Donnie replied. “I stand by that I could develop nuclear fission given the resources.”

“The resources could kill you.” Leo said, amused. 

“You never let me shine.” Donnie said, for the dramatics. He hopped on the counter to wait for the kettle to boil. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Nuclear fission.” Gio said, with a straight face. 

Donnie threw his head back and laughed. 

Nighttime quiet reigned. Leo leaned harder on his palm. Donnie kicked his heels into the counter then decided it was far too quiet, tapping at the radio to play something soft, not to wake anyone but enough to have good vibes. He was a vibe connoisseur. Twinkling piano and violins played.

“You’re gonna put me to sleep.” Leo complained, leaning harder on his hand. 

“Now, now, the kitchen table is nowhere to rest.” Donnie hopped down and pulled his twin up by the hand. Only to immediately drag him into a spin. 

Leo laughed, and spun Donnie in return, hand over his head. Humming along with the Bach melody, Donnie insisted they dance. 

“You’re gonna wake everyone.” Leo said, not really a complaint as he was hiccuping laughs. 

“Then they can join our dance party!” Donnie said, grandiose. He swirled past Gio and stopped just long enough to tug on his hand and get him in the orbit. “Come on! Up you get!”

“Me?” Gio’s brow twitched, but he got up.

“You.” Donnie and Leo spoke in unison, exchanging a ‘can you believe this guy’ glance before taking turns twirling their big brother around the kitchen.

Donnie’s water got cold before he even got around to making tea. He had to restart the kettle when they collapsed back into their chairs, breathless. 

“Mikey was right.” Gio muttered, a little stunned.

“Right about what?” Donnie pried, still humming to the soft radio.

Gio met his eye, and didn’t answer out loud. He merely smiled, gentle and pleased. 

Donnie couldn’t help but smile back. 

Chapter Text

“I don’t think Gio likes me,” Donnie blurts. 

He’d feel self-conscious if he was pressed to admit it anywhere else, but he’s in the infirmary, and the only one around to hear him say so is his twin. 

They’re moving into hour two of Leo’s “faves” playlist and the fourth consecutive Taylor Swift song even though he swore he put it on shuffle. Leo is going through his supplies systematically, updating inventory on his phone, while Donnie infodumps about energy storage and projectile dynamics and the breaking strength of crossbow string. 

Donatello’s base knowledge of this particular ranged weapon is severely lacking, which is a significant personal problem for him now that he has a sibling with a preference for archery. He needs to be the world’s leading expert on the subject yesterday. He has half a dozen half-formed plans for things like sonar bolts for 3-D mapping, which may or may not have been inspired by the Jupiter Jim Pluto Vacation run.   

Only every glance at the project folder simply labeled ‘G-01’ causes an uncomfortable feeling to squirm to life in his stomach, not unlike the Krang tentacles that had attached themselves to his carapace on the day the world didn’t end. 

Donnie isn’t good at people. He doesn’t know how they tick, and there are no reliable lines of code or handy user manuals that he can fall back on when he’s mystified by human behavior. 

His siblings don’t have the same problem. Leo is perceptive to a degree that borders upon clairvoyance, Mikey is the single-most emotionally intelligent member of their family, Raph is more charming than he gets credit for, and April can talk her way through any closed door, police tape or VIP-only entrance. None of them fumble the way Donnie does when a social interaction goes off-script, like it’s a volleyball that got served his way without the ample warning he needs to be anything approaching passable at the sport. 

But he knows he’s not imagining it—the way Gio seems to brace himself when Donnie comes into the room, like he’s expecting a confrontation every time. Like the last thing Donatello could want with him is something good. 

Donnie can be a lot. They all can. They come by it honestly, equal parts chaotic lab experiments and their father’s sons. And not every structure is built to withstand hurricane winds. Not every person is equipped to deal with a Hamato level weather event. 

But he has never seen Gio flinch away from anyone else. 

So he did what he always did when confronted by something outside his formidable repertoire—he took it to Leo. 

There had never in Donnie’s life been a problem that couldn’t be made into their problem. It came with twin territory. 

And Donnie’s twin in particular is good at translating Donatello and translating other people for Donatello, and jumps on any chance to be helpful and feel wanted, and absolutely loves problems. It’s one of the most annoying and endearing things about him. If there is any trouble to be found within a hundred miles, Leo will find it. He will worm his way into the center of it and then puzzle his way out from the inside. Most other clever and curious people were satisfied by the daily Wordle; Leo would chew through a wall unless he had something more hands-on to occupy his mind with. As polar-opposite as the two of them could be, in that regard, they were one and the same. 

It’s somewhat reassuring to Donnie that Leo’s immediate reaction is plain incredulity. He looks baffled, like Donnie has just started throwing stuff around the room for no reason. 

(He knows better. In the medbay, of all places, that would be a death wish. Leo runs a tight ship here and only here.)

“Sorry, you don’t think Gio likes you?” Leo says slowly. “Our Gio? The guy who let you infodump about the mycelial networks of fungi to him for almost two hours, all because Mikey mentioned he was making mushroom stir-fry for dinner?” 

Donnie scoffs, but he can’t help but feel warmed by the reminder. Gio had settled right in, the way he always did once he was sure of his welcome, and watched Donnie talk like nothing more interesting existed on this side of the equator.

“His eyes didn’t even glaze over,” Leo goes on, doing what he always does and pressing the advantage. “That’s a new personal best in this family. Even April started looking for a window to climb out of at the thirty minute mark.”

“There was bound to be at least one other mutant turtle in the New York metropolitan area with an appreciation for botany,” Donnie says imperiously, tilting his chin up. 

But the worry is still there, firmly rooted, trying to flower. Leo must be able to tell because his frown deepens, playfulness evaporating by the second. He pauses the music and sets his phone down. The room rings in the sudden silence, but it’s not uncomfortable, because it’s a room Donnie exists in with his twin. 

“I just want him to like me,” Donnie says. It’s a childish want, it makes him feel half his age, but it’s true. 

He was never one of those human kids lingering near the playground, on the edge of the classroom, desperate to fit in. He was never on the outs because he never had the chance to be. But this is probably what that would have felt like. 

Giorgio is quiet by default, absorbing everything with dark brown eyes, always pausing to think before speaking in a low, flat register that is becoming as familiar to Donnie as Raph’s comforting rumbles and Mikey’s energetic shrieks and Leo’s sweet or sly laughter. 

He hasn’t been anything but kind since he got here. He saved Leo, brought him home from a place it should have been impossible to come home from, so Donatello would put up with any manner of assholery from that quarter in exchange—but it’s not that at all. 

Once Gio’s initial guard goes up and then comes down, once they outlive that moment of consideration that verges upon scrutiny without ever crossing the line, the eldest turtle softens for any younger one like clockwork. He indulges whatever noise or nonsense they’ve brought with them like there is no better use of his time. 

It doesn’t seem like a lie. But Donnie is the least qualified person he knows to make that judgement call. 

There’s a lot at stake if he’s wrong, is all. 

Leo looks like Donnie has taken a melon baller to his insides just for fun. 

“I’d know if he didn’t like you,” Leo says with absolute certainty. And he probably would. And he would take it so personally. He wouldn’t let Gio know a single moment’s rest until the spotted turtle had a coming-to-Jesus moment and acknowledged his wrongdoings in canceled Youtuber apology video format. 

Since that isn’t the reality they live in—and Leo’s daily relentless pestering of Gio is harmless and little-sibling-shaped and decidedly not mean-spirited by any stretch of the imagination—some small part of the tight, unhappy feeling in Donnie’s heart has no choice but to accept that as the compelling argument it is. 

“He probably misses you, Tello,” Leo adds, something softening in his face that it hurts to look at directly. “His you, I mean. I know I would be a train wreck cosplaying as a person if I had to go someplace I’d never see you again. Can you imagine how screwed-up I’d be?”

Donnie’s whole soul shudders at the idea, at the nightmare that almost came true when the portal closed around the Technodrome and as good as severed Donnie clean down the middle. At the glimpse of a life he’d be forced to live with one leg, one lung, one arm, one eye, half a heart. 

“That’ll never happen,” he says, a little too loud. 

“You’re stuck with me,” Leo agrees. He means it, Donnie can tell—even after that almost-nightmare he put his family through, he means it. It’s one thing to take the nuclear option at the actual on-paper end of the world, it’s another to sit in a safe, warmly-lit room with his twin brother and try to conceive of an existence in which their dynamic duo was whittled down to a solo act. 

When they were little, Donnie once tried to explain how big the unobservable universe was. He told Leo that light from the big bang hadn’t reached Earth from all the way over there yet. It was a concept he struggled with as a child, that something could be so unknowable and immeasurable.

“That’s how big my ‘I love you’ is,” he said, all of seven years old and putting it into words the best way he knew how.

“I love you bigger than that,” Leo said promptly. 

“Ugh, you can’t,” Donnie said, frustrated at his twin for always trying to one-up him, for not understanding the huge thing Donnie was trying to compress and fit into his hands. “It’s not possible.”

“It is,” Leo said firmly, eyes gold to match Donnie’s, warm and shining in a way that was all his own. “I do.”

And then Leo went on to prove it. In a way Donnie never would have wanted him to—in an explosion that split the sky and left flash burns in their eyes, and the hollow pain of a surgical removal as the still-beating heart of their family was cut away, and the discordant electronic fuzz where a beloved voice had been rushing through last words, replaced by the sound of a radio without a signal, a device unpaired—but he proved it in a thousand other ways, too. 

He was even proving it now, this afternoon he spent leaning on a forearm crutch and ambling around to various shelves and cabinets to keep up with his stock of medical supplies that had been severely depleted in the weeks after the invasion. Leo had carried bandaids and lidocaine spray in a tiny tote bag since he was two feet tall. He couldn’t stop bad things from happening but he could try to make the bad things better. 

He’s looking at Donnie like he would right every wrong for him if he knew where to start. Like the unobservable universe was small enough to fit in his pocket compared to the lengths Leonardo would go for Donatello. 

Leo is the younger twin, but sometimes the only thing there is for Donnie to do is shuffle over and bonk their foreheads together and believe him. 

“If Gigi didn’t love you, he wouldn’t be a Hamato,” Leo announces, muffled and silly and entirely correct. “It’s a required qualification. You must have missed that meeting with HR.” And then, because it’s important, he whispers, “I promise, okay?”

“Okay,” Donnie whispers back. 

At about that moment, TSwift’s I Think He Knows comes on, proving once and for all that there is actually no way Leo’s playlist is on shuffle. The weighted moment they’re holding on tight to transitions into a lighter one that gets flung haphazardly around as an immediate life-or-death struggle for the phone ensues. 

Stalemate is only reached when Splinter barges in to read them the riot act for daring to roughhouse while they had a non-zero number of broken bones between the two of them. Leo is bright-eyed with mischief and already fast-talking their way out of trouble the same effortless way April can rattle off her brothers’ favorite coffee orders, and Donnie’s worry has been soundly evicted, all its belongings in boxes in the yard. 

Sitting around has never been his style. He’s a turtle of discovery and invention. And now that he’s been reassured that the absolute worst-case scenario is not on the table—that it, in fact, was never on the table to begin with—curiosity rears its head and snaps up the dregs of anxiety like a hungry wolfhound who mistook it for an unattended rack of lamb. 

Hypothesis: Georgie isn’t being weird out of dislike of Donatello. Leo’s certain he’s not, so certain that he was willing to promise, point-blank and absolute, instead of being tricky and sly in the name of cheering Donnie up. Leo even offered a much more palatable alternative, but further evidentiary support is required. 

So after dinner, as the whole family crowds comfortably around the banana split bar spilling across the entire kitchen island and argues over which toppings Gio and Casey should stack their bowls with first, Donnie blurts, “Can I see your crossbow?”

Giorgio really is one of the clowns in this circus. He proves it by putting his ice cream down, and picking the bow up from where it was relegated to the bench seat where everyone tosses their coats and shoes when they get home, and passing it right over. No normal person would put a functioning weapon in Donnie’s hands just because he asked nicely. 

As if in tacit agreement, both of Casey’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline and Raph makes incredulous scoffing noises. April says, “You did not just—” at the same time Splinter blusters, “Purple, you fire that thing off in this house even once and I am grounding you from everything you know and love, including Orange!” and Donnie screeches, over Mikey and Leo’s hysterical laughter, “I can be trusted with projectile weaponry!”

The crossbow has been carefully maintained, but it hasn’t been used in weeks that Donnie is aware of. They’ve all stuck pretty close to home since the invasion, and it’s not like Gio has anywhere to go without them—it’s not like they need firepower for grocery hauls or pizza runs, though, knowing their luck, that could change any given day. 

But Gio still cleans it regularly, and he’s become a familiar sight at the kitchen table; parts spread out on an oil-stained rag, meticulous and methodical with the one belonging he brought here with him from the future other than the clothes on his back and the colorful friendship bracelet on his right wrist. 

It’s important to him, clearly, but he’s letting Donnie handle it with an indulgent look on his face. Like there are no better hands to leave it in than his little brother’s. 

Because he’s at risk of having a whole emotion about that out loud, where his entire family is assembled to witness it, Donnie quickly turns his mind onto the much safer road of gadgetry.  

He has never actually held a crossbow before, has never built or used one, but he’s been doing a lot of research. He has a lot of ideas. He wants to print mechanical broadhead arrows with explosive tips, or tear gas canisters, or EMP charges. It’s a brand new world of creative chaos and that’s not even touching all the build customizations Donnie has in mind. His fingers are already itching to dismantle and reassemble the machine into something better, something that won’t ever fail, something his big brother will love. 

Only—huh. What feels like a low-level electric current thrums to quiet life like it was waiting to be noticed by the right pair of eyes, just enough of a static shock to get his attention and guide his hand to the rail. Glowing purple does the work of an allen wrench in seconds and a handful of screws clatter to the table. Donnie removes the scope in one sure motion, and moves on to snap the rail from the stock. 

Raph says, low and warning, “Donnie,” intimately familiar with gremlin gadget mode and all the kitchen appliances and shared toys destroyed in Donnie’s early years in the name of science. But he’s not breaking this time, he’s just looking. 

He flips the rail over in his hands and finds the source of that odd electricity-conductive feeling. Hidden on the underside is a small embossed logo that Donnie would recognize anywhere, because it’s his.

“A-ha!” he says, absurdly pleased with the discovery. “A Genius Built mod.” 

The rail was one of the first things he’d had in mind to upgrade, but it looks like he’d beaten himself to the punch. 

“With a custom rail, we can add whatever attachments we want to the stock, way beyond just an average scope or a rangefinder,” Donnie says eagerly, his mind darting ahead in three different directions at once. “The world is our oyster, Georgie!” 

He can’t help grinning. His logo on Gio’s prized possession is that last little bit of evidence he needed. He’s never been happier to be wrong, and will endure Leo’s smugness for an unheard of two entire business days before initiating retaliation. 

No version of Donatello would put that mark on anything unless he really cared about it. 

And Gio wouldn’t lift the rail from Donnie’s hands, and touch his thumb to that stylized “D” as if to prove to himself that it was real, an expression of painful wistful longing on his face, unless he really cared, too. 

Chapter Text

Raph thinks of himself as a coward most days. 

What’s the point of him, at the end of every impossibly long slow day anyway. Biggest brother, brother who is the biggest, all towering feet and broad shoulders of him— hollowed out and filled back in with should have’s and if I had just’s. He’d spent so many days thinking that the responsibility set on his shoulder was what made him stronger, and for what. When it mattered, he hadn't saved anyone at all.

Sleeping is the weak way out, he knows, when there’s still a home and a place and a people to fight for; younger him would be furious to think of him now. Y ounger him still had a purpose. He'd thought tomorrow's were a given, and he'd done nothing with them.

It makes sense for Raph to do nothing with all this empty time, all the days his brother didn't get to have laying bare like a failing exam caught in perpetuity. One final let down, stretched out and made permanent.

Their home is quiet most of the time now, no light footed sly smiling little brother to traipse his way into Don’s room or Raph’s training sessions and playfully yank on their mask tails until they relaxed. No loud awful jokes or casual plots to get everyone around the dinner table. There is no breathing like this; not with half the paint of their big old canvas spilled out and gone grey. There’s nothing for Raph to do. 

So: he dreams, and he wakes. Sometimes the crushing reality bends just a little above his head, like he’s just about to breach the surface of a lake in the split seconds before his eyes open. Like the world is hesitating, holding its breath just for him. It’s addicting, almost: sweet pockets of space, a side step into a world where Leo isn’t gone at all.  Being a coward means existing there for a second longer, in that Then-Now. Believing that he was strong enough, that he’s still holding onto his little brother. That he can be big and strong enough to keep holding on.

It used to happen a lot, years back. Long spirals of sugar sweet dreams; the aftertaste of so much relief that it stung even in that in between place. He’d wake up, stare at his ceiling, and for half a second think, ‘thank god, thank god’ before remembering why only one eye worked. The fallout is worse than anything, but that never stopped him from wanting. He doesn’t dream often anymore. Probably something to do with the way time has shifted forward and launched them all with it, the way they’ve lived more of their lives without him than with him. Like the little well of belief he has left dried up, and whatever bones of it that are left behind are disintegrating.

He can’t remember ever feeling so tired. 

Every day there’s a choice, and it's not one he's strong enough to make. Sometimes he stays in bed and lets the fog roll him back under to the place where it can’t hurt as loud. (It still does, nothing can make it stop. Nothing at all.) He’ll think of Donnie, an empty imprint haunting his own room, and Mikey, who brings food to his closed door or leftovers for him in the fridge like clockwork. He’ll think of dad, who creaks around like he’s half dead. He wants to go back to sleep every moment he’s alive. 

Usually, he manages to get up.  The worst part is always the thirty two steps from his train car to the front door. Sometimes it’s an impossible distance.

(Once, he’d thrived in impossibilities; would have said they all did their best work there. Once, he’d have said the only impossibility was being less than what they were. Tomorrows used to stretch and tumble forward into weeks and months as easy as breathing, too.

Once, he had three brothers. Once, his brother wasn't dead.)

He knows there’s a dangerous half step between what he does and what he wishes he could do, so it’s better that he’s busy. He does better when he’s busier. He works most days down in the Hidden City at whatever jobs he can grab; moving boxes, construction, bouncer roles, whatever. Anything to focus on a task, to stay in the perpetual process of tasks and motion and never for a moment thinking. 

Usually if he pushes hard enough he can exhaust himself enough that sleep is just a nothing blankness. The dreams that he craves are sometimes worse than the nightmares.

“Raph!” Mikey, who is always small and fourteen and freckled in his mind, calls. He pats the empty space beside him on the couch. It’s messy with blankets and pillows and coffee mugs like he remembers, too. Dad’s chair is still warm and nestled beside it all. 

“The movie’s about to start!” 

“Okay, okay,” Raph says, because it’s what they did. Movie nights every Thursday, all together, of course, how could he forget. (He never forgot, he never could, every moment with them all sat like a brand against his ribs, he never stopped remembering. Every single day rolling into one precious thing he’d fall apart into nothing without.) 

Don settled in on Mikey’s other side, metallic robot claw from his battle shell proffering up a large popcorn bowl, and complaining loudly when Mikey shoved his cold toes under Don’s thigh. 

“We picked your favorite,” another voice chimes in. And his heart screams with some waterlogged ache even as he turns and smiles, looping a big arm around Leo’s shoulders. 

The dream certainty is always this: Leo is fine, he made it out, or the Krang never landed, or they found another way. Leo laughs and grins like always and is happy and sixteen forever. Raph can see with both eyes, and Mike’s arms don’t snake with black warped veins up to his elbows, it doesn’t hurt to be around them. Raph never lost anyone, Raph never failed them. He grieves in equal parts to how much he smiles. 

(He can’t think about Leo directly when he’s awake in the same ways that he does nothing but think of his little brother. Whenever he lets himself think, Leo’s there. Alongside him, the wall of shame and guilt and knowledge that his brother’s last words had been to beg for Raph to be proud of him.)

His dream tonight is slow to let go; he wakes up bleary, with the warm feeling of a little brother tucked under his arm and the echo of jokes in his ear. He doesn’t feel the baseball bat of reality crest over him. His brain exists in the here and the back then, some lingering ghost of Leo playfully tugs his mask out to the dinner table. 

‘Slow poke,’ he imagines Leo rolling his eyes at him. ‘Mikey’s making something real good, you know.’ 

He doesn’t think of the thirty two steps outside his door as anything special. He trails the echos of a laugh he hasn't heard in years in a haze.

There’s something familiar in the air to greet him when he opens the door. A warm cinnamon, something sweet and full. The sound of light voices bouncing off the kitchen walls. 

A sense memory: when Mikey was younger and first gotten into cooking shows, he’d wanted to try everything he saw. Dad had made a rule that until he could reach the stove dials on his own, though, he wasn’t allowed to make anything that had to go inside the oven on his own. Technically, since Leo had taken a while for his growth spurt to hit, he wasn’t supposed to help him either, but it had sort of become their thing. It wasn’t uncommon at all to wander downstairs at night and find Leo propped up on the counter, waving his hands in the middle of some dramatic story, or playing music on his phone and doing silly dances, or humming to himself as his little brother explained recent can stacking lore and carefully mixed ingredients together. 

Leo’s favorite dish that Mikey made were these snickerdoodle cookies that they sprinkled cinnamon all over. They called them something silly, he remembers. He’d walk in and Leo would take a bite of their freshest batch, eyes sparkling with that great big well of fondness he kept for his brothers, and go ‘best one yet, sunshine.’ 

Raph’s feet carry him all the way to the kitchen unthinkingly, caught somewhere between the memory and his dream like long strands of cotton candy around his heart. It smells like cinnamon, the kitchen lights are bright and full, and he hears voices.

The dream catches, the breach before the air holds. For a second, he’s here and also there, and a winking blue and red face greets him from the counter top. It takes a second to process the tiny cataclysm of grief when he’s forced to blink. 

The dream breaks apart in yellow and warm kitchen lights, baking sheets lined and ready to go on the counter, and a mixing bowl. There’s Mikey, and flour dust, and a thousand pinpricks of grief in every square inch of his next faltering breath, but most of all, Raph realizes, there’s Gio. 

The small grey and black shape of their lost littlest brother, square shouldered and serious at the stove top. Not winking, not easing his way perfectly around Raph’s wake. Nothing like the cavern in their lives they can’t manage to exist around.

He’s wearing Leo’s apron. The thought skitters, slams into him like a freight train and snaps him clean into the cold barren world. Leo will never wear that again.

Part of him wants to demand what Gio thinks he’s doing. It’s a nonsense thing in him, protective over a ghost he’s already let down in the biggest, most impossible way. It’s the part of him that’s still dreaming that wants to tell Gio he can’t possibly slide in here, that he has no right to exist here where the grief has stolen a future his family should have gotten, to stop standing where his lost little brother would be in a heartbeat. 

He wouldn’t, he thinks. He likes to believe he wouldn’t. His mouth is open without his saying so anyways.

"That's it," Mikey says, as light as anything, but he knows his brother. There's a knife lodged in the edge of his consonants and it makes him blink right up into Mikey’s glare. Dark eyes locked on to him, shoulders tense and flat. 

Don’t ruin this , Mikey’s expression reads loud and clear. Don’t you fucking dare. 

The shame that lives closer to his heart than anything these days climbs right up into his throat. 

“Oh, this is what it smelled like outside that store,” Gio says, wondering and open, in a voice Raph's not sure he knows. “I just mix it up?” It’s the most words Raph thinks he’s heard the kid say in months. 

“Exactly, kid,” Mikey says, without looking away from Raph. “You got it. On your way to being a snickerdoodle expert already!” 

Mikey got him the recipe, Raph realizes. And the apron, and has been carefully guiding him through his brother’s favorite cookie recipe with him. The lights in the kitchen are warm and hot like always, and he’s the one standing outside of the threshold. Mikey thinks Raph’s going to take it away. 

I’m sorry, Raph thinks with an age old, useless grief. You’re right. There’s room here for him.   It’s a surprise to himself, but he means it. Gio should have always known Leo, should have been there from the start, the three of them making cookies in the middle of the night all together. Leo would have made space for him, like Raph should be. The same way Leo flitted through every conversation as easy as anything; he would have made space for Gio, the way Mikey’s trying to. 

Mikey shifts, patting Gio on the shoulder and casually stepping forwards between the kid and Raph. His eyes are less angry, more guarded. Assessing in the flat way Raph realizes he usually does these days, keeping their newest brother nearby the whole while. Himself between the danger he must see in his big brother.

(His baby brother used to look at everything like it was brand new. Like it shone in a way none of them had the artistic angle to see, like it was something to be explored. He’d made friends with everyone they met, brightest thing in the galaxy. He'd trusted with his full self because he'd had the whole world in reach and all his love powered up and sent right back at him from everyone he knew. Brightest star Raph had ever known.

He still is. Mikey is always Mikey. The starshine of him burns now, is all.) 

It’s a new type of grief to realize that Mikey thinks he needs to defend Gio in their own home. It’s worse to realize he isn’t wrong. 

Raph hasn’t been gentle in his grief. He tries to be, keeps to himself and stays silent more than anything else. He doesn’t cry where anyone can see him, he sleeps instead of giving into the pained screaming thing in his chest. Works out the constant anger in the training room no one else dares to enter. He doesn’t spill out onto the floor in front of a family he failed with all the apologies he should. He’s even stopped begging the universe for something that it can’t give back. 

He tries to be smaller, he tries to be good.

He’s also been clumsy. Loud in his own absences, and he realizes— 

Gio tries, he knows the kid does. He creeps daringly into Donnie’s room and gets shoved back out. He watches the room with the pictures with big cautious eyes, and he doesn’t ask. He’d stood outside Raph’s bedroom door in that dark hallway and knocked softly and asked if he was hungry more times than he could count. Raph never once opened the door.

The lights in the kitchen are bright and warm, like they always used to be, because Mikey had brought Gio here. He leans on the counter with his arms crossed and a glint in his eye that’s all Donnie, with shoulder pats and encouragement that are all Raph, with a love that looks a lot like someone they miss. Mikey had opened the door. Gio had never been on the outside at all. 

He thinks his baby brother might be the real type of strong, the kind Raph can’t make himself be. 

“Do you think we can save some?” Gio asks, steady and calm as always, with a thread of something ever so silently nervous underneath. 

Mikey tilts his head, flicking his gaze away from Raph for a second. “Sure thing. What for, buddy?”

Gio shrugs, tiny white spots dancing in the kitchen lights. “In case… they want some, too?” 

Oh, Raph thinks, feeling like he’s sinking directly down to the center of the sea. Mikey eyes Raph carefully, before meeting Gio’s question with a warm smile Raph hasn’t seen in years. 

“Course we can. They’d love some. That’s a good thought, Clementine.” 

Best one yet, Sunshine.

He backs out of the kitchen as silently as he can, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

The living room is dark, blue and steel in the silence outside. He doesn’t come here on purpose, he doesn’t cross the threshold unless he has to— it’s too empty, it’s wrong. Having an insomniac for a little brother meant that there was always someone up and about, the Lair never sat still for too long. He could find Leo tucked up on the couch quietly watching videos on his phone more often than not. And now— 

I’m sorry, he thinks, to the big nothing spaces around him. It’s a familiar thought. I should be better. 

He thinks about Gio in Leo’s apron, the way it was folded over exactly how Leo liked it. The way their voices in the hall had sounded so familiar, light with laughter he doesn’t know anymore. He thinks, if Mikey can laugh then maybe there’s something he’s missing. Maybe it’s in that kid. 

Maybe…. Maybe tomorrow he can try again. 

___

In another universe, Raph is waiting. 

He tells Mikey to stop it, has to physically wrangle his littlest brother away from the island screaming and crying and fighting him the whole way, and shepherds Donnie from his numb locked out state with them. He calls April and manages a whole conversation he remembers nothing of. 

They end up back home in a thousand impossible steps. 

“We have to go back,” Mikey’s crying. “He’s not— he can’t be gone, I can get him back. Casey said I could!” 

He thinks Raph’s given up on him. It’s taking the entire combined forces of April’s wavering Big Sister strength and the force of Dad’s quiet devastation to keep him seated, but somehow this is worse. Raph hasn’t given up in the same way he hasn’t stopped breathing; everything he knows about his sweet and cunning little brother is made of last minute surprises, and sudden out of the ether plays. Leo is impossible in all the things that make him endlessly possible. Raph’s been expecting to hear his voice crop out of the darkness every moment they’ve crept forward. 

Being the big brother also means living in the world where he doesn’t. He hates beyond words  that it might be the one they’re in.

“Let me try , one more. Please, please ,” Mikey’s begging. A sound he never wants to hear again.

Raph swallows razor blades. “Your hands, little man.” 

They’d been glowing, big thick cracks all the way up to his shoulders from how hard he’d been pushing it. He’d opened something, they’d all saw. A big flash of yellow, shattering through the cityscape in the half light of dawn. It just hadn’t brought them to Leo. 

“I don’t care!” Mikey shouts, eyes swollen and shining with more tears. He looks desperate and crushed, and heartbroken, and everything Raph thought he could protect them all from. Everything Mikey should never have to be, if Raph hadn’t— 

April moves, shaky and subdued. She presses her fingertips to Mikey’s fists. “Sweetheart, we do. We know how much you—” April’s voice cracks. “You tried, so hard. So hard. I know you did, angel.” 

Mikey whirls towards her. “Then why wasn’t it good enough!” His voice is an agonized howl that shoots right through Raph’s core. 

“I should have— he said I was—” Mikey’s slide stepping straight into hyperventilation, choking on great gulps of words that are trying to tumble through him all at once. Raph reaches towards him instinctively, catches sight of his own hand in his periphery and— 

Pink, tentacled, strangling his brother who wasn’t fighting back, the urge to crush and squeeze and tear apart like a hot wire through the center of his mind, stop him someone should stop him. Stop him, because Leo’s hands were dropping and the scene was shifting to the hurtling side of a ship, and Leo’s hoarse voice telling him to go and—- 

“ — you said that,” another voice pulls him back through the swamp of his mind, but he’s missed something important it seems. Donnie’s moved, standing defensively in front of Mikey, who’s staring at his shaking ruined hands with giant watery eyes.

“I, I didn’t know, I mean… this didn’t happen, for me. I didn’t—” the kid from the future is saying— Casey— and Don lunges for him, grips his shirt in both hands until he has Casey pushed up against the wall. 

April gasps, instantly fluttering over to try and pry Don’s arm back, and Dad calls his name out, sharp. Raph can’t stand, doesn’t try to. Doesn’t say anything at all. 

“You shut the door,” Don growls. “You killed him.” 

April manages to get a handhold and shoves herself between them. Her cheeks shine in the overhead light. “Dee, we all heard what he said.” 

“That doesn’t give him the right!” 

“My son,” Papa interjects, so quietly like all the force has been drained right from him. He’s never heard dad sound so… small. Drained. It cuts through everything, carves Raph right out. It’s real then, Dad would know. He sees the same realization crest over Mikey’s shoulders, and this time he can manage to curl himself around his baby brother before the wreckage surges. 

Donnie rears back, burned. “You should never have let him give up on himself like that, you don’t have the right! He’s mine, he’s my twin, and you took him! You didn’t have the right , you’re not—”

“I am his family,” Casey says, small but defiant. His sharp chin wobbling. “Maybe not like this, maybe not now. But I was.” 

Donnie snarls. April wraps herself around him to keep him from charging. 

“Don’t talk about him like that!” Mikey bursts out. Raph realizes he’s shaking, all over. Enough to knock his shell against Raph’s front with tiny clicks. He chirps half consciously, an instinctive soothing sound, and Mikey scrambles to push himself away. 

“Don’t,” his eyes are wide, frantic as they scour back and forth between everyone. “Don’t say was. It’s not— I can try again. Let me try again.” 

There are two worlds, spinning in fractals farther and farther into nothing. One where it is a great cosmic joke, where Leo is fine and miraculously walks through the door, carried in the arms of a new and familiar stranger who’d given up everything he had for the chance to bring their little blue back to them. Another, where this is it. The gnawing empty howl caught in cold stone walls. 

Where every day is a long, bleak stretch forwards and every breath Raph takes is one his little brother doesn’t have. 

In one timeline, Mikey’s voice breaks into a pulsing howl and Donnie freezes still and quiet and completely guttered. One where Don howls and rages at Raph for trying to make him eat dinner before shoving himself away from everyone and slamming his lab door shut. One where April’s quiet sobs make her fall to her knees, hands over her mouth like she can keep all the noise back in. One where Dad puts a hand on her shoulder, looks at the remainder of his family and crumbles entirely. 

"You promised you'd keep him safe," Donnie says, hasn't said, will say. "You're a liar!"

Raph fails, and fails again, and can never make up for the grievous and inescapable loss of his inability to do the one thing he always swore. He sleeps, and he leaves everything to Mikey like his last in a line of let downs is a gift. A thorny crown to bestow the only one trying between them all. 

In this one, April blames herself in big and small ways for Donnie’s silence even though the thought should never cross her mind. The future kid stops coming around. Don breaks mugs and slams doors and goes so cavernous with the loss of himself he can’t find his way back out enough to speak. The light in dad sputters completely out. 

In this one, there is no happy ending. There’s just them, and all the spaces Raph isn’t strong enough to stopgap until they’re vaults thousand miles deep. 

In another, they get a miracle.

Chapter Text

It should have been one of the first things he asked the kid, along the same thread of ‘what’s your name’ and ‘how do you take your eggs’, but to be fair to Mikey, birthdays were a sort of backburner kind of reminder that they didn’t really celebrate so much as just acknowledge. 

Another rotation around a still burning sun. Another year they’re just surviving in.

Mikey was only updating the calendar in the first place because it helped ease the passage of time a little, to have a few things to look forward to, no matter how small they were. He was the only one who used the ‘Cats in Hats’ calendar in the kitchen anyway, he could fill it with whatever nonsensical coping mechanisms he wanted. 

Like a shipment of a special kind of Karashi that Mikey was currently obsessed with, only sold once every few months at one particular stall in the Hidden City night market that he had to beg, almost on his hands and knees, to hold for him before they completely sold out again. It wouldn’t usually be a big deal, but he’s missed getting it four times now, and he already promised Gio a tossed noodle dish that would knock those secondhand pants clean off the kid. 

It wasn’t much, but Mikey liked having things for Gio to look forward to. A special movie marathon with April here, a pickup errand in the Hidden City there. Something other than the constant, stilted air they had to wade through every waking moment. Mikey was used to the stale lair, frozen in grief-stricken time, but Gio deserved a little reprieve every once in a while. A fresh wind.

And maybe… Mikey liked having something to look forward to, too. 

Said baby brother was currently seated at his usual place of honor, the corner island seat farthest from the door, with an array of little tools and tiny parts spread out in front of him. His crossbow was delicately placed on an oil-stained rag Mikey had liberated from Donnie’s lab a handful of weeks ago, and he was meticulously tinkering with a part he had explained was the ‘arrow retention spring’. 

It’s apparently been giving him a little trouble recently, something about delayed firing mechanisms, which is a phrase that makes all the hair on Mikey’s head stand on end with worry, because it sounds an awful lot like something that could get his kid dead.

Mikey wants to say something about it, but he’s trying so hard not to be bossy or overbearing. Trying so hard to let Gio have as much freedom as he’s used to. And when he goes off to do whatever it is he is wont to do, all Mikey ever asks of him is to be safe, to check in with him every couple of hours if he has the mind to, and to always call if he ever needs help, no matter what. Mikey will always pick up.

Gio never calls, but he always texts when he’s on his way back, and never comes home with anything more than a couple of scrapes and bruises. Mikey doesn’t like him coming home hurt at all, doesn’t like him leaving in the first place, but it’s the most he could ask of Gio, who puts up with shut doors in his face. 

Who puts up with cold shoulders and retreating backs from people who are supposed to love him so loudly it drowns out the worst of New York’s rush hour noise, like he’s ok with living off the scraps of affection Mikey’s able to scrounge up for him anyway. Like he doesn’t know he’s allowed to be greedy for more.

You shouldn’t have to settle, Mikey often thinks, looking at this kid with big round, careful eyes who Leo would have adored. Who would have loved Gio like a force of nature. Leo would have never allowed Gio to stand in front of another slammed door in his face like it’s something he deserves. Like all the love and care and affection that should have been his birthright from the start was something he had to earn. I love you so much. I’m trying to be enough on my own, I really am. I’m sorry I’m not. 

But Mikey bottles up his concerns, because he’s just happy Gio is still willing to put up with him, that he keeps coming back home and hasn’t left forever, even after seeing all of Mikey’s shortcomings, and he keeps them on a shelf in his chest close enough to reach. Just in case. 

Donnie could probably fix the crossbow in half an hour flat, but Mikey doesn’t suggest the help and Gio doesn’t ask for it. They both know how that would go, even if Mikey’s the only one who knows that the reason why isn’t because ‘he doesn’t like you’. 

Besides, in the warm kitchen light, with some faded bluegrass music shuffled into his playlist and some sourdough proofing in the oven, Mikey treasures Gio’s company. He likes hearing the quiet clattering of tools working as the kid tinkers, his even breathing as his hands work methodically and practiced. It’s faint and unobtrusive, but it’s so much better than the usual silence that permeates the halls of their home, and Mikey wants to bask in every second he can of the comfortable quiet.

Thank you for staying, Mikey thinks for the hundredth time in as many seconds. Thank you for wanting to stay.

“Alright, melon pop, got any special plans this week I should put in the calendar?” Mikey pulls away from his thoughts with a cheerful hum from his designated spot across from Gio, leaning against the counter as he circles the next Saturday box in bright red to remember the Karashi pickup.

Mikey’s not expecting an actual answer, he’s just filling the space with easy conversation, but he pauses from sketching out a couple of silly cat doodles in the corner to look up at Gio when he starts shuffling a little. Gio’s mouth ticks a little to wordlessly mouth ‘melon pop’, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the quirky but affectionate nickname, and it warms the embers of the bonfire that used to live inside of Mikey’s chest. 

“Nothing special, no,” Gio says after a moment, leaning in close to his crossbow to inspect something. He tests the trigger once, frowning a little when the something that was supposed to happen didn’t, then as an afterthought, adds, “I’m turning nineteen tomorrow, though, if you wanted to add something to the calendar.”

Mikey puts down the red marker.

Gio’s tongue pokes out a little as he goes back to concentrating on the object in his hands, and Mikey would absolutely coo about it if his brain wasn’t currently crashing in on itself like the world’s worst five-car pile-up. 

“You’re turning—” Mikey pauses, swallows, and then tries to parse through his next words very carefully when Gio seems to catch on to Mikey’s distress and looks up at him with headlight bright eyes. “Georgie, baby, is tomorrow your birthday?”

Mikey keeps his tone featherlight and curious, his body totally relaxed against the counter with an easy smile against his lips, but he feels like he's on the receiving end of a cruel and hurtful joke. The kind that falls ridiculously short because it's at the expense of someone he cares about. 

“Technically… no?” Gio says tentatively, putting his crossbow down but keeping his hands on it. Subtly flexing his fingers against the cool metal, like he could get scolded for fidgeting while he tried to find the right words. “It was just a random date the matron chose when I was younger to keep track, since I didn’t… I’m sorry, did I do something wrong? I can change it if you want, it doesn’t matter to me.”

He says the last part rushed, like he’s trying to cover all his bases. Like he needs to compensate for the missing parts of himself he believes Mikey sees, like him just being here, alive and breathing and sitting at the kitchen counter making sourdough bread bowls with Mikey isn’t enough all on its own. Like he isn’t the most miraculous thing Mikey’s ever known. 

Gio doesn’t ever talk about the time before he walked through a yellow door and stumbled into all of their lives, but Mikey’s picked up enough non answers to cobble together a story about a little kid who had to learn the hard way how to be brave and cautious to keep himself alive during scary moments. 

A little kid who grew up too fast and now doesn’t know how to quite act his age anymore. 

And Mikey doesn't know how to tell him that he’s safe here, that he doesn’t have to track every micro expression in trepidation of some sort of fallout. That there’s nothing in the whole wide world of inconveniences and actions that Gio could do that would ever make Mikey want to give him up again. He doesn’t know how convincing he’s been when it comes to his brothers or his dad, but Mikey’s got his heels dug in for the long run, and he tries to prove it with gentle wake ups and late night dance parties and baked bread. 

I love you. I’ll keep you. I’ll try to be enough. I’m sorry. I love you.

“Oh buddy, no, no, the date’s fine! I was just surprised!” Mikey swoops in immediately, walking around the edge of the kitchen counter so that he’s side by side with his favorite little brother, making sure he keeps his smile bright and warm as those big, dark eyes follow him. “July 14th, a perfect date, couldn’t have picked a better one myself, I just wished I had known sooner! I would have started planning your birthday party weeks ago.”

“I don’t need a birthday party,” Gio says quickly, placatingly, with his usual honest and mild-mannered expression.

He’s always so agreeable, never once being underfoot, always being buoyed along with whatever Mikey does. Mikey wouldn’t think much of it if it didn’t sound a whole lot like ‘you don’t have to celebrate me, I promise I’ll be good otherwise.’ 

Michelangelo- party dude is my middle name -Hamato will absolutely not stand for that kind of blasphemy to pervade his baby brother’s head for a second longer. Not on Mikey’s watch. He’s not going to be another shut door in the kid’s face.  

“You don’t need honey in your lemon and ginger tea either, but boy it sure makes it sweeter going down, huh?” Mikey responds easily, telegraphing all of his movements as he throws an arm around Gio’s shoulders and pulls him in close. “Come on, let me do this for you. I haven’t gone full out on a birthday cake in years, you’d be literally doing me a favor. Please?”

Let me give you something to look forward to, Mikey thinks, sending the thought like a morse coded message against the connecting strings in their chests. Let me show you how much I care. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Gio tries again, but it’s more for show than him actually trying to convince Mikey otherwise, as he relinquishes his hold on his crossbow to lean fully into Mikey’s side hug. “I’m happy just to spend the day with you.”

You spend every day with me already, Mikey thinks fondly, rubbing little circles into Gio’s shoulder with his thumb. Let me make it worth your while this time.

“Well it’s a good thing us Hamatos only ever do things we want to do, then!” Mikey replies cheekily, planting a kiss to the top of Gio’s head with a loud, showy flourish, just to keep up with the daily big brother quota he is sorely backdated on, before walking over to one of the cupboards to start making a mental list of what he has vs what he needs. “And party is a strong word, it can literally just be the two of us on the couch eating frosting straight out of the can and marathoning Lou Jitsu movies, if that’s what you want. But I want you to have options.”

It’s barely nine PM. Pretty early for nocturnal turtle time, but late enough that Mikey will feel a little bad about messaging April with an impromptu emergency grocery list. She’ll understand, because she’s always understood, because his big sister has never been handed a turtle-shaped problem she wasn’t able to gracefully bulldozer her way through. 

She’s not infallible, but she’s the closest anyone has ever gotten, Mikey thinks, so he knows she’ll come through in ways that Mikey is still, endlessly awed and grateful for. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he thanked her, just for genuinely existing. For the solid foundation she helped keep up when Raph put it down, unable to carry it anymore. For still trying, with Donnie, not letting the slammed door in her face for the hundredth time stop her from reaching back out to him. For being someone that stuck in Mikey’s corner, even when everyone else walked away.

For still coming around, even when it hurt. For still loving Mikey, even when it was his fault. 

She’ll laugh him off, saying that he doesn’t need to thank her, that he’s never needed to thank her. That they’re family. That’s just what families do. 

He’ll do it anyway. Because sometimes it’s just nice to hear. 

“We’ll start out small, work our way up,” Mikey continues, one arm deep in one of the cabinets above the stove because he could have sworn he had a few bottles of food dye that were still good somewhere in there. He hasn’t truly baked in awhile, doesn’t have nearly all the ingredients he would have liked to make the kid something special, but Mikey’s a genius in his own right when it comes to things like this. The kitchen is like an extension of himself, an extra limb he knows how to create masterpieces with. At the very least, Gio deserves masterpieces. “What’s your favorite flavor of cake?”

He has all the basics, flour, milk, sugar, eggs. Vanilla and cinnamon are staples he never allows to get low even on the worst of days, so he knows he can make something simple, but this is Gio’s first birthday with them. A birthday that Gio was just about to let pass by unnoticed, faint and unobtrusive. Mikey wants to get this right. He wants this to be something good.

“Um… white?” a quiet voice chirps up. Mikey pauses again, turning his head a little from where he had it buried in one of the drawers looking for his good mixing bowls. 

“White? You mean vanilla?”

Gio shrugs from where he’s seated, not meeting Mikey’s eyes as he starts to rub the dirty rag his crossbow is on between his fingers. “I—yes? I… don’t really know. I’ve never had cake before.”

“Oh, well, that’s fine! Vanilla’s great. It’s Raph’s favorite flavor. I’m more of a chocolate man myself. Love me a good molten lava cake, but vanilla’s a classic,” Mikey rambles, keeping his body language relaxed as he continues his mise en place. Because it’s not the first time Gio’s softly admitted something that’s broken Mikey’s heart, but he knows now that pointing it out just makes Gio extremely self conscious and shut down entirely. And that’s not what Mikey’s here to do, so he keeps his hands and the conversation moving.

And when another favorite cake flavor pops into his head, he only lets it hurt for a few seconds, like pressing on a bruise, before he turns and shows it to a little brother that should have always had that knowledge to begin with.

Talking about Leo shouldn’t be a taboo, for all that it feels like it is some days. And withholding information about him feels wrong to Mikey, like trying to hide how warm the sun is from someone who’s never felt sunshine on their skin before. 

Gio will never get to meet Leo. Mikey can’t decide if that’s for the best or not, but Gio should at least get to know of him, even if it’s in these second hand moments. Even if it’s just through pictures on the wall and videos on their phones and small stories told in warm kitchen lighting.  

“Donnie’s and Leo’s was lemon and blueberry icebox cake, and I’m like, 84% sure that’s only because blueberries are both blue and purple. They always committed to the color scheme much more than Raph and I ever did. Used to make it their whole personalities, didn’t matter if they honestly didn’t like it, or if it was ugly, or silly. If it was blue and purple, they’d get it, and it would be their favorites.”

He catches the kid’s eyes from across the counter, holds it like the precious thing it is, and gives a soft smile. It’s a little sad, a little broken, but it’s genuine, and maybe that might just be enough for right now. 

“Icebox cake is a little ambitious for a first time. Same with lava cake, but vanilla’s easy, especially on our time crunch. That okay with you?”

Gio nods easily, and Mikey takes it as a win, even if he’s pretty sure Gio would never actually say no to him. It’s something he’s trying to work on with the kid, but that’s an issue to tackle for another day, because Mikey only wants to think about planning a birthday party for his favorite little brother. 

“Alright, that’s the cake figured out. What else… oh! We still have leftover sourdough bread, we could make breakfast pizza muffins in the morning, or maybe personal pizzas for a special birthday lunch, unless you wanted to go out somewhere…” Mikey hums to himself, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “What do you think, kiddo? What do you usually do for your birthdays?”

Gio shrugs again, and goes back to looking down at his crossbow, picking up a spare piece of wiring and twisting it in his hands. “Whatever you think is fine.” He says simply. 

Mikey doesn’t mind the uninvolved answer, doesn’t mind being handed the reins on something like this, but he wants to be sure. He wants Gio to get to have a say in the matter, to get used to having an opinion that matters to someone, no matter how small. 

“You sure? I’m willing to do just about anything, short of like, arson,” Mikey says, then pauses, and thinks about it for a moment, and then shrugs. “Actually, since it’s you, and if we’re safe about it, then I’m totally willing to commit arson. Whatever you want to do, whatever you want, birthday boy, and it’s yours.”

He’s trying to be cheeky, trying for a little lighthearted joke to make Gio crack one of his rare but blindingly sweet side smiles, but it falls somewhere off to the side in the distance between them. Mikey watches as the spots above Gio’s eyes twitch a bit, like he’s trying to work up the nerve to say something and doesn’t quite know how to get it past his teeth. 

Mikey waits patiently for him, busying himself with getting the step stool out so he could reach the sugar that he, for whatever reason, stashed out of his own immediate reach. He knows it was probably for good intention, but he doesn’t remember what that was, so he just finds it more of a hassle now. 

“I’ve never…” Gio starts and Mikey notices his jaw tensing, hands now dipped under the counter and out of view. It happens, sometimes, where Mikey will ask what he thinks is a simple question, only for Gio to go rigid and taut like this. Anxiety pouring out in tidal waves as he tries to figure out an acceptable answer. 

Most times, Mikey will catch on and reword his question into something with a yes or no answer to it, something Gio only has to nod or shake his head to. But this time he waits, and lets Gio work through his nerves, because he’s safe here, there isn’t a timer, there's no perfect answer as long as it’s a genuine one. 

Mikey will wait in this kitchen for however long it takes. 

“I’ve never celebrated my birthday before,” Gio admits, a forced calmness to his demeanor as he keeps his eyes trained on his crossbow, not daring to look up. “So I don’t… I don’t really know what to do , for a party, I mean. Sorry.”

Oh.

Oh.

Cool. Cool cool, so Mikey is totally not going to cry into the flour, that's absolutely not what he’s about to do right now.

Mikey takes a deep, quiet breath, lets it out slowly and measured, like he’s gearing up for one of the harder, full body katas that used to leave him winded when he was a little kid, and softly taps the counter with a measuring cup to get Gio’s attention.

Gio is turning nineteen tomorrow. Mikey doesn’t think behind the implications of never having celebrated a birthday before. Of going eighteen years without cake, or gifts, or someone saying ‘Happy Birthday. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you were born.’ He resolutely doesn’t think about it. 

Instead, he waits for Gio to look up at him with those wonderful, moon-like brown eyes of his, and smiles. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you have me here! I happen to be a party planning expert. We’ll make sure your first one is one you’ll never forget!”

I love you. I want you to stay. I’m so happy you were born. I love you.

“Can I help?” Gio asks, because of course he does. Because he’s a sweetheart, always happy to be buoyed along with whatever Mikey does. Always looking for ways to be useful. He looks up at Mikey with big puppy-dog eyes, like he has to try hard to convince Mikey to let him stay, like he’s worried about being left out of his own birthday party.

And he has no idea where Gio learned to do that, but Mikey, who spent twenty-five years as the spoiled baby of the family, is quickly finding out that he apparently is not immune to pleading little brothers, actually, good to know, and it startles a surprised laugh out of him.

Mikey loves Gio like a force of nature. Like something to be reckoned with. Like Leo would have.

“Of course you can! Why don’t you clean up and move your equipment out of the way so we don’t get cake batter on it, and I’ll put you on mixing duty!”

Gio immediately goes to clean up, putting all his spare parts in the oil stained rag before rushing off with his crossbow, probably to go stash it out of the way in his train car. Mikey allows himself to be charmed by his eagerness for all of two seconds, before pulling out his phone and facetiming his big sister. She answers on the 4th ring. 

“April, hey, really quick, Georgie will be back any second and we have an emergency. How soon can you help me grab, like, every type of frosting available?”

In the few minutes it had taken for Gio to put his things away and wash up, Mikey had, like a maniac, word-vomited his worries about giving Gio the best first birthday party ever to his big sister, barely taking a breath as he tried to give April the shorthand of the situation. April, like the actual blessing she is, hardly even blinks as she nods along, immediately jumping on board his sinking cruise ship like she has always had a ticket to his particular brand of insane. 

They had gotten a solid game plan figured out by the time Gio had came back, so Mikey set him up at the counter spot beside him, rolling out the leftover bread dough for their pizza muffins in the morning while him and April asked about a million questions on what the kid wanted for his Super Sweet Nineteen Birthday Party™.

It turned out to just be a lot of ‘I don’t know’s and ‘whatever you think is best’s, but that didn’t surprise Mikey, nor deter April, as they offered suggestions that Gio readily agreed to. 

Mikey was just about to finish giving April the laundry list of baking supplies he needed, because halfway through he decided that vanilla, while great, wasn’t gonna cut it for a first birthday experience, when Casey Junior piped up from somewhere off camera. 

It shouldn’t have surprised Mikey that he was there. He knows April and Casey have dinners together every other Tuesday, catching up about their lives and jobs since their schedules rarely ever match up. Mikey would recognize the dark, backlit booth of April’s favorite little mom-and-pop Korean restaurant in the Facetime screen anywhere, but what surprises him is how he, almost, doesn’t recognize Junior’s voice. 

And he's sort of kinda floored by what Junior asks.

“Hey Mike, is it okay if I come too? To help out?”

Casey hasn’t visited the lair in years, due to a fight he and Donnie had that had Casey crashing through the turnstiles for the last time. 

After Leo’s… after Leo, the two had butted heads more often than not, getting into petty (Donnie) and defensive (Casey) arguments over nothing, and Mikey had foolishly thought that that was just how they were processing their grief. Letting off steam the only way they knew how, through barbed wired sentences and explosive words like hand grenades. 

Mikey used to take it upon himself to make sure they were never left alone together, out of some childlike fear that as long as he was able to see a car crash in motion, he’d be able to put his hands up in a desperate attempt to stop it. 

But maybe it wasn't so childlike after all, because the one time he wasn't there was the day Casey left and never came back. 

Mikey, to this day, doesn’t know what their fight was about. He had only been gone for a few hours, spending an afternoon with April in her new apartment under the excuse of helping her pick out an outfit for her new journalism job. Mikey knew it was just a ploy to get him out of the lair for some fresh air, and even though it still hurt to try and do normal activities and not being able to put on his usual cheerful enthusiasm, he was, actually, ridiculously proud of his big sister. 

He knew she worked hard to get her degree and worked even harder to be recognized as more than just a intern running coffee orders, so even though it was probably seventy shades dimmer than what it should have been, he still smiled genuinely when she told him the news of getting an actual desk on the upper floor as Channel 6’s newest investigative reporter. 

(Mikey helped her choose a very smart blue dress for her first day. It was slimming and form fitting, and had a thin, yellow stripe that haloed the bottom. Neither of them vocalised the color significance, but April gave him an extra tight hug on his way out that spoke volumes anyway.)

When Mikey finally made it back home an hour later than he said he would and a whole lot lighter in the chest, it took all of four seconds for him to sense that something was off. It only took a couple more seconds to track down his oldest brother and get the story secondhand from him.

Raph didn’t go into details, still protecting Mikey like he was still some dumb, thirteen year old kid that was fragile and needed to be handled with care, and not pushing the older side of nineteen, but Mikey was able to pick through the wreckage and scrap metal left behind anyway to figure it out for himself.

He doesn’t know what Casey could have possibly ever done or said to make Donnie as angry as he was, but in his bitter and painful grief, Mikey’s big brother had lashed out and said something he couldn’t take back.

And he’s said mean things before, some really awful stuff that sometimes even Mikey had had to take a step back from in shock and hurt. But anyone who knows Donnie knows that Donnie isn’t being mean just for the sake of it. He just… doesn’t know how to be a person anymore. Not a whole one, at least. The other half of him that kept him functioning past the basics of breathing and blinking locked himself behind a door that none of them, not even Mikey, no matter how hard he tried and how far he was willing to hurt himself to get to, could open again. 

They all wear their own griefs like heavy jackets, and try to weather each other’s as best they can. Mikey always thought Casey knew how to endure Donnie’s bereavement better than anyone. 

Whatever was said though destroyed the lynchpin that was keeping the peace between the two intact, and as far as Mikey knows, it was the last time the two spoke to each other. It was certainly the last time Casey had been in the lair. 

But here he was, squeezing into April’s side of the booth so that she could hold the phone out to show them both, asking in a tentative but hopeful voice if he could come over, despite everything, just to celebrate Mikey’s little brother who he hasn’t even met yet. 

They’re not family in the way that they probably would have been, should have been, under different circumstances, but it’s not like Mikey hasn’t talked to the guy or seen him over the years. Mikey likes Casey, and in a different reality, he feels like they could have even been brothers. 

But in this reality, there was a disconnect between them, uneven ground that Mikey, even with the occasional phone call every other month and swapped crockpot recipes, had a hard time trying to stand up straight on. 

And he’s so used to being adrift, trying to keep what’s left of his family's little boat afloat, that it kind of catches him off guard when someone else puts in the effort first and throws him a lifeline to tether himself to. Even if it’s just a small buoy to keep himself from sinking, to keep his head above water. 

“Oh,” Mikey says, like an absolute idiot, but he’ll make up for it in a second when he’s done being charmed and warmed all the way down to his bones by the offer. Casey must take his surprised silence as something other than gratefulness though, because he immediately starts to backtrack.

“I mean, only if it’s ok, of course! I just—I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about it, and I remember how special birthdays were, when I was a kid. And I haven’t actually gotten a chance to meet Giorgio yet, but I thought, if it’s alright, that I could help. I’d like to help. ”

It’s an olive branch in the form of plastic party supplies and helium balloons. And Mikey wasn’t the one that needed any convincing, but he’d honestly fistfight either of his brothers if they kicked up any sort of fuss about it, because Gio needed more people in his corner. The kid deserved to have as many people wanting to celebrate him as he could tolerate. 

And if that meant uninviting certain geniuses if they couldn’t play nice with others, then so be it. 

“Hey Gogo,” Mikey calls to Gio, turning his head to look at Gio, who was kindly pretending like he hadn’t been listening in on their conversation the entire time. Mikey notices a bit of flour smudged on his cheek when he looks up, another little white spot on his already speckled face, and Mikey feels those embers in his chest burst with warmth like a solar sun spot. “I know you haven’t met him, but would it be ok if Casey joined us for your birthday party too? He’s an old family friend.”

Gio blinks wide eyes at him, hands stilling in the dough he’s rolling out for only a second before he nods with a shy, “Oh, yeah, of course. He can come if he wants to.” 

“I definitely want to.” Casey pipes up from the other end of the call before Mikey can say anything, and there’s something about the way he says it that seems very familiar to Mikey. A second hand kind of ‘just because’ kindness that Mikey can spot anywhere as something Casey must have learned from an older version of a brother that got to live past the age of sixteen.  

“Then we’ll gladly have you,” Mikey says with a genuine, albeit, maybe a little forced cheerfulness, before those kinds of thoughts can permeate in his skull any longer. “Party starts as soon as you guys get off work. April, I’ll text you a more concise grocery list when I’m no longer elbow deep in cake batter.”

“Try not to have too much fun without us until we get there,” April smiled, moving the camera until it’s fully back on herself before she blew a kiss at the camera and said her goodbyes. Mikey quickly hangs up the phone and starts to put his game face on.

For one day, at least for just a couple of hours, he doesn’t want to think about the grief shaped elephant that lives in every room of the lair. Because this is Gio’s day. He’s worth shelving all the sorrow and heartbreak for, so that he could feel loved and appreciated and just be celebrated . 

Mikey’s got about a dozen half shaped plans all jumbling together in his head, about cake flavors and decorations and party hats and presents, but his main priority for tomorrow, above all else, is to make sure Gio knows and understands just how precious he is to Mikey. How thankful Mikey is that he was born. That he fought so hard and survived so much and kept going long enough for Mikey to find him and meet him and bring him home. 

That everyday is an honor, and a privilege, just to know him. To see him and talk to him and share this warm kitchen lighting with him. 

“Hey, Mikey, you got some flour on you,” Gio pulls him from his thoughts just long enough to brush Mikey’s shoulder with one of his knuckles to try to clear a thumbprint sized patch of flour away. Except, instead of cleaning it off, he only adds more dust to the now growing spot. He’s barely moved from the counter space Mikey put him at, but in the few seconds Mikey wasn’t paying attention, he somehow covered himself with even more flour, looking more white than green as he made an absolute mess of Mikey’s shoulder. It charms Mikey endlessly. 

“Are you trying to start a food fight with me, Georgie?” he jokes, a bright smile stretched against his face as he grabs and wets a washcloth from the oven rack and goes to wipe some of the excess flour off Gio’s hands. 

There’s a streak of flour against Gio’s forehead, connecting two of his white dots to form a surprised looking unibrow when the kid honestly replies with an earnest, “Absolutely not,” that makes Mikey laugh so hard, he accidentally smacks the counter top in his effort to keep himself upright, and sends up a plume of flour that ends up covering them both in a thin dusting. 

Mikey hasn’t laughed that hard in a long time, and by the time they finish baking the first batch of vanilla cupcakes and wipe themselves down, he has a stomach cramp he needs to stretch out or else he’s going to be uncomfortable for the rest of the night. But the dull ache is worth it, because when Gio had to leave a little later on that afternoon to go finish up a job so he could have the day off for his birthday, he left with the echoes of a grin still plastered on his face, and it felt like a personal win that Mikey was going to ride the high of for the rest of the day. 

He loves this shy, sweet, silly kid so much. He has enough love for him to power the entire East Coast, and he’s going to do whatever it is he has to to make sure Gio feels it tomorrow. 

Of course, Raph and Donnie, and dad are all invited, but when Mikey goes to tell dad about the impromptu birthday party after Gio leaves, the older rat does little more than grunt in acknowledgement from his spot on his mattress. (Mikey expects it, even if he does leave a bit disappointed by it.)

He finds Raph easily in the dojo, following the sounds of evenly paced thuds. He’s in the middle of a workout when Mikey walks in and leans against a rack of dumbbells so that he could explain the situation. He keeps it short and to the point, because he isn’t entirely sure that Raph can hear him (or is really even listening to him) over the sounds of his fists hitting the suspended punching bags. But he nods anyway when Mikey asks if he’ll be joining, and Mikey accepts it for the overture it is, and makes a quick escape so as not to overstay his welcome just in case Raph changes his mind. 

Donnie doesn’t open the door.

Mikey knocks loud enough to be heard through the reinforced plating and metal. He calls out to his big brother about the party, tries to wave up at him through the ‘secret’ camera outside the lab door he’s known about since he was twelve, but the door stays firmly shut in front of him. Not a word from Donnie from the otherside. 

Which is… you know what? Fine. Whatever. Mikey was only inviting him to be polite. He doesn’t need any Negative Nancys at his baby brother’s birthday party anyway.

Usually Mikey would be a lot more forgiving about Donnie’s blatant avoidance. He gets it, he really does. He understands, on an intimate level, why some days (or all days, in Donnie’s case) are an impossible challenge to get through. Mikey has never once blamed Donnie for his behavior, even when it chases friends out of their lives. Even when it keeps them all an arm's length away, behind a locked door that was slammed shut in their faces. 

He’s not picking sides, that’s absolutely not what he’s doing, because that implies that there would be a winner to this stalemate they’re all held captive in, but he’s putting Gio’s needs first. He has a feeling no one has ever done that before, and Mikey actively refuses, with a resolve that feels as steadfast and immovable as a mountain, burns as fierce and protective as a dying star, to be another person that lets Gio down. 

Gio deserves someone in his corner. He deserves to have someone that would defend him and fight for him and go down kicking and screaming for him. Mikey’s pretty sure he’d easily level cities for him. 

And… And after the fight he had with Raph and Donnie a couple of weeks ago, that left a Raph sized fist in the wall and Gio rushing towards the nearest exit like he was in danger, Mikey isn’t exactly keen to have his brothers around Gio too much anyway. 

So maybe it’s for the best if, for at least this party, they kept it small and warm and wonderful. Just enough excitement so that it has Gio reeling in fuzzy soft feelings and not from a silent anxiety attack he tends to get when he gets too overwhelmed or nervous.

Mikey spends the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening coordinating with April on decorations and gift ideas. Gio comes home in time for a late dinner of cheesy potato soup in the sourdough bread bowls they baked earlier, and assures Mikey that the hand-sized bruise on his upper bicep was just ‘an accident’ and ‘doesn’t even hurt’ and was caused by Gio not paying attention to where he was walking. 

(Mikey doesn’t know Gio to be clumsy, ever. If anything, the kid is almost too perceptive of his surroundings, but Mikey will let go of his worry just this once. It already looks to be fading by the time Mikey shoos him off to bed for some rest before his big day.)

Mikey then stays up the entire rest of the night stress baking as many things as he could (with the ingredients that April, at the last minute, DoorDashed him at the nearest sewer entrance) opting for various amounts of cupcakes instead of just one cake, so that Gio could try an assortment of different flavors and figure out his favorite for next year.

One late night won’t kill him, for all that Mikey tries to preach healthy sleeping habits to anyone that will stick around long enough to listen to him, and he wants this to be good. Mikey is trying to make up for eighteen years worth of missed birthdays and all the trillion of ‘I love you’s’ that should have been said in the in between. He doesn't think he’s come even close, but the kitchen looking and smelling like a small bakery is as good a start as any.  

By the time he finished pulling the last batch of lemon poppy seed out of the oven and putting them onto a cooling rack to frost later, April and Casey were pulling back the kitchen curtains, two hours earlier than expected and with multiple reusable bags on each arm.

Casey’s taller than Mikey remembers, his usual long hair cut to a boyish length that curled just under his ears. Mikey waffles for all of ten seconds before he decides, screw it , and goes in for a hug that he has to stand on the tips of his toes to fully throw his arms around the older boy's shoulders. 

He feels Casey freeze under him, arms still outstretched and burdened with bags of party supplies, and Mikey has a split second where he thinks he might have gone too fast too soon. It’s been almost a year since he last saw Casey, even longer than that since he’s given him an actual hug. Mikey… maybe should have probably thought this one through, just a little bit.

But Casey’s built of the same stuff April is. The same kind of infallible insulation that makes all her hugs feel like home, no matter where they are or how long it’s been.

And Casey, an apocalyptic soldier to his core, despite being twenty-six now and having his own apartment in downtown Queens and working full time as a state-certified EMT, falls in line almost immediately. 

“Hey, Mikey,” Casey says softly, melting into the hug as he wraps his arms, bags and all, around Mikey's shell and squeezes tight. “Missed you.”

“Missed you more,” Mikey replies back automatically, all little brother-shaped and insufferable even if he’s not the youngest anymore, squeezing Casey just as tight. 

“Doubt it,” Casey mutters into Mikey’s braid, but it’s all warm and gooey and full of something maybe even a little bittersweet that Mikey’s too afraid to poke at, so he lets it go without a challenge.

He gives Casey one last squeeze, and then whirls around and gives April her designated Mikey classic, on the house, which she takes gladly and unflinchingly. Laughing into his hair when he spins her around and gives her the millions of thank yous she’s so desperately owed.

She’s shorter than him now. It’s one of the few proofs they have of the passing of time in the lair that seems perpetually stuck in the past, but she’ll always seem bigger than life to him. She’ll always be Mikey’s big sister. 

After today, he’s hoping Gio will look at her the same way. That he’ll look at them both as another couple of people willing and ready and wanting to be in his corner. 

They then get to work setting up all the decorations and party supplies, blowing up balloons and putting the finishing touches on all the different cupcakes. Mikey eventually slinks off while April and Casey quietly debate on the best place in the kitchen to hang up a banner to quickly put together Gio’s homemade birthday gifts. 

It takes him close to a half hour to make, but by the time he’s finished, he’s properly pleased with his gifts. It’s only once everything is in place and the whole lair is smelling like sweets and cut up fruits and breakfast pizza muffins, that Mikey decides it’s time to go wake up and corral a certain birthday boy out of bed. 

Gio’s train car often leaves, well, everything to be desired, in all honesty. It’s one of the many things on Mikey’s list about Gio that he worries about and doesn’t quite know how to bring up. Gio’s been here for months now, over half a year, and yet it still looks as empty as the day he and Raph first cleared it out for him. Unlived-in and untouched, faint and obtrusive, with all his belongings kept in a pack he keeps zipped up for easy access underneath the bed he rarely sleeps in.

Even now, as Mikey slowly enters in through the cracked train doors, he finds Gio asleep against the tiny desk April liberated for them from a flea market, head buried in his folded arms. Crossbow parts and little tools all spread out around him like a halo.

He notices the faint bruise on Gio’s arm and wonders if maybe he should talk to Donnie about fixing Gio’s crossbow, just in case. But then he remembers the locked door in his face from earlier and decides to put the idea on the backburner for now. He’ll bother Donnie about it later, kick down that stupid lab door if he has to to make sure Gio doesn’t come home with any more bruises or scrapes, but he doesn’t want to think about that right now.

All he wants to think about is softly humming the happy birthday song until his little brother is gently coaxed awake, and celebrate Gio like he deserves to be celebrated. With presents and sweet treats and friendly, smiling faces and as many warm hugs and I love you ’s as Mikey can foist on him.

“Good morning, sweet kid,” Mikey hums kindly when Gio starts to stir, blinking bright and endlessly warm brown eyes up at him. “And happy birthday! I got a surprise waiting for you in the kitchen. Take your time, but fair warning, I left April in clear striking distance of about half a dozen strawberry shortcake flavored cupcakes and I can’t promise that they won't all be gone by the time we get back.”

He’s half joking, because obviously April will leave at least one for Gio to try, but Gio is stretching and rolling his shoulders anyway, always quick to wake up and be as alert as someone on their third cup of coffee. Mikey tries not to think too hard about why or how he learned to do that, because it certainly wasn’t an inherited trait from the rest of them. (They were not morning turtles.)

“Morning, Mikey,” Gio replies back, getting up from his chair and folding his arms across his plastron, rubbing his arms absentmindedly when he adds, “It’s ok if she eats them all. She’s been working hard on that drug trafficking report down by Marina 59, right? And you said yesterday that her favorite was strawberry shortcake.” 

Mikey is surprised he remembers that. Mikey barely remembers that. It had been something she had complained about in passing the last time she had delivered groceries almost two weeks ago. A throwaway line she gave when Mikey had asked her how her week was going, before she had to hurry back out to the office to meet a deadline. 

But, then again, it really shouldn’t surprise Mikey that Gio remembers that. He soaks up everything about them like a sponge, affection and disregard and unimportant comments thrown out here and there alike. Collecting whatever shred of attention falls at his feet and picking it up to carry gently in his hands, like it’s a precious and fragile and rare thing. 

It warms Mikey all the way down, to his cellular structure and the little pieces of comet fire and bonfire smoke that makes up Mikey’s soul, though, when he shows what he’s collected in quiet moments like this. 

He’s so kind, one of the sweetest kids Mikey’s ever met, despite everything bad that’s ever happened to him. And Mikey knows that there’s plenty of bad, sees it in every flinch of a door slammed just a little too hard and the scared, bright eyes when he’s woken up too fast, and the way he makes himself just a little bit smaller whenever he walks into an unfamiliar room. It’s shaped him to be the cautious, guarded person that he is, but he never let it stop him from being kind. He never let it stop him from still wanting to trust people. 

“See, and this is why she says you’re her favorite,” Mikey grins, and then when he doesn’t see any nearby clothing he could use to bundle up the obviously chilled little turtle in front of him, pulls off his own hoodie he was wearing to toss it over Gio’s head. Mikey ignores the initial surprised chirp as he manhandles it around Gio’s shell, tugging at it until his arms are pulled through their respective sleeves and dragging it down till he can see Gio’s confused expression blinking wide, moon-like eyes at him. 

“Consider it a first gift,” Mikey reasons before Gio can even try to retort and say something ridiculous, like he ‘didn’t need it’, or it ‘wasn’t even that cold’. 

He realizes a little too late that it’s a sweater he borrowed from Leo years ago, a dark blue, almost black hoodie, with frayed sleeves and missing its drawstring from one too many times in the washing machine. 

Mikey doesn’t even remember putting it on this morning, and he’s momentarily stung with a brief, heart wrenching pain of parting with it so easily, but he doesn’t ask for it back. Somehow, it feels right, giving it to Gio. Passing on this little piece of their brother that Gio should have always had a birthright to. 

Leo would have wanted you to have it, Mikey thinks, and tries not to let the ‘missing you’ pain of thinking about Leo dull his smile for even a second. Sharing hoodies is a little brother rite of passage, after all, and Raph isn’t the only big brother that Gio has. Leo would have loved to have shared it with you.

“Thank you,” Gio says quietly, almost shyly, a kid who would forever remember his manners, even at the end of the world. Mikey can’t get his hands on him fast enough.

“You’re very welcome, Clementine, but don’t thank me yet. There’s a lot more where that came from,” Mikey sings, slinging an arm around his little brother’s shoulders and toting him along out of the train car and towards the warm and noisy kitchen. “April might not leave us any shortcake, but those breakfast muffins aren’t gonna eat themselves, and there’s a whole fruit platter with your name written all over it.”

Mikey warned them not to jump out and scream Happy Birthday at the kid as soon as they walked in, because a surprise party seemed more like a year two kind of celebration, and not one that he thought Gio would really appreciate first thing in the morning (especially with how jumpy he normally is, and with Junior still technically being a stranger, Mikey didn’t want to take any chances). So when Mikey and Gio rounded the corner, April and Casey were standing by the side, wearing big, goofy smiles on their faces and silly, decorative party hats on their heads as they waved them down with very visible restraint on their parts.

Mikey didn’t think Gio’s already big eyes could get any wider, but sure enough they blew up to the size of saucers as he took in the large spread of food on the table and balloons on the ceiling and the couple of wrapped gifts on the counter.

He even cracks a sort of crooked, half smile at the crummy ‘ CONGRATS, IT’S A GIRL GIO!!! ’ banner they had to quickly edit, because apparently Party City was actively working against April, and all three stores she visited were the ‘root of all evil ’ and ‘out to get her personally’.

After the initial birthday wishes are given and the small meet and greet is had, they spend the majority of the next couple of hours taste testing the different cupcake flavors and taking bets on which flavor Gio would enjoy best. They’re all pretty cupcaked out after the first few rounds, but they surprisingly discover, to Mikey’s utter and complete delight, that Gio has a sweet tooth approximately the size of lower Manhattan.  

(He ends up having to cut him off after his eleventh cupcake by distracting him with a pizza muffin and a couple of slices of oranges and watermelon, just to get some variety in his diet. As much as Mikey would love to spoil him absolutely rotten and let him eat as many sweets as he wants, he’s worried that maybe too much of something in a short amount of time will only make Gio sick. And those are not the vibes Mikey is aiming for Gio’s first ever birthday celebration.)

(His favorite ends up being the red velvet though, which was April’s second guess. Mikey had his money on the banana pudding.)

Once a severe amount of food is properly consumed, they all gather around the counter to watch Gio open his gifts. He’s tentative, at first, Mikey can read the telegraphed nervous energy radiating off of him when Casey pushes a couple of wrapped boxes in front of him. It’s only when he looks up at Mikey and Mikey gives a little encouraging nod back that he carefully pulls apart the colorful paper, like he doesn’t realize it's something that’s allowed to be ripped. None of them correct him though, every one of them content to let him go at his own pace as he opens his very first birthday gifts ever. Mikey occupies the time by taking about a billion photos.

Casey got him an old iPod with some of the most influential songs of this universe, to help integrate him better, and a pair of bright white headphones. April got him an archery bowstring tool kit and a jar of unscented lotion for the calluses on his hands. Gio made no outward expression of gratitude that anyone who wasn't Mikey and studying to get a PhD in Giology could read, but Mikey could see the wet sheen of his big eyes and the slight tremble in his hands as he took in every gift carefully and thanked them with a genuine and sweet tone that had them all beaming like a ten-thousand megawatt bulb.

Mikey makes sure that his gifts were last, pushing a small paper bag filled with polka dotted tissue paper for Gio to open next, when unexpectedly Donnie walks into the kitchen.

He physically recoils at the sight of them all, like he didn’t know that they were having a gathering here, like he actually hadn’t been listening to Mikey explain the day before that they he was throwing a birthday party for Gio, and Mikey feels the temperature in the kitchen drop several degrees as they all stop what they’re doing to stare at one another. No one daring to make a move, just in case it was the wrong one to make.

Donnie has a pointed glare in his eyebrows that, to be fair to him, he isn’t actually pointing at anyone in particular, but it dances on Mikey’s nerves and puts him on immediate edge and— god, if he tries any shit right now, on today of all days, Mikey might actually put Casey’s EMT training to good use. 

Everything had been going so well. Mikey doesn’t remember the last time the kitchen had been so full and filled with laughter, and Gio had been having fun. The kind of fun that left him a little breathless, letting April leave little red lipstick kisses on his cheeks and allowing Casey to smear vanilla frosting on his nose. The kind of fun that made him smile that crooked, soft smile of his whenever Mikey made eye contact with him, like he was letting Mikey in on a little wonderful secret, and it kind of made fireworks go off in Mikey’s chest with affection. 

For the first time since Leo died, there was an echo of warmth and joy in their home that Mikey didn’t think he’d ever get the chance to experience again. He didn’t want that to go away. Mikey would do anything to let that happy little echo stay.

Donnie’s glare eventually comes to pick a mark as it locks onto Casey. Casey doesn't match his heated, angry glare, but his eyes are hard and cold as he makes eye contact with the softshell and keeps it. 

And suddenly Mikey feels nineteen all over again, watching an impending car crash in motion and having no idea how to stop it without throwing himself bodily in the middle of it. 

But before Mikey could get a foothold in whatever trainwreck was about to occur, it’s Gio who pipes up, grabbing one of the trays that still has a few cupcakes on it and holding it out to Donnie like he's handling precious goods. 

“Morning, Donatello. Would you like some cupcakes? Mikey made plenty.”

Gio says it with such an amazingly calm poker face, like he isn't talking to a living and breathing bomb that's been known to go off and spread shrapnel everywhere. Like he isn't talking to the brother that has slammed the door in his face more times then the amount of words he's actually spoken to the kid. 

There’s a frosted vanilla and blueberry one on the corner of the tray closest to Donnie. Mikey doesn’t know if Gio did that on purpose or not, but he holds his breath anyway and waits to see how this turns out. 

He wants to believe that his big brother is still in there. That the overly dramatic and theatrically loud older brother, who used to kick down their doors and demand their immediate attention as he showed off a new clever invention he made or a revolutionary idea he had to make all their lives better, is still somewhere within reach. 

That the Donatello that used to methodically place glow-in-the-dark stickers on Mikey’s bedroom ceiling, and that patiently taught Raph how to read and do long division, and that would stay up late listening to endless amounts of Taylor Swift and learning TikTok dances just so Leo didn’t have to deal with the worst of his insomnia alone, is just waiting for a gentle hand to reach out and guide him out of the dark hole he buried himself in. 

Mikey doesn't blame Donnie for how he's been handling his grief. Every day Donnie wakes up is another Hail Mary miracle at work, and he should be thankful Donnie is even still around to begin with. He knows Donnie isn't being mean just to be an asshole, he just locked up his heart behind tungsten and steel and diamond-plated walls. Because the mentality there is that if Donnie’s heart, the heart the taught Mikey the stories behind constellations and always waited to turn the page of the comic he and Raph were sharing until Raph was finished reading too and never once complained about Leo climbing into bed with him and getting him in trouble when dad caught them up well past their bedtime, doesn't beat, then it wouldn’t ever break. 

If he pushes everyone away first then he won't get hurt again. And Mikey, for ten long years, has tried to be so, so understanding of this.

But it’s Gio’s birthday, and his kind, shy little brother, who has never asked for anything, who puts up with every one of his big brother’s failings and still looks up to them like they hung the moon and stars, is holding out a peace offering in white-knuckled and trembling hands.

And Mikey thinks it’s okay to be understanding, but maybe, for Gio’s sake, he should stop being so forgiving.

Donnie’s eyes jump to Gio’s really quick, he briefly notices the crooked paper birthday hat he's wearing that Mikey’s taken about a million pictures of already (and put as his phone’s screensaver), before his eyes trail down to take in the hoodie Gio’s wearing, and Mikey is prepared to jump him any second. If he says one mean thing, if he tries to take away one good thing from Gio that Mikey freely and gladly gave to him, he will push Donnie out through the kitchen doorway that he's never once denied his brothers access to, and— and —he doesn’t know what he’ll do, honestly, but he’ll figure it out really quick.  

But Donnie just quietly huffs and turns away all on his own, walking out of the kitchen almost as quickly as he entered.

It’s like someone popped a balloon as soon as he was out of eye sight, slowly letting the air deflate as Mikey relaxes his tense shoulders, glad even though something in him shrinks a little at the idea that he was so prepared to fight his big brother. 

Casey, who had been pretty mellow and awesome the entire time he's been down here, scoffs under his breath and starts to walk after him though, chasing him down with a firm, "Donnie wait—" before he's out of the kitchen too before anyone could stop him. 

There's words exchanged down the hall, but they're muted and distant the farther away the other two become, and then the familiar bang of a lab door being shut seems to jolt the rest of them out of their frigid trance. 

It’s April who moves first, walking over to smooth a thumb over Gio’s cheek really fast when she says, "Don’t worry about them, baby, they’re just being a little dumb at the moment. I'm just gonna go make sure Case doesn't try to beat Dee over the head with his own lab door, really quick. Gimme a few minutes, okay?" And then she's hurrying down the hall after them, leaving only Gio and Mikey behind. 

Gio, who’s still holding out the tray of cupcakes, lowers them back onto the counter softly, and says, "Sorry," in a quiet voice that immediately has Mikey paying very close attention, because it sounds like he's apologizing for a hundred other things that Mikey is a hundred percent positive are not his fault. "I know this party meant a lot to you." 

It has Mikey moving instantly, scrambling over to, while telegraphing all his moves, squeeze Gio in a tight, full-bodied hug. "Sweet kid, you never have to apologize to me about literally anything ever, but especially not about anything that isn't your fault and that you have no control over. Donnie is just—and Casey..." 

Mikey doesn't know how to explain that whole situation without it sounding like an excuse, and Mikey’s kinda actually sort of definitely pissed at them at the moment and doesn't really want to try and defend them or their actions, so he instead continues with a, "And it’s you that means a lot to me. The party was just a prop, but it’s you that I care about." 

And because now seems like as good a time as any, and because Mikey desperately wants to distract from the World War 3 happening in the hallway and can already see the gears of doubt start to grind together in that silly spotted head, he pulls away from Gio just long enough to grab his little paper bag and push it into Gio’s hands. 

“This one’s from me,” Mikey explains as Gio takes it, and is pleased and proud when Gio barely hesitates in opening it, gently pulling out and folding the polka-dotted tissue paper and placing it on the table before he reaches into the bag. 

His first gift is a thin but carefully braided and beaded bracelet with Gio’s full name woven into it. Mikey hasn't made friendship bracelets in years, so he was surprised by how his fingers automatically remembered the familiar motions, weaving together colorful cords and the occasional bead like it was second nature. 

Gio carefully picks it up like it’s a priceless treasure, rubbing his fingers against it before he carefully slips it onto his wrist, a splash of color against all the whites and grays.

“Thank you,” Gio says softly, turning it around on his wrist and taking in the different angles in the kitchen lighting. “It’s really nice.”

“I can show you how to make them, if you want,” Mikey says, maybe a little embarrassed by the outright honest admission that his younger brother likes it. “But there’s one more gift in there that I think you’ll like.”

Gio takes another second to admire his wrist before he reaches back into the bag and pulls out his final gift.

“I realized a little while ago, but we don’t have any of your pictures up on the wall in the hallway, which is, like, the biggest travesty, because I have a million of them,” Mikey explains, as Gio pulls out a couple of picture frames, each one holding one of Mikey’s favorite pictures of his little brother throughout the months. “April helped me print them out and pick out the frames. Sorry it took so long, but we can hang them up as soon as you want to.”

It should have been one of the first things he did with the kid, along the same thread line of clearing out a space for him and giving him a name that matched all of theirs. He tried to make it as clear as possible that Gio was a part of the family. That he belonged with them, despite how broken and fractured and dim they were, he belonged to the same strung up constellation of stars that they did. That he was theirs to keep forever. That he was Mikey’s precious brother and there was nothing in the whole wide world that would ever change that.  

But just like a thank you, sometimes the implications of it aren’t nearly enough. Judging by the way Gio’s eyes are wide and surprised and glassy by the time he looks up at Mikey, Mikey should have hung up one of Gio’s pictures on the family wall months ago.

Gio stays quiet, looking between the framed photos in his hands and up at Mikey like he can’t really believe it, like Mikey just handed him the keys to the city as opposed to a couple of wooden frames with a few pictures in them. He tenses his jaw, opening and closing his mouth without any sounds coming out, like he can’t seem to find the right words to say that would fully encapsulate his emotions, but Mikey doesn’t mind. He doesn’t need a thank you. 

He can still hear muffled noises like shouting echoing down the halls, but in that moment, Mikey can’t find himself caring all too much about it. All Mikey cares about is in this kitchen, leaning against his side and glancing up at him with a sweet spotted face, looking much more like his age when he shows off that shy, wonderful smile that Mikey swears he could build the rest of his days around.

“Happy Birthday, Clementine.” Mikey smiles, pulling Gio in close and resting his cheek on the top of Gio’s head. 

I’m so glad you’re here. 

Chapter Text

Beyond a threshold of sleeplessness there reached a point of almost ethereal existence. Floating, touching reality through several sheets of plastic, the fuzzy feeling in the hindbrain that said, you are somewhere that isn't here.

Asleep, maybe in another universe. Awake, unfortunately, in this one. Sitting on the concrete floor, heel digging into an uneven crack, fingers coated in the dry powdery chalk he was smoothing in broad strokes against the vast canvas. 

Leo didn't know what time it was. He didn't really want to know. That would break the illusion that this was maybe a choice and not a hostage situation. 

Light footsteps padded toward him. Bare-feet sticking, one after the other. Leo might not have known Gio long enough to recognize him from gait alone, but the process of elimination made it easy. No one else in the family was that unhurried and fluid. 

"Chalk?" Gio wondered when he got close, instead of any of the other obvious questions: Why had Leo decided to decorate the entryway in the nighttime chill? Why was Leo awake when he'd spent the whole evening complaining that he was tired? Why was Leo like this?

"I didn't really feel like breathing in fumes." Leo said. He didn't say, it made him feel five years old scribbling daffodils on the walls and hearing his dad say it brightened the whole place up. He didn't say, the commitment of spray paint just felt like too much right now. He didn't say, he had to do something something something or no one would like the consequences. "Wanna help?"

Gio lowered himself down, fingers braced nimbly against the concrete, surveying the pattern. "How?"

"It's a mandala." Leo explained, tracing the follow-through of another blue line in mirror to the other side. "Just follow the pattern I'm making."

Gio hesitated. Eyes scouring the flourishing circle, started from a small daffodil in the middle, spilling out into swirls and shapes of all colours. 

"Here." Leo dug the half-flattened green chalk from the package to place in Gio's hand, curling his pliant fingers around the stick. "Do the same leaves on the edge as I've got in the middle. I promise you can't mess it up."

Gio stared with intent focus, scanning the inner flipped leaf pattern. "Interior facing or exterior?"

"Surprise me." Leo chuckled. The level of intensity reminded him fondly of Donnie, while the smooth and slow strokes of chalk against the concrete were all Mikey. 

Gio crouched with care not to smudge Leo's existing chalk, assisting in the expanding circle. Leo worked in contemplative quiet for a good two minutes before his curious mind and yapping mouth got the better of him, "Have you ever done this before?"

"No." Gio answered simply, tracing out the tip of the leaf with a keen eye, glancing between his mirrored creations to make sure they were level. He asked in return, more mild than anything, "Do you know what time it is?"

Leo knew Gio was thinking about how he'd flopped on him after dinner and complained that he wanted to go to bed. "Time isn't real."

"Aren't you tired?"

Leo laughed, not mean-spirited, but not happy either. "That's not the right question, hermano."

Gio was quiet.

"A pirate walks into a bar." Leo said, leaning over to stretch past his pile of chalk and grab the half-drank juice box to chew on the straw as he spoke. "He has a steering wheel attached to the front of his trousers. The bartender says, what's with that? And the pirate says…"

For the drama, Leo let the punchline hang, watching how Gio tilted his head to the side a little while he waited to hear the end. Then Leo said, in his best pirate voice, "Yarr, it's driving me nuts!"

The laugh startled out of Gio, just one loud bark, before he smothered it with an amused smile, pressing a curled finger to his mouth. 

Leo grinned back at him for a moment, pleased. 

Gio's brown eyes sparkled, then fell quieter and more somber, and he said, "So you can't sleep and it's driving you nuts?"

Hm. Leo turned to dig through his stash and asked, without looking at him anymore, "Apple or orange?"

"... orange." Gio said. 

Leo tossed him a juice box and went back to work, head down and cheeks warm. His brain was swimming in static TV white noise, the sight of his own hands tracing colours through cracks and dust feeling like he was watching someone else. Another universe. 

The garden path of thought ambled in other directions. Leo asked, “If you came from the future, does that mean there’s a chance we could run into a little you?”

Gio was shaking his head before Leo even finished the question. “I was pulled into the future from elsewhere.”

“Aw.” Leo pouted, mostly for the bit. “I’d love to hang out with a young Gio.” 

Gio exhaled through his nose, eyes on matching the leaf tips together, and said, “You’re not missing much. I was never really young.”

Leo’s hand stopped mid-stroke, raising to stare at the side of Gio’s face. He was still working as if what he said wasn’t deeply upsetting, just something matter of fact. 

Luckily there was always still room for youth in this lair, no matter how old they got. Even dad was known to join in on the shenanigans. Let alone sidewalk chalk and juice boxes — they had a Mario Kart tournament planned for the weekend, Mikey spent two hours playing jump rope in front of the TV yesterday, Donnie challenged everyone in ear shot with tongue twisters, Raph’s favourite game was ‘chase the little brother and throw them in the garbage’, Leo himself clambered on the fridge and forced anyone who walked in to listen to his impromptu karaoke — and everyone joined in and harmonized, of course — while April brought sample dresses for a dance and resulted in a dress up show in the living room with the hall as the runway and Splinter as her fake bodyguard. 

They thrived in the glow of youth, growing flowers with blooming petals reaching for the sun. 

"Sounds fake but okay." Leo said, mostly for a lack of anything else to say that wasn't emotionally devastating. "So wait, you were with us originally, right?"

"Yes." Gio crumbled a flake of chalk between his fingers, green-on-green. "I got lost."

"Right." Leo nodded, dazedly understanding with his insomnia-fueled logic delays. "And so coming here wasn't really like, being sent into the past. It was more like coming back home."

Gio didn't reply. He'd stiffened a little. Then seemed to relax with purpose. "Is a home necessarily defined as where you came from?" 

"Well, no." Leo said, because that wasn't what he meant. It felt weird to define, but the flash of tension told Leo he needed to try. He set his chalk down to give Gio his full attention. "Home is like… where you go when you don't have to go anywhere else. Where people love you. Coming back here… isn’t that just placing you back where you belong?”

Gio's rich brown eyes stayed locked on the sprouting mandala. He said, that same matter-of-fact, "I don't think I'm supposed to be here."

Wasn't that a knife plunged into Leo's heart? Precisely sliding between his ribs and lancing through pulsing muscle. Here was this big brother who'd effortlessly pulled him from hell and was gratefully enveloped into the swing of the chaotic Hamato hurricane, and he … 

All his knee-jerk reactions were discarded. Denial that this was Gio's home, that they loved him and wanted him … because he read between the lines, of everything he said and especially what he didn't say. Leo's instinct was to focus on the claim that Gio belonged there without thinking about what he might've left behind to save him. 

Leo calmly picked out a new, fresh stick of white chalk, and ruined his symmetrical patterns by writing Leonardo on the outside edge of his mandala. Separated by a little flower, he wrote Giorgio then Donatello . He continued on with each name of his family, like he was a little kid again who wrote the names of the people he loved on anything and everything. Then he said, "I don't think I'm supposed to be here either."

That made Gio startle, a small jump. Leo had shuffled away to continue his name pattern around the large edge and stared at Leo across the colourful chalk floor, and said, "What?"

"You heard me." Leo shrugged. That haze on the edge of his vision and floating sensation, his body buoyed in an invisible ocean. "You saved me, but like… maybe that was where I was supposed to be. We've just been… playing with fate. Maybe some things are better left alone."

Gio set down the chalk and skirted the edge of the mandala, not smudging a single line even as he strode towards Leo with deathly serious intent. He swooped to a crouch beside Leo and held his face between his palms and said, voice low and chilled, "Please don't say that ever again."

"Sorry Gigi." Leo said around the unnamable emotion swirling rapid and uncontrolled, holding his ground. 

"You don't understand. You have no idea what would happen to them without you." Gio searched his gaze, a desperate hunt for something. Leo was beginning to lose sight of him, eyes blurring. 

"Pssh. Everyone knows I'm the least favourite." Leo said, a joke that wasn't a joke, a rock lodged solid and painful in the meat of his throat. 

Gio tipped their foreheads together and said with fierce conviction, "You have no idea."

Leo blinked rapidly to avoid crying, because he was trying to make a point damn it. “So then if your being here saved me from there, don’t you think that means we’re both where we’re supposed to be?”

Gio hugged Leo, the compact muscle of his arms a tight and firm hold. After an aching moment, as Leo had brushed way too close to an emotional exposed nerve to turn the tide of this conversation in his favour and had to take a second to breathe in the ease of love of his older brother, before winding his arms around Gio’s waist and clinging back. Chalk on his shell. 

“That wasn’t necessary.” Gio said, his attempt at sounding mild marred by the dark stranglehold on his words.

“I need you to stay, Georgie-bee.” Leo mumbled, clutching tight. Not wanting to think of Gio lost again. Not when it was such a relief of a pain he wasn’t even aware of to find him. 

Gio hummed lightly. Then he said, “I don’t have to go anywhere else.”

Leo relaxed into his hold. 

Chapter Text

There’s a thing he read once: about not knowing a good thing until it’s gone; a cup of coffee photographed because it was the best drink, but it wouldn’t be the best drink until it was no longer there to be had. A thought someone had about being picked up and held when you’re small, and not being picked up ever again. A constant worry of not knowing when the last shoe falls.

Maybe Mikey was lucky that way, he didn’t have room for wondering. There’s a hard divide in his life, a clean Before and a jagged hole for After. He knows when his heart fell straight through a portal into hell by time, date, and constant ever present change. The knowing of when doesn’t sew anything up at all, though, maybe that was what the feeling was: even when you held onto it, it left anyway. No amount of missing could bring it back. 

He remembers being small enough to fit under the furred scruff of dad’s chin. Curled up on his love seat, a candle flickering gently on the table and dancing across their stone walls like a play, just for them. The blurred edges of Then-Now are lost between everything else, but he has it. That last time. The time, the date, the change. 

Dad doesn’t leave his room anymore and Mikey doesn’t ask for things he can’t have. 

Mikey’d once been a kid who’d followed his big brothers everywhere: who could jump up on Raph’s big shoulders whenever he wanted, spring load himself at Donnie and get a tolerating head pat for it, be obnoxious and get a laugh out of a brother that always smiled. He remembered being almost annoyed by it, the way the world bent around him, and also expecting the trust fall step of forgiveness. Thinking it should be harder. Treating the feeling of being able to reach all the way up into the sky and pull down the stars if he wanted to, because Raph n’ Donnie n’ Leo would make sure he got there like a given. He remembers, with a twisting slow-slide of something heavier, that he hadn’t wanted it. Thought that he hadn’t wanted it, at least. The babying and the handholding and the suffocating careful love; he’d thought they were slowing him down, then. Any experience his brothers had, bad or good, he wanted with greedy, sticky fingers, and it felt like they meted out the good like cookies after dinner instead of him foraging for them on his own. 

It’s silly now. He spends long dark quiet moments in the night, hours he remembers a gentle song greeting him or the bright glow of a TV, or the sounds of tapping fingers, wrestling with the not-knowing he’d held back then. The great gaping mass of his own self centeredness. 

He’d been fifteen, sure, but when his big brother was sixteen he’d saved the world. All Mikey’d done at sixteen was blink through it.

The next birthday he’d blown out a single candle made entirely of missing everything he’d ever had, and thought about how little there was left. Seventeen sounded a lot like forever, and then eighteen-nineteen-twenty fell out of his head like water.

He’d almost missed the last time Raph hugged him. He’d been lost and on the brink of a great big unknowable grief, tossing between realities with a gold that cracked all the way up behind his eyes. Raph had said ‘please’ and ‘let go’ and ‘I’m here, buddy’, and the next day he’d went so far inside himself that Mikey couldn’t find him either. He can’t let himself miss anything else.

__

They say: things get better, or the box gets bigger. You exist around the pain. They say: you’ll find more to love, there’s a point to this. Every tragedy has a point to it. They don’t say: Everything you’ve ever loved has claw marks in it, because it still does the leaving anyways. 

__

He remembers the last time he’d spoken to Hueso more by sense memory than actual words. It had been in the confusing liminal step of the first week-month after the end of the world-- the end of their world, at least, because the train lines still rumbled ahead, and the news stations still bumbled forward. April had to leave because classes were starting up again, even though she hadn't wanted to, Donnie hadn’t spoken in three days, and Raph was spending all of his time convincing dad to leave his bed. Mikey had stared at the kitchen and hated every single thing about his life so violently he’d nearly thrown up. 

I don’t want to do this, he’d thought, animalistically. Angrily. Irrationally furious about the pile of dishes in the sink and the sponge on the counter and the fact that the mess continued and his brother wouldn't. I don’t want to do any of this. 

Then he’d thought: why don’t we order out? In a voice that wasn’t his at all. 

He’d ended up in the Hidden City somehow, walking seemed likely given that he couldn’t drive yet, and his traitorous feet had auto piloted him right to Hueso’s front door by habit alone. They’d always gotten pizza after a mission, or after training. Or when Leo felt silly and wanted to pester his favorite tío, generally. It didn’t feel right to get something nice, like this. But then—  No one’s told him , Mikey thought. Greyed out and sludge like at the back of his throat. He’d hate to not know, in some fucked up world they’d been anything but brothers. Where Leo’d been anything but his big brother who was silly and smart and clever— he’d want to know, couldn’t imagine meeting Leo and not wanting to know. 

He remembers the press of worn wood against his hand, the twinge of magic everything in the Hidden City held. A vibration under the skin. The noise of the room, the smell of cheese and meats, that felt cloying and heavy at the back of his throat and— “Ah, pepino’s brother! I may remind you that explosions or otherwise firey escapades in this establishment are firmly—” A startled pause, he thinks he’d looked at him. Registered nothing about any of it except for the spaces. “Are… is everything alright?” 

He thinks he shook his head, or breathed out. Maybe sobbed, cracked apart right on the linoleum. It would have all felt the same. He knows Hueso’s boney hand pressed against the nape of his neck, remembers the strange coarse feeling of it. That he’d been ushered somewhere to the back, quieter and echoing. Hueso’s large dark eyes hovering somewhere in front of him, worry palpable in everything. I’m sorry, he’d wanted to say. Like Hueso could ever forgive him, like there was any absolution to find anywhere here at all in this place his big brother loved. Like the fact he’d loved it mattered. 

“Are we in danger?” Hueso’d asked. Mikey must have choked out a no, or shook his head. 

He remembers the way Hueso’s hand stalled, flickered away from him like a burn. He knew then that Hueso was a clever man, that he was older than any of them had ever thought to ask, and he must have lost like this before, because he breathed in, sharp. Let out an ‘oh’, on the exhale that shook through him like empty houses. 

“We lost him,” Mikey remembers saying, somehow. With all the strength scooped out of himself. I lost him, I did. I wasn’t fast enough. He was already dead inside, do you understand that? I let him die out there, it was me. “I know he—” his throat had tasted like ash, like embers and burnt up photographs. “He loves it here.” Not loved, not yet. “And you, so I—” 

Hueso, to his credit, had frozen for all of three seconds. As the sob sawed through Mikey, he’d burst into action the way Mikey knew was made up of four parts love for his brother and three parts the kind empathetic man underneath his brusque exterior that made his brother love him back. He pulled Mikey towards himself awkwardly, letting him rest his overheating head against the stiff fabric of his dress shirt and ruin it all with his tears. 

“I see,” Hueso’d said. Emptily, quietly. Leo did that to people though. He gave them motion and words and that spark of himself that made everything bigger than life. When he left, it all went with him, and all their words too. 

Black holes where big bright stars once were. All either of them had left was the spaces.

___

They don’t have a gravestone for their brother. There’s nothing left behind after the skyline goes dark. Just a sword, one that Casey pulls forward with trembling hands like the kiss of death itself. 

Just them, just a three where they’d always been four. Just a doorway that stays dark. 

They wouldn’t have known where to bury him, anyways.  

__

“ — Prime Time, at your service. Yes, DonTron, people do call me that. If it’s April, I promise I’ll bring you back your Golden Girls tapes next week, I swear. Ninja promise. Everyone else knows better than to call me so. You know what to do after the beep, make it count!”

“You’re not gone, you’re not gone, Raph said— I can try again, can’t I? I can. I’ll try again, when you get this…. When you get this just delete it. Okay? I’m trying again.” 

“You know what to do after the beep, make it count!” 

“ — I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry Leo! I— this one, I couldn’t— why couldn’t I get you back? Where did you go? Why was I— Ba— Draxum said… he said… he’s wrong, though. He has to be wrong? You went somewhere, and you’re… you’re lost, but you’re coming home, aren’t you? Please come home. I’m sorry, I’ll be better. I’ll be stronger for you, faster and— whatever you need, I can do it, please…” 

“You know what to do after the beep, make it count!” 

“....”

“You know what to do after the beep, make it count!” 

“.... I’m sorry. I— what am I doing. What am I—”

“ You know what to do after the beep, make it count!” 

“It’s probably bad that I’m doing this, right? Don hasn’t cut off your phone plan or anything, I mean. He wouldn’t. But… I know he’s the one getting these. If he looks. I just. I miss you. Of course I do, we all miss you. Doesn’t seem like a good enough word for it… You always told me yes when everyone else said no, and— nobody says no anymore. No one says anything. I— I don’t know how to fix this. I try to look for you and it’s like… wires, you know? Big sparking wires. Doesn’t go anywhere at all, and my hands— Raph made me promise to stop. I don’t think I could try anymore anyways. It’s not there. You’re not there…. You’re not even here, are you.” 

“ — make it count!” 

“I can’t, Leo. I don’t know how.”

“ — make it count!” 

“...”

“ — make it count!” 

“Okay. Yeah... Okay.” 

___

April gets busy with school, then with work. She apologizes and calls frequently and invites Mikey up whatever second she can spare in between her family and getting Casey settled. Casey stops coming around entirely, won't look any of them in the eye. Mikey chases Draxum off with a vitriol he doesn’t know exists for anyone outside of himself. Cassandra still meets up sometimes, here and there with Raph— it’s easier for him to breathe when he’s out of the house. When it’s choking him less—  but the Lou Jitsu games are a dark bruise that just keeps spreading, and her misplaced guilt of being somewhere else for most of it keeps conversations jolting and strange. Raph is still never quite Raph, either. 

Maybe he knows it’s him. It’s Raph, and it’s Don, and it’s the dark space of a room dad never leaves, too, but it’s also all of it together with him. Maybe he isn't a lifeboat at all, for all the ways he sinks fast and dark into the depths of all the spaces left behind. Maybe everyone else is smart enough to steer clear.

He always, always wanted things to stay. Friends, family. The movie night traditions were a thing he bullied everyone into, one of the ways the world bent for him, and the family dinners at Barry’s another trophy on a shelf of baby brother gifts. He made them happen because he believed in tomorrow's the way other kids believed in the long stretch of summertime vacation; a stack of endless sepia toned days falling into nothing. No other end in sight.  He’d wanted everything to stay exactly the way he loved it. Mikey’s not sure he ever said it out loud the right way when he could, if Leo heard him all the way down to the stubborn parts of himself, though. He thinks he should have asked him if he could stay, if he'd wanted to.

Now, though. Their home is a sand trap, a black hole in slow motion. The last ditch effort of a dying star reverberating through an empty galaxy. He knows, and he knows and he knows they’re all roadkill on a hot pavement stretch, but the idea of sitting down and waiting for the end seems like a torture he can’t convince himself he’s earned. 

Maybe now he can’t let things stay: A rule he’s imposed on anyone not caught in the heat death of this particular universe. Maybe he’s the brightly colored toxic frog warning everything at the front door. Dead inside, like a zombie movie. Don’t open. 

___

Gio watches him a lot. He can feel the kids' eyes on him everywhere he goes, like he has to study how Mikey holds things or how he moves. Like Mike’s the exit he needs to map out how to vault to in three seconds from any angle. There’s something to be said about alleyways, he supposes. When you grow up skirting around through them, you get used to there being one way out. Just Mikey, just this. 

(It’s hard, sometimes, most times, to think that he’s anything good at all. He’s just the only one there. Measuring something against nothing, a one versus a zero. A spot of grey looks pretty bright when everything else is dark.) 

Mikey can do it, though. He can balance all of it, this whole performing thing. It’s easy, really. Checking on dad and making sure he moves around his room in slow paces, bringing his brothers food they won’t eat, dusting the places no one sits. If the kitchen lights are on and bright, someone’s home. Leo used to say that, kicking his feet up and jumping to sit on the counter as easily as anything. 'I know everything's right in the world when I can smell somethin' good brewing in here.' He makes sure there's always something cooking, ingredients in the cupboards. Gio deserves something right.

“Got something on your mind, Gee?” Mikey calls over his shoulder, shuffling a bag of groceries into the fridge. They’d gotten good frozen fruits this go around, he’s thinking about smoothies. 

The kid’s peering around the ledge of the kitchen, something he hasn’t done in months, and there’s a funny set to his stern face that have sparking panic lines in Mikey’s mind already. He’s playing it cool, like he always does with Gio, like the early days. No sudden movements, no startling him. Easy, Miguel. 

“Just,” Gio pauses, his fingers tap against the stone. “Wondering if we can do that soup again?” 

Mikey pauses, forces himself to move. Gio doesn’t ask for things as a general rule. Mikey’s gotten good enough at parsing the in-betweens of the way his face will slacken with wide eyes when something catches his interest, and the words he says to know most of the time. He’s told him he should more times than he can count.

The thought turns over in his mind. “Oh, the broccoli one? Course we can.” He’s got frozen broccoli somewhere. Gio helped him tie the leftovers up after last time. He makes sure his face is friendly and happy, like always. 

“Got a craving?” 

Gio blinks away. “Something like that.” A pause. “Do you think, um. Tomorrow night?” 

That soon? He thinks, pathetically. A desperate thing crawling for freedom from the sandpit in his chest.

“Sure, sounds great buddy.” Gio’s asking for things, it’s good. He doesn't think anything else about this. Gio's face lights up in that small grateful way of his, like Mikey’d done anything particularly special at all, and he tries not to let the sudden urge to cry show anywhere in him. 

Gio ducks his head with a quiet and instinctive thank you and backs out of the kitchen. Mikey has to lean backwards on the counter. His knuckles press pale green– white. 

Mikey’d cried a lot as a kid. Big, fat, crybaby tears after watching superhero movies with his brothers. “Why can’t we go see them?” He’d say, frowning as hard as he could and bundling his fists up. “I want to go up there!” And Donnie would roll his eyes and Raph would fret and Leo would poke at his knees until he grumpily spat out a laugh and burst into tears, all the way up until his papa had picked him up and hushed him. Bundled him close, whispering “What could make my sunshine turn to rain? What can we do for this one, hm?”

He’d thought it was because he was smaller than his brothers, then. Because he was too little for things like the heavy sewer grates, and because he fell often and hurt himself worse than scrapes, and because he got turned around and lost by little things no one else stopped to look at. He’d thought if he was bigger, he could do all the things on the TV’s. Schools and malls and train rides, all of it in the palm of his hand, like everyone else.

(He’d thought getting older meant collecting places like postcards. Somewhere you’d been could always be somewhere you went back to. People and places and things that stayed so long as you remembered them, and always more to find. He’d been greedy for all of it, the idea of having more.) 

He knows now that it’s the opposite. Growing older means things hurt wider, longer. A clean cut cleaver right through who you thought you were. Neatly severed Then’s and Now’s— a thousand gravestones of people you thought you’d be. Mostly, it means losing. 

Mikey’s gotten very good at holding onto all of the last’s. He knows how fast they come, he knows no floorboards remain in floods, that nowhere stands forever. He also knows how to see them coming a mile off. A train down the long end of a dark tunnel. 

Maybe he’d forgotten his own rule about staying, and maybe Gio’d taken all of the warnings for what they were after all. He knows what leaving looks like in Gio’s face now, and he’d give anything to pretend he doesn’t see this coming. 

___

“--If it’s April, I promise I’ll bring you back your Golden Girls tapes next week, I swear. Ninja promise. Everyone else knows better than to call me so. You know what to do after the beep, make it count!”

“Hi, Leo.”

“...”

“I haven’t spoken to you in a while, I’m sorry. I miss you, you know that. In case you didn’t, though. I do. I turned twenty today, did you know that wherever you are? We said when I turned twenty you’d um. You’d take me gambling? I don’t remember why— I think you thought I didn’t know you’d never been gambling either. Hah. I knew. I still wanted to with you, though.”

“...”

“Don’t think I’ll do much this year. I’ll save you a slice of cake though, okay?” 

“--- I swear. Ninja promise. Everyone else knows better than to call me so. You know what to do after the beep, make it count!”

“Happy birthday, big bro. You’d be twenty five today… I bet you and Don would be ripping through the Hidden City right now. Raph used to say he’d get gray hairs somehow when you were both old enough to drink. We always made growing up seem so exciting, didn’t we? … I should check on Don again, it’s… it’s hard for him. You know that. Sometimes I wish you’d come back for him, you know? If it can’t be for me….Sorry, kind of a bummer of a birthday call. Miss you.” 

“--Everyone else knows better than to call me so. You know what to do after the beep, make it count!”

“You’d love him right, I know you would. This kid is— Leo, you’d love him so much. You always knew how to get everyone to relax, I bet he’d smile more with you. I’m trying though, you know I am, don’t you? Man. Sometimes I think it would be better if it was— no. You’d hate that. Sorry.”

“...”

“He made your favorite cookies today. All on his own. I only showed him how once, and he just whipped ‘em up like it was easy. … I’ll love him right, for both of us. Promise.” 

“--You know what to do after the beep, make it count!”

“Can’t believe Donnie’s kept this number around. Yeah I can, actually. Maybe I should stop calling so much… I just—”

“...”

“Did you know? When you— when you were up there. Alone. When you told Raph to jump. Did you know you were going? I like to think that you had a plan to get back, and it just didn’t work. But then I think. Whatever didn’t work— that it was me. In every other world, you come back to us, so. It’s just me, isn’t it? Can you just tell me, I’ll keep it a secret I swear. Ninja promise, like you said. Tell me if I ruined this, so I can— so I can let him go, too.”

“...”

“Did you know, when you were leaving… How did you say goodbye? I think Gio’s leaving, and I can’t— I should be better at this, shouldn’t I?” 

___

It’s late, he thinks. Past that nebulous middle dark of the night and traipsing over into early— he remembers that they used to sleep through the day so they could hang around topside all night, all the way until the blinds opened in the yawning New York streets. Somewhere around the murky After it stopped mattering so much, day and night. Time in general, really.

Donnie never left his room, Raph slept. Dad existed. Not like it changed if the sun was up. 

Gio’s shell glitters in the faint TV glow like it’s holding galaxies somewhere inside, bent over on the couch fiddling with his crossbow in silence. He does this funny thing when he’s focused, just a barely there peek of his tongue in concentration. It makes a tired smile weave through him in spite of himself. Cute kid.

“Hi Clementine,” he whispers as he approaches, because Gio’s still jumpy sometimes. Doesn’t like the not knowing of sudden noise or touches, always looking for the exit. Gio’s eyes flit to his and away. 

“Sorry if I woke you,” Gio says.

Mike sits beside him, careful space between. “Nah, haven’t slept is all.”

His little brother is funny: perpetually concerned over the strangest barely there things. Mikey’s been tired for ten years and then some, but Gio worries about things like sleep and rest like they're brand new signs of something he can change. The Hamato household has been at odds with rest for a decade, Mikey's stopped trying to find a middle ground when he can't find any sleep at all. It makes his hands worse and it’s harder to hide, but he thinks Gio would notice even if he tried to. Perceptive like that.

“What’cha working on?” He offers instead, desperate to press flat the crease in Gio’s brows. 

“Upgrade,” Gio offers, lifting his contraption. It clicks softly, gears and strings and clasps of it all. Polished and pristine as ever— there’s a new emblem underneath, and Mikey’s heart catches and releases at the recognition. So Donnie knows, then, too. It really is a goodbye. 

Mikey whistles, low, for a want of some other noise than the begging in his brain. “Looking sharp, clementine. Bet you’re unstoppable with that thing.” He’s never seen it. The few times Gio’s snuck out for whatever purposes, Mikey’s only caught the tail end. The bruises or the scrapes after, never the action. 

Gio shrugs, pulls at his scarf absently. A pause fills the spaces between them. 

“Do you…” Gio starts, loses steam abruptly. He frowns at himself. Mikey waits, biting his tongue and holding perfectly still. “Do you think I could. Would Master Splinter—” 

Ah, Mikey swallows. “He’d love to see you,” Mikey grabs his hand carefully. Forces his words to not be a lie by sheer power of needing every good thing for his earnest little star. “We can try, if it’s a good day.” 

It’s often not. The shock of hearing of a new turtle, a lost baby he’d thought gone forever, dislodged something in his father. He’d gone somewhere murkier in his head, weighted down with a heavy guilt Mikey didn’t know how to begin to lift on his own. A good day meant things like words, a faint glimmer in his eyes, a trembling pat on the head. 

“We can try,” Mikey reassures. Wills his dad to meet them here, wherever this was. Just this once. 

Gio’s a kid who’s never had anything of his own to begin with. Maybe he’s more adept at the type of loss that never leaves a mark, a fading and a going. It’s okay, Mikey’s an expert at the kind that carves you out: He knows how to share his lasts. 

__

The last time his dad was his is an easy one, clear cut like paint lines. Here was your home, once. Now it’s not. A magic trick made up of the sharp river divide from Jersey echoing in his skin like veins, smaller currents pulling everything farther out to sea. 

When they’d made it back home, somewhere in the mess of everyone’s slow slide into realizing that he was really gone (that Mikey had really failed), the vicious words of he’s already dead inside reverberating through them, dad’s little pilot light had just. Gone out. 

He’d told them once, a big story disguised as a Lou Jitsu adventure before they’d known, before they’d listened. He’d said ‘he fought for days that turned into weeks and months as easy as waking,’ he’d said ‘one day the wall he’d built around his heart started to crack’, he’d said ‘that day the fates opened a way out for him, and brought him home’. Fighting had nearly punched a hole through him, being cut off and transformed into something other had cracked it more. But their dad loved them, so he’d found a way to hold himself up anyways. 

Losing his little blue meant rubble and dust. No foundations left to stand beside. 

At the start maybe there’d been a part of him that resented it— that he’d lost someone too, that he needed his dad. That yawning childish part of him reaching up at the closed doors and begging. Now he knows. It’s not that his dad left, he just— tried to find Leo too hard, felt the last big blow against what he’d tried to be, tried and tried and it all gave out. It’s okay, Mikey pats his hand when he helps him to bed. He can try for both of them, now. His dad deserves to rest a little. 

He wishes his dad could try one more time though, just for Gio. 

Mikey pushes the door open, a barely there thump of air— it’s dust laden here, the way still things are, and the air always feels the weight of all the not moving. It’s a place that demands inertia, it takes a lot to pull himself free. 

“Hey, papa,” Mikey says as sugary sweet and gentle as he can be. Gentleness is a choice he makes every day, for everyone he has left. It’s hard but he can manage it. “Gio wanted to say hi.” 

His dad is silent, sitting cross legged on his bed— meditating probably, or trying to. In the way that doesn’t use his ninpo, just the heart-cry they all feel. 

“Hi,” Gio offers. “If I’m interrupting—”

“No, no,” Mikey steps forwards quickly, reaching for his dad’s hand. It’s chilled, circulation all wonky and siphoned off to different places. Sometimes he thinks it’s that his heart is working so hard just to hold itself together, it doesn’t have the strength to push it all elsewhere. He rubs circles against the tendons there, reminding his heart that there’s still more of him to care for. 

“He’s just meditating, aren’t you dad?” Mikey smiles, tapping his thumbs gently like a hello. If it’s a bad day, he’ll get nothing. His dad will be pliant and easy to tuck back into bed, and he’ll have to run through stretches for him. 

The universe turns its luck for Gio, it gives him this goodbye. “My son,” his dad breathes. “Yes. I was… I was searching. Always searching.” 

Mikey hums, still rubbing his thumbs until dad’s hand flexes. Breathes back into himself. His dark eyes flicker to the open door, to Gio, and his expression flickers with recognition. “Gray.” 

Gio ducks his head nervously, hands tight at his side. It’s like a bow almost, formal as anything despite the fond warmth he hears in dad's voice. Mikey remembers a time they would have tackled their way through dad’s door screaming and hollering; maybe it’s the quiet that makes this harder. The nothing left behind. 

Dad’s face lifts softer, he slowly pats the bed beside him. “Two precious boys,” he hums absently, lifting his hand free to trace Mikey’s chin. Mikey smiles back, shoves any other thought quickly to the back of his mind— he can’t let himself cry, not with this thin layer of ice they’re stepping out onto.

Mikey glances over at Gio, his eyes are wide and stunned, dad’s hand patting at his just as lightly. See, Mikey’s heart says. I told you. They love you, they’re just— maybe you don’t have to go. Maybe this can be yours, too.

Don’t leave me behind, it says traitorously, and he stifles it. Breathe in. Breathe out. If he leaves, its survival. He should look for dry land.

“Gio might have to go somewhere soon. A big trip.” He smiles, all teeth and empty eyed. “Won’t you tell him to take care, papa?”

Dad glances up at him, lost somewhere in the dark of his eyes, and then at Gio. “Oh, of course. My brave boy, sweet boy. You’ll come home when you’re ready. Your brothers miss you terribly.” 

Oh, Mikey thinks, heart in his hands. “Dad, that’s not—”

“I will,” Gio nods. 

There’s heartbreak in different forms, he knows. He's borne the brunt of it. The quickflash burn of a loss that smoulders and rips everything else down with it is familiar. The kind that sets in deep and claws long gouges in the earth no one can close, that never gets any better at all. He's an expert at the slow death of the home, but he’s less familiar with this kind: holding someone’s hopes in his hands, and knowing they’ll burn out somewhere he can’t get to. Of leaving and closing the door to be left behind. He’s not a liar by nature, but he knows what leaving is.

Gio thinks he can come back from this. Mikey's small steps into the universal divides and his own myriad of failures has taught him that time isn't so simple. The Before and After, becoming one safe landing of Never, just for a kid who should have had more to begin with.

Gio isn’t leaving at all. Mikey is. 

Dad pats Gio’s hand again, and looks over at Mikey with the faintest beginnings of a frown. His cheeks are wet, he realizes vaguely. Gio's concerned eyes peer at him over dad's shoulder. Dad reaches up, shakily, paw warm and familiar against his cheek-- if he closes his eyes he can almost pretend he's small and it's all a dream in the stormy nights he can wake up from, world still there in the palm of his hand.

“Where has my sunshine gone,” dad wonders out loud, and Mikey can’t help but grab at his dad’s hand and hold it. Right there against his cheek. Be here, he wishes louder than anything. Be here with me. I can’t say goodbye on my own. I’ll ask him to stay and he has to go. He has to have more than this. I'm not strong enough to let him go.

Gio slips his hand into Mikey's other one, small and firm and calloused. His baby brother, who'd fallen straight out of time. It's a last that he can keep, just one more day.

“Here,” he manages, rough and watery, and laughing. “He’s right here. He's not going anywhere else.” 

Chapter Text

When Donnie designed the broadhead arrow with an explosive tip, it was after a vision board evening with Mikey that someone definitely should have crashed before the peanut butter half of their iconic duo starting pitching chaotic and nefarious ideas to an audience of the only mad scientist in the greater Manhattan area willing to indulge him. 

A few of the trick arrows they came up with skirted the line of comic book fantasy and practicality neatly—the smokescreen and knockout arrowheads were things of beauty, to name a couple. The three hours spent in an abandoned grain elevator in Brooklyn testing the range of Gio’s brand-new arsenal was some of the most fun Leo could remember having post-invasion. 

But the explosive ones—those were unmitigated destruction in a tiny unassuming package. Gio considered one of them for all of two seconds before sliding it back into its designated sleeve. 

“Aww, what?” Mikey said. 

“We’re on the fourth floor of a derelict grain terminal,” Gio said, which was a very compelling argument. Raph looked a little greener than usual at that reminder, and glanced down at the floor beneath his feet as if visibly reliving the way the whole building had shuddered from the concussive force of the knockout arrow Gio had fired through the window into the overgrown field outside. 

Mikey still pouted about it until their eldest brother, physically incapable of not spoiling little siblings rotten whenever he had half a chance, notched one of the zipline bolts into the barrel of his bow and said, “Angie, how fast do you think you could get down to the field and back up on this?”

Brightening predictably, Mikey shouted, “Like, two minutes, probably!” 

It turned out to be more like eleven minutes, but Michelangelo was not the giving up kind of turtle. Leo had a stitch in his side from laughing by the time their youngest had clambered gracelessly back up the line, and Donnie was muttering about electric rope ascenders to add to their usual kits. That was about when a security truck rolled up to the grounds and they had to skedaddle, and those explosive arrows were left unassessed. 

Donnie built them because he could and because they sounded cool and because when Mikey says anything with stars in his eyes it makes you want to pluck it out of thin air and present it to him before common sense can elbow its way to the front of your brain and say, ‘hey, uh, is that, like, the best choice we could be making?’ 

He didn’t build them for this. 

Whoever the EPF are, they’re coordinated and heavily armed, and have the turtles backed into a corner in a manner of minutes. Fighting baseline humans isn’t really their bag—their bad guys tend to be Foot Clan goons, or mutants running amok in New York City, or any random yokai from the Hidden City they manage to tick off just by existing—and Leo’s heart thuds in his chest when he finds himself on the wrong end of a dozen guns. 

What the heck, he wants to ask, where did you guys come from and where were you ten minutes ago when the mutant silverfish outnumbered us ten to one?

He doesn’t ask, because he really doesn’t think this is a situation that can be solved with their words. 

His hand drifts toward his sword, just an inch, just to see. One of the men in riot gear fires a warning shot so close that Leo feels the heat of it on his thigh. It punches a noise out of Raph instantly, a chest-deep rumble of panic that sounds, to the untrained ear, like a dangerous snarl. Leo can practically see trigger fingers getting itchier around the room. The situation is spiraling out of his control by the second. 

I just need two seconds to reach my sword, Leo thinks, mind racing for a way to pull those seconds out of thin air. 

And then a bolt shatters through the window of the warehouse behind him and hits the floor right at the foot of one of the EPF agents. The room is filled with rolling curtains of thick gray smoke instantly and enthusiastically, and Leo has his sword drawn a second later. 

He teleports to Mikey first, and then opens a portal beneath their feet that deposits them in front of Donnie, and opens one next to them like a door that Raph’s huge hands reach through instantly to scoop them up and yank them in close to the armor of his plastron. 

“Get us back up to Georgie,” Raph says, and Leo has another door open to do exactly that almost before Raph has even finished speaking.

Something makes him look back over his shoulder. A tug on one of the strings tied around his heart. 

None of the humans have pinpointed Leo and his brothers yet, despite the light show Leo has put on, and in part that’s because Donnie designed this smokescreen the way he designs everything he puts his Genius Built stamp on, so it looks like it could be dense enough to bear Leo’s weight if he were to test it. 

But it’s also in part because those humans have someone else to gun down, and that’s the spotted turtle making a clear and present target of himself on the other side of this huge abandoned packaging plant. 

No, Leo thinks in the one corner of his brain that hasn’t shuddered to a stop like a cold-stunned reptile. 

Raph’s hand on his arm starts to pull him back through the portal, and it shocks Leo into action, propelling him forward, body on autopilot. Something bad is about to happen. Something bad, something bad. Something like a Krang spike piercing through shell and shoulder, something like an escape pod that wasn’t his carrying him to safety, something like a big brother left behind in the hands of people who want to hurt him. 

Time slows to a crawl. The tableau burns itself into Leo’s mind. 

No, he thinks. 

Gio’s dark eyes swallow all the light in the room, unflinching when they meet Leo’s. He slips a white bolt from the quiver and Leo’s heart climbs right up his throat. He fights the hands grabbing at his shoulders and the arm wrapped around his middle but it’s three against one and he’s hauled through the blue light a second later. 

“Leo, what the hell was that?” Raph bites out, shaking hands gripping him by the arms as the snapper crouches to look him in the eye, searching Leo’s face for any clue as to why Raph had had to wrestle him to safety. “Why would you try to—”

The explosion cuts him off. It’s the loudest thing in the universe. Leo exists outside his body. His mind is the aftermath of a flash grenade, burnt white nothing. 

It feels like watching the portal close around the Technodrome, feeling the searing heat of it on his skin before the void vacuumed even that away. He’s floating. He’s back in the dark. It’s the end of the world again. 

“Wait, where’s Georgie?” Mikey says, loud over the sound of crumbling concrete and tearing sheet metal. He’s looking around the roof they’d left their eldest brother on when they noticed the mutant silverfish making a racket, their archer in overwatch position behind them as always.

Donnie notices the zipline first. The usual rich gold of his eyes is bleached with fear, neon yellow, when he turns to meet Leo’s. As always, they’re a perfect mirror of each other. 

Leo doesn’t remember saying anything. He doesn’t stick around to see understanding creep into his twin’s face, or to listen to his baby brother’s questions get loud and hysterical, or to watch his big brother’s expression slacken with horror. He clenches his fist, feels the familiar shape of a hilt beneath his fingers, and falls through a portal back into the warehouse. 

He has to pull the collar of his jacket up to breathe through the dust, squinting to see anything. There are still wafts of thinning gray smoke, and the disconcerting loose-gravel sound of broken concrete giving way. It’s disquieting to feel a structure that weighs several hundred tons wobble above and around him.  

“Gio!” he shouts. The call reverberates and goes unanswered. A first time for everything. 

Running footsteps thunder past him, too many and too heavy to belong to his brother. Leo slips around behind an upstanding pillar and watches the humans appear through the grit and gloom like specters as they beat a hasty retreat. A few of them are supporting the weight of a few others, but a quick headcount proves more or less all of the agents are accounted for as they pile back into the armored cars outside. 

Leo wouldn’t lose a lot of sleep if a few of them had been turned into pancakes, but he’s pretty sure of his math, and—and the warehouse is still standing. If Gio had fired it at the roof, or at the ground where the agents were standing, the building would have come down matter-of-factly. 

But, Leo thinks, heart remembering how to beat and doing a really messy job of it, all uneven and filling his ears. But—if he’d fired it away from himself—if it went off outside—it would have been enough to scare the goons away without anyone getting hurt. 

Still a risk he shouldn’t have taken, still a call that was much too close, but better than the alternative. Better than the waking nightmare Leo almost had to live in.  

“GIO!” he screams, hands cupped around his mouth. 

His phone is ringing in his pocket, he realizes belatedly. The ringtone is Kesha’s We R Who We R, which means it’s his twin trying to reach him. He scrambles over a collapsed metal shelving unit with tinny synthpop blaring from his hoodie and feels detached from reality. He feels like a studio audience is waiting for the cue to laugh. It doesn’t feel like real life. 

Then he feels a tug again—that muted gray string in the multicolored skein of his soul, pulling him forward—leading him right to the crumpled form of his oldest brother. 

The music cuts off and starts up again. The strength goes out of Leo’s legs and he folds to the floor. He cuts his knee on something sharp, and as he crawls over to Gio’s side, the cut stings every time he puts pressure on it. It shakes him out of the strange haze he’s in. His hands tremble as he rolls Gio over. The music cuts off and starts up again.

Shaking fingers wrap around Gio’s wrist and find a pulse. Leo plants his finger at the pulse point beneath Gio’s jaw just to double-check. That stubborn heart is beating loud and clear. Leo has to blink a few times, because for some reason his eyes are all wet. He runs a careful hand over the back of Gio’s head and doesn’t find anything broken or bleeding. The facts are presenting a tentative case that the world isn’t ending after all, but the fear is loud and clear and shouting over everything else.

Gio’s face is slack and still manages to look tetchy, two spots on his forehead drawn low above his eyes. Leo has only known him for the better part of a year and he can’t imagine life without him. He can’t imagine waking up from a bad dream and not having Giorgio’s steady presence beside him at the dinner table at two o’clock in the morning, tireless and patient, like he had nowhere else to be when Leo needed him. 

“Stop,” Leo says thickly. He feels stupid. He knows better. It doesn’t stop him. “No. Wake up. Wake up!” His voice climbs into a shout, echoing around the empty cavernous room, “I said wake up!”

He’s not expecting it when the hand in his turns, and cold fingers close around Leo’s tightly. He’s startled into silence, staring down at the proof of life he’s holding. He doesn’t miss it when Gio’s expression twitches, brow furrowing, like he’s fighting sleep. 

“Oh,” he mumbles. “You’re okay. Sorry for shouting. You’re okay.” 

His ringtone goes off for the hundredth time. This time, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s voice pipes up over the music, announcing, “I’m pushing this one through, boss.” 

“Nardo,” Donnie says on speakerphone. 

“Tello,” Leo parrots automatically. “He’s okay,” he adds. 

There’s a loaded second of silence. He doesn’t have to hear his twin’s relief spoken out loud to know it exists. 

“Disappear like that again and I’ll disappear you,” the softshell bites. 

“Can you get the two of you out of there, big man?” Raph says with that forced calm that has never fooled Leo once in their lives. “Can you, uh, meet us back up here now? Please?”

Leo’s knee-jerk reaction is to respond to that particular tone with reassurance. To spring to his feet and create a solution. To banish his brothers’ fear with a dumb joke or a silly scheme. But when he tries to pull himself up, his limbs wobble like jello and he gets exactly nowhere.

“I, um,” he admits, embarrassed, “I don’t think I can stand up.” 

“Oh, buddy,” Raph says, his whole heart in it. “Raphie’s coming.”

“Yeah, sit tight, Lee,” Mikey’s voice rings through, force-of-nature cheerful. “I’m the master of this zipline thing now. I’ll be down in two shakes. Maybe a shake and a half.” 

Leo hums, grateful to have their overlapping chatter keeping him company. It’s not the end of the world. It’s not the prison dimension. It felt like it for a second back there, but he’s sinking slowly back into his body now. His knee stings from whatever he cut it on, and his eyes are itchy from all the dust and smoke, and Gio’s grip on his hand tightens as his eldest brother claws his stubborn way back into consciousness. 

They have a new bad guy to be on the lookout for, and since they don’t do anything by halves, this new bad guy is an entire evil organization. They have explosive tip arrows to dispose of, since clearly Giorgio can’t be trusted with that much firepower any more than Donatello can. Dad’s gonna have a conniption when he hears about the events of this evening—if they manage to make it past the part about the EPF agents drawing guns on them without being grounded until their thirties it’ll be a miracle. 

But they’re all okay. It could have gone so differently. It could have been a lot worse. 

Leo has a brand-new understanding of what that view from Staten Island had looked like for three of his brothers, and he hated every second of it. There has to be another way to do it. To keep them safe without hurting them. To be the kind of hero that comes home. 

Gio’s eyes finally open, two narrow slits. Usually so quick to alertness, his gaze skates muddily over Leo’s face for a few seconds before finally focusing. 

“You’re not allowed to disappear, Gigi,” Leo says quietly, feeling bruised and fragile and one harsh wind from coming completely apart. “‘Cause I’m not going anywhere without you. You made me your problem and now you gotta live with it.”

If Gio held his hand any tighter it’d probably hurt.

“You are my problem,” Gio mutters through gritted teeth. “All of you. And if anyone ever tries to tell you otherwise, I’ll blow them up next.” 

“Uh, we’re gonna have to have a serious talk about that one,” Leo says. “I don’t think it’s gonna be a viable option. Ever again.” 

“Hm,” Gio says, very clearly a ‘we’ll see about that.’  

The laugh that bubbles out of Leo is entirely involuntary, and probably makes him look like an insane person when their brothers arrive to extract them from the structurally unsound warehouse they’re hanging out in. 

But it could have been worse.

Chapter Text

Gio’s late. 

Mikey’s trying not to be an insane person about his little brother missing an unofficial curfew. Teenagers do that sort of thing all the time. Especially fiercely independent teenagers who practically raised themselves, who chafe at structure because at the wrong angle those supportive struts and load-bearing beams probably look a lot like a cage. 

It’s just. His fiercely independent teenager doesn’t do that sort of thing at all. 

Gio is a lot of things, and somewhere at the very top of that list is ‘traumatized’ in bold, italic, underlined, all caps, size twenty font. Mikey doesn’t know the details, but he knows that Giorgio is terrified of breaking rules that don’t exist. He’s always searching for that line he can’t cross, that step too far that will put him in that dangerous familiar territory where the unwanted end up. He is certain that the line exists. 

When Gio says he’ll be home by ten, he’s home by ten. He’ll make it home like his life depends on it. 

Mikey heroically manages not to look at the clock for a full three minutes. A spiteful 10:43 stares back at him from the stove range when he does look. He refocuses on the pan he’s scrubbing, and doesn’t think about the calls and texts that have gone unanswered, because then he really will lose what’s left of his composure. 

It’s hard. Mikey’s trying to find the line, too. How much attention is too much? When does Mikey go from supportive to overbearing? He wants Gio to know that there’s someone thinking about him, someone who worries about him when he’s late, but he never wants the little spotted turtle to feel smothered or dread walking through the door. 

Gio was looking forward to dinner. He didn’t say it, but Mikey’s gotten pretty good at reading his microexpressions. The kitchen smells like baked mostaccioli and garlic bread and all of it’s untouched and going cold because Mikey’s stomach is in knots. 

Footsteps down the hall announce Raph a few seconds before he leans through the doorway. His eyes slide from Mikey to the empty seat at the island Gio usually occupies and he blinks. 

“Where’s the kid?” he asks. 

Mikey jerks one shoulder in a shrug, buried elbow-deep in soapy water. He doesn’t want to talk about it to someone who doesn’t care. The thought instantly feels mean and unfair, an ugly shape where it sits in his head, but at least it’s ugly where only Mikey can see it. 

In his periphery, he sees Raph frown. Whatever he might have said is cut off by the sound of a call coming through on Mikey’s phone. This dream isn't feeling sweet, we're reeling through the midnight streets—

Gio’s ringtone. Mikey looks urgently at Raph as he wrestles his wet rubber gloves off. After half a second of trepidation, his older brother picks up the phone and accepts the call. 

“Hey,” he says, uncertainty evident to anyone who knows him. To anyone who doesn’t, he just sounds largely disinterested, like he’s greeting someone he’s familiar with but not close to. It’s not the way Raphie, of all people, is supposed to sound while talking with his baby brother. Then his tone changes abruptly, brow furrowing. “Who is this?” he rumbles. 

A wailing klaxon and spinning red lights are going off in Mikey’s brain. That’s Gio’s ringtone, that’s Gio’s phone calling, who has his phone?

“Put it on speaker,” he manages to say normally.  

“—in pretty rough shape,” a stranger’s voice is in the middle of saying, audibly nervous. Mikey’s heart is pounding in his ears. “It was supposed to be an easy job, a simple delivery—building supplies for the festival next month—but no one told us the lumberyard was cursed. We strolled right in like a troupe of clowns.”

There’s a lot to absorb here. Apparently when Gio isn’t home, he’s working in the Hidden City. Which—fine. He’s allowed to do that, if that’s what he wants to do. Nevermind that he doesn’t need to, that his needs will all be provided for from now on, that he doesn’t have to scrape survival together all by himself anymore, because that’s what his family is for. 

He’s eighteen—or so he says. Mikey would never call the kid a liar to his face, but he has never shaken his first impression of Gio, which was that he looked like an underfed fifteen year old.  

Any kid passing through foster care in the yokai world, whatever that looked like, would have plenty of reasons to lie about plenty of things. Trying to pass himself off as older to age out faster is not beyond the realm of possibility. It even makes an unfortunate amount of sense. But if that’s the truth, Mikey hasn’t earned the right to hear it yet. 

All of that goes on a shelf in the back of his mind for the time being. The more pressing matter is—

“Cursed?” Mikey demands. Something rattles in the kitchen and Raph looks at him sidelong. “Gio?”

“Oh, hey, are you Mike?” the stranger says, apparently hearing something in his tone that they didn’t hear in Raph’s. “His emergency contact is saved as a Mike. He didn’t want us calling anyone for him, but, uh, I don’t make a habit of leaving teenagers passing out on the side of the road? So I stole his phone. Temporarily.” 

The rattling gets louder, and Raph’s sidelong look turns into a head-on stare, but all Mikey can think about is his kid. His Georgie. Vulnerable and unwell and at the mercy of people he doesn’t really know. Too stubborn and far too careful to trust the goodness of anyone’s heart, to let them close enough to help. He’d rather crawl home. 

It’s not Gio’s fault. That unkind world he got shunted off to when he was a baby chewed him up and spit him out and left him in the shape it left him in. What’s left of him is what survived. 

“He’s in and out of it, but I’ll tell him you’re coming next time he wakes up?” the voice says. “You, uh, you’re coming, right?”

Another Krang invasion couldn’t keep Mikey away. 

Several things clatter to the counters and the floor all at once and Mikey barely notices. He steps on a loose rolling pin and lurches gracelessly, saved by the huge hand that catches him by the back of his shirt. Raph lets him go, only to snatch the keys he’d been beelining for off their hook before he can get to them. 

He passes Mikey his phone, but not the keys, and leads the way to the garage. 

The good samaritan promises to stay on the phone until they arrive, agreeable and unbothered by losing a good chunk of the rest of their evening after a pretty shitty day at work. Gio rallies once or twice, but not for very long, and he sounds very grumpy when he does. His pissed-off turtle noises in the background are adorable, and do more to soothe Mikey’s worries than anything else. 

The curse was temporary and largely harmless, according to the representative from Witch Town who arrived on the scene to put out metaphorical fires. The sawyers had incidentally cut down a copse of trees they shouldn’t have, and the spirits who lived in it took issue with being soundly and unfairly evicted. They put a mean-spirited spell on the timber that caused disorientation like the kind they had felt when their homes had suddenly collapsed—but, the voice on the phone reports to Mikey, the spirits did feel bad about it when they saw a kid was involved. They coughed up the remedy pretty quick after Gio hit the ground. 

The whole thing is so typical of the chaotic, quasi-lawlessness of the Hidden City that Mikey almost wishes it had been a nefarious scheme just so he could feel something constructive, like anger with somewhere to go, instead of just dizzying, directionless panic. 

“But he’s okay? He’s fine?” he presses for probably the fifth time. 

“Oh, yeah, he’s one tough little turtle,” the stranger says at once.“I thought he was gonna take my whole arm off when I tried to help him up. Like, genuinely, it scared the hell out of me.” Somewhat distantly, the tough little turtle in question grumbles something Mikey can’t make out, and the stranger replies, in a tone that wouldn’t have sounded out of place on April teasing Donnie a lifetime ago, “Yes, you. You’re scary. All five feet of you.”

In his periphery, Mikey sees Raph lose to a reluctant smile. 

They’re in Hidden City limits within twenty minutes, following both S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s pin on the GPS and the stranger’s somewhat unhelpful attempts at directions. The road they’re on ends in a gravel lot, vehicles blocked from going further by a traffic barrier. Mikey’s out of the van before Raph has a chance to put it in park, off like a shot, looking for landmarks. 

“You—uh, I think—I’m not trying to make assumptions, I know families come in all shapes and sizes, but I just saw a turtle with a ponytail, like, fly past me, was that you?”

Mikey backtracks, taking the left he initially skipped over. Down a narrow, winding city street, past closed shops and open bars, all the lit windows creating a checkerboard pattern on the street, blocks of yellow light that Mikey moves through one after another, only slowing when he’s right in front of a miserable pile of spotted turtle curled on the bottommost step of an employees-only entrance. 

There’s a tall yokai standing guard from a careful arm’s length away, but he may as well be a part of the scenery at the moment. All of Mikey’s attention belongs elsewhere. 

Gio’s forehead is pressed into the side of the handrail, spotted brow furrowed. Given that his resting expression gives the impression that he’s perpetually ticked off, Mikey can understand why a stranger might think he looks mean. But all Mikey can see is a sick kid who didn’t quite make it home before his legs gave out beneath him. 

Every molecule in his body is compelled urgently to scoop Gio up off the ground. He knows better.

“Hey, Georgie,” he says, cramming his phone into his pocket. “Are you with me, buddy? Can you hear me?”

When there isn’t an immediate response from his little brother, the stranger pipes up, “He comes out of it every few minutes. Here’s, uh, his phone?”

Remembering the other yokai exists, Mikey turns without standing, putting a protective shoulder firmly between his brother and the stranger, and takes stock of them. 

They’re tall and broad, with a distinctive square head, canine snout and floppy ears sticking out of a haphazard mass of yellow curls. Later, Mikey will know the coloring of their fur is called orange belton, common in setters. For now, he just thinks the warm brown and white splotches competing for space across their face are cute. Like an enthusiastic painting project. 

Most disarmingly, they’re wearing a vintage orange and blue Knicks hoodie. 

“Oh, shit,” Mikey says without thinking, accepting Gio’s phone from their outstretched hand. “You’re a New Yorker.”

Their uncertain smile slackens a bit in shock, then widens. “Yeah, man! Queens, born and raised.”

Now that Gio is safe in front of him and he has an iota of brainpower free to think of anything else, Mikey can hear the accent loud and clear. It’s stupid, but it causes a big chunk of his guard to go right down. This guy’s practically his neighbor. 

Since they aren’t going anywhere until Gio rouses enough to give anyone permission to touch him, Mikey settles in. To his surprise, the dog mutant settles in on his free side. 

His name is Woodrow Dirkins, he’s a year older than Mikey, and he mutated when he was fifteen. 

“I used to walk dogs around my neighborhood for extra cash,” he says with a remarkable amount of good humor about the whole thing. “Something stung me, and the next thing I know—well, getting Daisy back home to my neighbor without getting the cops called on me was, uh, not easy.”

“That must have been scary,” Mikey says softly, what’s left of his heart going out to that poor kid whose life got turned upside down without warning all those years ago.

“Definitely wasn’t how I’d have chosen to spend my summer,” Woody admits. “But it would’ve been a lot worse if I didn’t have my sister.”

He’d gone home eventually, because he was fifteen and he had to go home. His sister caught him climbing through the window, furious at his disappearing act first, and then horrified at the state of him. But his frightened, tearful stammering restructured her initial panic into older sibling caretaking mode that superseded everything else. She dragged him into her arms and locked him in a hug until his shuddering breaths evened out. 

Her first words about it had been “That goddamned Daisy.” And it surprised Woody into laughing. And they had figured it out together. 

“Finished high school online, got my bachelors in English the same way. Virtual tutoring helps in a pinch, you know, when there’s too much month at the end of the money, but gigwork in the Hidden City is what really pays my bills,” the dog mutant says, folding his gangly legs so that a passerby doesn’t have to step over them. “So no judgement, genuinely, I’m literally in the same boat. It’s just—Gio here is, uh—he works a lot, huh?”

Mikey’s mouth firms into a thin line. “Which is news to me.”

At that point, a deer yokai trying to leave the building shuffles down the employee steps and then hovers awkwardly behind the inconvenient turtle barricade. Mikey looks up at her and she immediately clambers over the railing and goes around them. 

“You’re kind of intense, huh,” Woody says. He’s smiling as he says it, curls falling into his eyes. 

In another life, they probably could have been friends. 

A quiet noise next to him steals all of Mikey’s focus. Gio lifts his head from where his forehead was braced on the railing. It takes him a minute to find Mikey’s face. His eyes are dark and muddy, slow to focus. When they do, his mouth turns down a little more in the corners. 

He looks the way Mikey looks when he’s trying not to cry. That’s how Mikey knows for certain that the poor kid isn’t feeling like himself. Curse remedies tend to cling like a bad hangover. 

“Sounds like you had a big night, Clementine,” Mikey goes on, his voice low and calm. “Ready to go home?”

“Didn’t want him to call,” Gio says, matching Mikey’s volume. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

Mikey’s little brother, everyone. He got cursed and didn’t think that was worth a phone call. Painfully self-conscious and overly cautious, lingering on the fringes of belonging because he wouldn’t know the first thing about barging right in and demanding his brothers’ time and attention, the way all of them grew up doing. 

It’s yours, Mikey wishes he could make Gio understand. You’re supposed to have it. We’re supposed to take care of you. 

“You never bother me,” Mikey says instead. Leo used to have a specific tone for wheedling Mikey out of a funk, a sternness that was so absolute it looped back around into silliness. It always made grumpy box turtles laugh despite themselves. Mikey tries to sound like Leo as he adds, “And even if you did, even if you were the most grumpy, annoying, high-maintenance little brother on the planet, I would still break a million laws and burn down the entire Hidden City and become the yokai’s most wanted just to get to you two minutes faster.”

Woody snorts. Gio doesn’t look convinced, because of course he doesn’t—but he untucks his fists from his tightly folded arms and takes Mikey’s hands when they’re offered. 

“Don’t burn it down,” he says seriously. “I work here.”

“So I’ve heard,” Mikey replies. “And we’re gonna have to have a fun talk about that once I’m a hundred percent certain all your insides are where they’re supposed to be. But for now, how ‘bout we blow this popsicle stand? There’s baked pasta at home with your name all over it.”

Gio blinks, eyelids heavy and sticking, and follows his hands toward the ones holding them, leaning until his big brother is the only one responsible for keeping him upright. Task assigned, Gio’s eyes slip closed and the tense line in his shoulders goes lax and the whole of him gets abruptly heavier as he falls asleep. 

Sometimes Mikey is forcefully reminded of how much Gio trusts him, even though he’s done laughably little to deserve it. He didn’t not call because he didn’t think Mikey would come for him—just the opposite. And that’s not ideal, it’s something they still need to work on, but—

Mikey wraps his arms around the smaller turtle the way he’s wanted to since the second he first laid eyes on him, snug and tight and safe. 

It’s not ideal, but it matters so much. 

“The witch had us all put down our phone numbers so she could contact us about side effects to look out for,” Woody says quietly, “but that tough guy of yours took off as soon as we got the all-clear.”

“Of course he did,” Mikey says with exhausted affection. 

“I could forward the text to you when I get it?” Woody offers. He manages to look flustered through all that silky fur. It’s so easy for him to be kind, to take the risk and reach out. He’s painfully likable, the way Mikey used to be likable. 

Mikey presses his cheek to the top of Gio’s head and holds onto what sometimes feels like the only person he has left to hold onto and tries not to think about used-to-bes. Tries not to think about all the ways he falls short anymore. Tries not to think about all the people he’s let down. He failed once when he was a teenager in such a big way that he got stuck in the rut of it and never stopped. 

He already wishes for a hundred impossible things in a day, so what’s one more? 

“That’d be great,” he manages. “Thanks.”

He senses Raph before he hears him—even if he hadn’t, Woody’s faint “holy cats” would have been enough of a cue. Mikey doesn’t know how long his big brother has been hanging back, waiting for the right moment to approach, but if he had to guess he’d say probably since about ten seconds after Mikey got here. 

His silent offer to take Gio while Mikey exchanges numbers with Woody is perhaps the most surprising thing that’s happened all night. Mikey cranes his head back to stare up at him, trying to remember one—even one—instance of Raph willingly reaching out to their formerly-estranged little brother. 

Raph’s expression is complicated, too many things going on for Mikey to parse before it smooths out again.

“I got ‘im, Ange,” he says, more rueful than anything. “I know a thing or two about relocating sleeping turtles.”

Words notwithstanding, it’s been a long, long time since Raph has carried a smaller turtle anywhere, and he’s remembering how to do it in real time as Mikey passes Gio over. One big thumb brushes over a spotted shoulder. Raph at twenty-seven is a giant of a mutant, and Gio is next to nothing next to him, and holding him probably feels like being slingshot back in time. The slim curve of his black shell fits in Raph’s arm perfectly. 

“Don’t drop him,” Mikey orders. 

“Hey,” Raph says, only slightly too brittle to pass as playful, and Mikey doesn’t know which one of them he’s trying to convince when he goes on, “Raph would never.” 

And he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. They make it back to the van without incident, Mikey’s phone feeling oddly heavy in his pocket, weighed down with one new contact. Raph doesn’t speak up again until they’re halfway home. 

“He seemed nice,” Raph comments.

“Do not,” Mikey shuts it down. 

“Okay, okay.” A blissful fifteen seconds of some Top 40s song on the radio goes by, and they stop for a crosswalk light, and Raph says, “He did, though. Seem nice.”

Woody was nice. He looked out for Mikey’s little brother, and stuck around to keep Mikey company when it would have made more sense for him to wash his hands of their whole situation the second he was free to. He didn’t question any of the things Mikey was halfway braced for him to—the black snaking marks on Mikey’s arms that he didn’t think to cover up on his mad dash out the door, the dozens of faded scars on Gio’s hands and arms that wouldn’t look out of place on a profession pit-fighter, the overly-cautious way Raph handled Gio, like he was a bomb that might go off any second. He just made light-hearted conversation and let Mikey exist beside him. He didn’t know who Mikey used to be, he didn’t need anything from the person Mikey was now. 

“Then the nicest thing I could do for him is stay far, far away,” Mikey says to the passenger seat window. “Since the only thing I know how to do for people is let them down.” 

“That has never been true,” Raph says immediately. The raw hurt in his voice makes Mikey feel wretched and small. “Everyone who knows you is so lucky, Mikey. And we all know it. We know how lucky we are, sunshine.”

Mikey curls his shoulders up to his ears and turns his face more firmly away. He’s too old to cry but the window won’t tell anyone.

Much, much later—after Gio has been herded into the living room and bundled onto the sofa, a big bowl of reheated pasta in his lap that he manages to soldier through—after he mumbles, halfway into the Lou Jitsu DVD Mikey put on, “I thought I heard Raphael. Was he here?” and then dozes off again before Mikey can come up with a good answer—after Donnie makes a frowning appearance in the doorway, observing the pile his two little brothers make on the sofa like he’s conducting the world’s easiest headcount before wordlessly taking himself away again—after all of that, Mikey’s phone chimes.

Against his will, and despite his better judgment, Mikey smiles.

Chapter Text

The first weird thing Mikey noticed was one he caught pretty quick, within the first month of Gio moving in. 

This guy had no idea how to deal with people vying for his attention. He just stood there looking—well, he didn’t really look any type of way, his face an unchanging expression of ‘I could probably stab you from all the way over here and I’m willing to test that theory so don’t test me .’ But he gave off a vibe that only felt hopelessly confused when he had a bunch of younger siblings on all sides bickering about who, exactly, he should be hanging out with. 

“Don’t let them bully you, Gray,” Splinter said sternly, peeling an orange for him and glaring any time another turtle tried to slink into the room. They eavesdropped in the hallway instead. “You give them an inch and they will take a mile.” 

“He’s assassinating our characters,” Donnie grumbled, and then flailed and made muffled offended squawking sounds when Raph wrapped a hand around his mouth to shut him up before they got caught.

“It’s literally defamation,” Leo contributed, only to be plucked up in Raph’s other arm and silenced the same way.

Since Raph only had two hands, Mikey was free to chime in, “I don’t even know what dad’s talking about, we’ve never competed for attention before in our lives!” 

“BOYS,” Splinter yelled in their general direction, causing a panicked scramble in the hall. 

“It’s okay,” Gio said. “I don’t mind.” 

Mikey peeked back through the doorway. Gio was eating the pieces of fruit as they appeared on his plate carefully, one by one—as if he was trying to absorb something from them, or memorize the taste and texture of each bite, just in case it never happened again. As if he didn’t have a whole entire dad ready to start catching up on nearly twenty years’ worth of spoiling and affection. 

Sometimes, he reminded Mikey of those suspicious alleycats who approached every open hand and morsel of food on stiff legs, trying to sniff out any ill intentions before they could get hurt. But hungry, Mikey could tell, for that little bit of kindness. 

“I suppose you are probably used to it,” Splinter conceded. “Having noisy, silly brothers underfoot all time of day and night.” 

Gio didn’t have an answer for him. And he didn’t lift his face again, staring intently at the segment of fruit in his hands. And then Donnie breached containment and the twins ping-ponged into the room at full speed, and in all the chaos that followed, Gio’s studied non-reaction got buried and forgotten.

Mikey saw it, though. It settled in the back of his mind, an odd thing he poked at and tried to puzzle out. Like with all puzzles, he brought it to Leo the next time it was just the two of them, doing PT exercises together and watching miniature cooking compilations on April’s laptop.

“I think the future Georgie came from might have been super weird,” Mikey piped up. 

“Bizarro land,” Leo confirmed instantly, always and forever on the same page Mikey was on. Then he smiled, and Mikey’s half-formed worry didn’t have any solid ground to stand on, because that was Leo’s superpower. “But he knew us, right? And he knew the way home. So the important things stayed the same.” 

“Yeah,” Mikey said, buoyed by that faultless logic. “Yeah! As long as we were all there together, it couldn’t have been weird- bad. Maybe it was even weird-good!”

Leo clicked his tongue and finger-gunned at him, like he’d just made a solid and compelling argument, and Mikey beamed back. And maybe those little worries stayed under his skin where they’d made themselves a home, but they were quiet about it. He was mostly able to forget they were there. 

Then in December, another puzzle piece fell into his lap, one with edges that didn’t quite match any of the corners Mikey tried to fit it into. 

Their city was in a state of rebuilding, but it didn’t miss a beat with the holidays. Decorations went up on every street, string lights and paper snowflakes in storefront windows, buskers singing Silver Bells. There was nothing more stubborn than a New Yorker with something to prove, and Mikey and his family were New Yorkers to the core. 

Leo was still in a knee brace, and still not sleeping even more than he used to not sleep, and still making Donnie’s face do angry spasms when he discovered an empty medbay and a twin off not resting even half as much as he should have been, but he had something to prove, too. 

He refused to miss out. He didn’t want to sit still and be left behind. Like rhubarb growing in the dark, forcing its way forward, looking for the light. 

Don’t force it, Mikey would tell him, if the metaphor would make any kind of sense outside his head. The light was right here, at the kitchen table with him and in every lived-in room, it wasn’t something Leo had to go looking for. There wasn’t a single shadowed corner in their home. No one was going anywhere without him. 

They could grow at their own pace, as slow as they wanted, and it didn’t matter if Christmas was a little quieter this year. It didn’t matter if the rhubarb wasn’t as sweet as they were used to.   

But —and Mikey wouldn’t say this out loud, for the sake of Donnie’s blood pressure, and because he learned at a very young age to never give Leonardo any faint whisper of an advantage or it was so over—it was nice to have him in his usual spot at the kitchen table, filling that chair that had been empty while he was stuck in the medbay. 

Maybe Gio was thinking the same thing, because he didn’t do anything to stop Leo from reaching over his arm every five minutes, elbowing into the task Mikey gave him and being very little actual help in completing it. 

Or maybe that was just the Leo effect in action. He’d been spoiled rotten by everyone in their family since the day he was born, and Gio getting here fashionably late did not make him immune. 

“Hold the phone,” Leo said abruptly, “you ‘don’t do’ Christmas? As in you don’t like the in-your-face commercialism, or you hate it Scrooge-styles and we should be expecting a visit from three ghosts on Christmas Eve?”

“Oh, do you celebrate some other holiday?” Mikey asked. “Can you teach us what to do? Is there some kind of festive treat I need to make? I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet, I can update the list!”

Sometimes Gio looked at Mikey like he was trying to make something about him familiar. But mostly he looked at Mikey like he missed him. 

You don’t have to miss me! Mikey wanted to shout loud enough to fill the entire underground. I’m not going anywhere!

He didn’t shout that. Gio looked back down at the beads he was sorting to Mikey’s admittedly meticulous standards, giving himself space to find an answer while he focused on the task at hand. In a family of yappers, it was an eccentric little quirk. 

That was one thing about this guy—he completed tasks. He was already halfway through the huge plastic tote, each smaller compartment neatly organized by color and shape and sparkliness. Meanwhile, Leo got bored within ten minutes and started making one of those pony bead animal keychains.  

It was only annoying because Mikey had no idea Leo knew how to make those. What the heck. He had to remember to shake his infuriatingly withholding brother down for a lesson in the near future. For the time being, with great dignity, he requested an alligator.

After a moment, Gio said, “Christmas is nice. I celebrated once.”

Which was like a step to the left of actually answering the original question. Mikey glanced up from the cauliflower florets in his mixing bowl to find Gio looking Gio-esque—which is to say, expressionless—and Leo watching him closely. 

Gio didn’t like talking about where he came from—either the other dimension he was snatched away to, or the future of this dimension that he had lived in for awhile. Gio didn’t really like talking very much at all, really, but those things in particular caused a flash of something pain-adjacent, or grief-adjacent, to flash-flood his eyes and drown out the warm brown that only sometimes managed to surface, and no one wanted that, so no one pushed. 

But sometimes he gave them a puzzle piece that didn’t fit. Or one that did fit in a different spot than they thought, creating a picture a little unlike the one on the front of the box. 

With his mask slung down around his neck, Leo’s expression gave him away more than usual, but that tiny worry lurking around his eyes didn’t make it into his tone when he wheedled, “Oh yeah? What was your favorite part?”

The pause that followed was a little longer than the last one, and made Leo’s harmless question hang between them a little heavier than it was probably supposed to. 

Then Gio said, “We made sugar cookies the night before. And ate them while they were still hot.”

That sounded suspiciously like one of Mikey’s favorite parts. None of his brothers had a sweet tooth to match his and didn’t share in the joy of burnt fingertips and scalded tongue. They would laugh and say, “Angie, just let them cool,” but sugar cookies were best when they were soft and warm and crumbling in his hands. 

He tried to remember every Christmas Eve he’d ever lived, and then tried to imagine Gio there with him. 

The two of them and a plate of cookies fresh from the oven, and Leo complaining “You guys didn’t even frost them, who raised you,” and Splinter saying “I refuse to take credit for this, you know I taught you all the importance of a well-frosted dessert,” and Raph picking up a cookie and making panicked noises when it fell apart in his hand, and Donnie setting into a lecture about the health risks of eating underbaked food while April egged him on with stupid questions, and Gio smiling his quiet, barely-there smile. 

Gio was still looking at his hands, and his face gave nothing away, but Mikey thought, with an unhappy pang in his lower tummy, that they had managed to make him sad. The Christmas lights flickering cheerfully on the walls suddenly felt like a mockery. 

He had no idea how to be wanted. He held onto things like orange slices and sugar cookies as if the ones he’d already been given were the only ones he’d ever get. 

“We can do that,” Leo said abruptly. “All the cookies you can eat.” 

He put his hand on the table between them, palm-up, and Gio considered it for a second before placing his own hand in it. Leo’s fingers closed around Gio’s and squeezed, and then Leo turned his hand over to place a finished keychain in it. 

It was an adorable ladybug, red with a black stripe down the middle and three sparkly black spots on each side, held together with bright turquoise thread. 

Gio smoothed his thumb over the beads, all of them turning in place in their neat little rows, then finally lifted his eyes. 

Leo smiled, silly and sweet, the way he smiled at Mikey after bad days and bad dreams. He would go on being the silliest and sweetest turtle in the whole world until the upset sibling in front of him wasn’t upset anymore. It was one of those things about him that was impossible to replicate and unspeakable to even consider living without. 

“I was thinking we should incorporate some new traditions this year,” he said. “Tío’s family sets off fireworks on Christmas. That’d be kind of impossible down here, but we could find an empty parking lot to set on fire instead. I know Tello would love an excuse to design some brightly-colored explosives for the occasion. What do you think, Gigi?”

Gio shook his head, but the corners of his mouth had softened in that familiar tell all of them loved, the one that meant a reluctant smile was about to crawl onto his face. 

“I think you owe Angie an alligator,” he said. 

Mikey beamed at him, and Gio’s almost-smile became the real thing. Whatever ghosts were haunting him, they weren’t the loudest thing in the room anymore. And whatever picture Gio’s puzzle pieces were going to make in the end was probably going to be a really good one, as long as they were all in it together. 

Chapter Text

Something makes April stop on the way home. Her walk slows until she’s standing motionless and Casey turns back when he realizes she’s not in step with him anymore. 

“What’s up?” he says. 

“Not sure,” she replies. “Kinda want to check on the guys.”

It’s a credit to those people who raised him after the end of the world, she thinks, that his knee-jerk reaction is still one of concern, even now, after everything. 

“Did something happen?” he asks. 

“Just a funny feeling,” April tells him. 

But she’s learned to trust those funny feelings ever since a night several years ago when she tossed and turned in bed for an hour before giving into the unexplainable urge to march herself down to the lair. 

April had found Raphael near catatonic, tears dripping down his face and familiar baby blue stuffie in his hands. It had tumbled out of a box that fell in the storage closet he’d been rummaging through. Sometimes the grief jumped out at them like that, in places they least expected to find it, like it was brand-new. Sometimes the sight of a stuffed unicorn, worn and misshapen from being loved so much, was enough to sucker punch the air clean out of your lungs and make it hurt to breathe in again. 

And if April hadn’t come by, no one would have known. Raph wouldn’t have said anything. He would have sat alone through that pain like he was paying penance.   

That’s why April only lingers for a moment before making her decision. It’s late, she has work in the morning, but she knows she won’t be able to sleep until she makes sure everyone’s okay. 

There’s a hidden access hatch a few city blocks away, tucked into an easily-overlooked sidestreet. The old tunnel it opens into is one lined with Genius Built motion sensor lights all the way home. Casey follows April underground and walks the track with her until it forks off in two directions, and then he hangs back to wait there. He’s not willing to test his welcome tonight, equally as unwilling to start a fight. It’s the end of a very long week. 

Maybe it’s nothing, April tells herself. Then she rounds the corner and comes face to face with her littlest sibling, sitting on the edge of the platform, just outside what amounts to the lair’s front door. 

Gio blinks at her, eyes deep and dark, no hint of brown in the low light. His resting expression is as inscrutable as Donnie used to wish his was—as Donnie’s is now that all things sweet and curious and eager have been threshed from him, now that the whole of him is half what it used to be—but his face is turned towards her. He’s watchful, waiting to see what she needs, wanting to be needed by any of them in any way that he can. 

And he’s bleeding right through an old dish towel. The blood is dripping from the meat of his thigh, plopping soundlessly into a small puddle on the ground. 

“Hi, April,” he says when she only stands there gaping at him. 

“Hi yourself,” she replies tersely. It’s about one-tenth of the reaction she’d like to have, but she knows better than to raise her voice at a traumatized teenager. She has an unfortunate amount of experience with those, having been one herself once upon a time. “I’m gonna need an explanation for this one, babe.”

Gio looks down at where she’s looking, the red smeared across his fingers and the sodden terry cloth stained well past repair. 

“It’s not that bad,” he has the audacity to say to her face. 

April steps on her first, second and third impulse to rattle Gio like a snowglobe. Instead, she texts Casey, a quick ‘your EMT services are needed ASAP’. 

Then she hikes up her shirt and unbuckles her belt, sliding it out of her jeans and kneeling next to Gio to wrap it around his leg instead. She waits for his permission to touch, and he moves his hand out of the way when he realizes what she’s doing. April cinches the belt tight, keeping the towel in place and consistent pressure on the wound. 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she says, elevating his leg carefully with both hands. She knows this much, at least. “Let’s start with what happened. Specifics. Details. Exposition.”

Eye contact is off the table, Gio’s shoulders straightening to attention instead of hunching up by his ears the way he’d probably like them to. 

His stress responses are so backwards. When he looks the most like he’s ready for a fight is when April knows he wants to turn and run.

But he didn’t flinch when April approached him, and he didn’t go statue-still beneath her hands. Progress, best measured in baby steps, but she’s proud of every deliberate, hard-won inch. 

In a quiet, measured voice, Gio tells her that he had been on his way home through the Hidden City—and of course it was that fucking place, April thinks—when he walked into the middle of a robbery. 

“Not really the middle,” he corrects himself. “It was mostly over. The shopkeeper’s daughter stabbed me by accident.”

“She stabbed you,” April says, fury and disbelief fist-fighting for first place in her tone. “By accident.”

“The police brought the real thief over and the shopkeeper started yelling at her and she started crying. She kept apologizing to me.”

Left unsaid is the obvious and it made me uncomfortable so I left.

“And the reason you didn’t wake anyone up when you got home and continued to bleed?” April presses. She can hear pounding footfalls behind her, echoing dully through the tunnel, as Casey eats up the distance between them at a steady run.  

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” Giorgio says. April could set all the clocks by this kid’s anxiety about taking up space anywhere. 

Sometimes, she thinks, it seems impossible that Gio hasn’t been here all along—growing up with his big brothers, learning all of their bad habits firsthand, following in their crooked footsteps. 

Since that obviously isn’t what happened, the only other possible explanation is that all five of them inherited that same ridiculous stubborn streak directly from their dad. It makes April want to march up to Splinter and give him a good shake. Knock the fog and cobwebs from his head and make him look. 

Look at your baby, she’d say, before you lose him, too. 

“Aw, Georgie,” Casey says when he gets there, all sympathy. He’s not even winded as he boosts himself onto the platform and takes a knee on Gio’s other side. He peels back a corner of the towel for a brief look at what he’s working with. “Gimme a number on a pain scale of one to ten.”

“Four,” Gio says.

“So an eight,” Casey replies, sounding so much like Leo it makes April want to laugh and cry at the same time. Gio’s brow twitches, as if he’d like to scowl but he’s too polite to. She’s seen him mean-mug total strangers, so it must only be his family that he tiptoes around. “Up you go, kid. The infirmary should have what we need.”

Between the two of them, April and Casey get the spotted turtle on his feet. He’s so small, it makes April want to march into the Hidden City and pick a fight with whoever so much as looked at him wrong, let alone stabbed him in a fit of mistaken vigilante justice. 

He doesn’t sway or even seem lightheaded as they make their way through the quiet lair toward the medbay. But Gio would straight face his way through just about anything, so April keeps holding his elbow. If he passes out or tries to pull a fast one on them and make a break for it she’ll be ready either way.

But he walks obediently where he’s led, with one nervous sideways look in the direction of his brothers’ bedrooms. Probably hoping that they can keep from waking his self-appointed guardian if they’re quiet enough. 

There’s no way in hell that Mikey isn’t waiting up for him to come home, April thinks, but she’ll let Gio figure that out for himself. 

April thinks, for the one millionth time, that Leo would have adored Gio. He would have gotten this kid out of his shell faster than any of them. They’d be thick as thieves, Gio the straight man to Leo’s wise guy, and Leo would finally have to cope with a sibling who could outstubborn him any day of the week. 

“Over to the sink,” Casey says, flipping the lights on with his free hand. “We need to flush it out first. April, could you—”

“On it,” she says. “This isn’t my first rodeo,” she adds for Gio’s benefit, sparing a second to pinch his cheek because it’s her god-given right as his big sister. He looks like he has no idea how to feel about that and she quits while she’s ahead. 

Casey scrubs up and gets to work. He hasn’t driven an ambulance around Brooklyn for the last five years for nothing. April moves around the room and gathers everything her roommate will need for some DIY sutures and Casey irrigates the puncture wound in Gio’s thigh with saline solution and a plastic syringe until he’s satisfied that it’s clean. 

Gio doesn’t know what to do with this amount of attention, eyes moving from Casey to April to Casey’s hands and back up to Casey again. Like no one has ever done this for him before, despite the dozens of pale, faded scars littering his arms and legs. If it were up to him, he’d still be back in that tunnel, bleeding through a towel, as unobtrusive and unlikely to make a sound as an unwanted dog. 

He’s been here nearly half a year and he still doesn’t understand that home is where you’re allowed to get blood on the floor and wake people up in the middle of the night. You’re allowed to make a mess and be a bit of a burden. Some burdens are a privilege, and life would be entirely empty without those things in it that were hard to carry, those things you clung to and carried anyway. 

But how is he supposed to know that? Only half of his family is even trying to teach him. 

“Alright,” Casey says, catching Gio’s eye, “this will hurt. I want you to tell me if I need to stop.”

“And absolutely no Leo-isms,” April says without thinking. “Or I’m liable to scream.”

As soon as she says it, she wishes she could take it back. She’s waiting for that knee-jerk reaction that Leo’s name always causes, the immediate flinch from it like brushing against the hot elements of a stove, his memory burning to the touch. 

But Casey’s mouth only quirks in a half-smile, fondness beating sadness by a mile. And Gio’s expression is openly curious. 

April is a Hamato by adoption, by choice, and so she lacks the self-hatred that runs rampant in all the others. She knows that she loved Leo with every inch of her, and she knows that he knows he was loved by her. She told him all the time, she hugged him every day. If she could go back and relive the whole thing, there’s nothing she would do differently. Maybe she would cling for an extra minute or two there at the end and ultimately have to be wrestled away, but who wouldn’t?

She’ll never stop missing him, but the love is so much bigger. April hates that she can’t talk about her obnoxious, smart-mouthed, surprisingly sweet little brother as much as he deserves to be talked about with the only other people who knew him. 

Mikey is trying, April has seen it for herself. He lights up a little more every day, the way April didn’t know he could anymore, ever since Gio moved in. He plays music in the kitchen and bakes cookies and coffee cake. He burst out laughing at April’s stupid impression of her coworker last week, sunny and lively and perfect, and it felt like a miracle. It felt like being fifteen again.

If Gio asked him, Mikey would tell him anything he wanted to know. But Gio is as careful with Mikey as Mikey is with him. Neither of them is willing to do anything that might hurt the other. And Gio would sooner eat his bow than ask Raph or Donnie. 

But none of them are in the room. And Casey is smiling, and April has never given Gio any reason to flinch away from her. So he dares to venture, overly-careful, “Leo-isms?”

Casey starts the first stitch and Gio goes stock-still, face tightening with pain. April leans in until he’s looking at her, ready to play distraction for as many stitches as it takes to make him whole again. 

“Have you ever heard that saying about medics making the absolute worst patients?” April says. “Because Leo proved that true every time he so much as sprained his ankle.”

“He never grew out of it,” Casey adds. “It was impossible keeping him in the medbay for longer than five minutes, especially after—especially when the best people at bossing him around couldn’t do it anymore.”

Gio doesn’t say anything, hands gripping the edge of the counter he’s sitting on as the suture needle goes back in. But he’s listening, absorbing every word. 

“He started teaching himself medicine when he was a kid,” April says. “Donnie hates blood and bodily fluids and would sooner peel his own skin off than handle any of that stuff. Mikey and Raph—they’re the toughest guys you’ll ever meet, but also the squishiest, and they’re sympathetic criers. It’s a whole thing. So Leo figured it had to be him.”

“He was smarter than he let most people think,” Casey says, eyes flicking up to check Gio’s expression as he works. “But it got him in trouble a lot.”

“That boy could talk circles around everybody. He’d get you arguing about something completely unrelated to the original point you were trying to make, or agreeing with him just to shut him up. Smug little asshole,” April says with whole-hearted affection. “And when all of that didn’t work, he’d pout. It was unbearable and he made himself everyone else’s problem until we gave in.”

“Plus, he could literally teleport.” 

“He could literally teleport!” April reiterates, widening her eyes to impress upon Gio the absurdity of attempting to wrangle a teleporting turtle. “We lost every fight to keep him in this goddamn infirmary before it even started. I don’t know if we’re painting a clear enough picture for you. He was the worst.”

“The worst,” Casey agrees, taking his hands away and sitting back. “And you’re done.”

Gio blinks and looks down at the row of neat stitches in his leg. He seems surprised to find them finished already. 

Casey packs a bandage there carefully and wraps it with gauze to keep it in place. He unthinkingly brushes his thumb over Gio’s knee while he works—it’s an act of comfort he learned directly from the man he learned everything else from, and it causes Gio’s expression to do something tender and flinching. It hurts April to watch. 

“Keep it bandaged for the next couple days, and change it if it gets wet,” Casey says. “And—actually, I’ll text you some instructions.”

“And you’ll follow them, or else,” April says, and follows the command with a kiss to the top of Gio’s head that he sits completely still for. “Now scoot. You’ll have to face the music in the morning when Mike sees that leg.”

Gio slips off the counter and lands solidly on his feet. He reminds April of a little terminator turtle, steady and relentless, because he was never taught the fine art of making his trouble someone else’s problem. Of making a mess, making his needs heard. 

It’s not too late to teach him. All they need is time. 

“Hey,” she says to Casey, when Gio has slipped out of the room and the two of them are left to clean up and return the infirmary to dormancy. “Thank you.”

It’s not easy for him to be here in the halfway home he was soundly rejected from. Donnie’s grief was vicious and toothed in its infancy, and dug into Casey as the one to blame, and neither of them ever really came back from it. 

But Casey gives April a rueful look, shrugging one shoulder, as if to say what else could I do?

Casey didn’t question her last-second detour, because he gets it. That sixth-sense.

He used to get lost in the city, he told her once. There were a few instances when he got so mixed up he didn’t even recognize the street he was on. But every time that happened, every time the panic started to crest inside him like a living, gnawing thing, he’d find himself turning, almost automatically, almost as if someone had called his name. And there was never anyone there—and almost everyone who knew his name in this timeline wouldn’t be willing to call it anyway—but if Casey walked in that direction his heart had turned him in, he would always get home sooner or later. 

It made April think of a reckless, lionhearted boy who loved his family to death. Mischievous and sarcastic and charming and always looking farther ahead than the rest of them. Always looking out. 

For better or worse, April has picked up that mantle. She doesn’t know how well she’s doing half the time. She’s pretty sure she failed Donatello completely, but if he thinks for one second that she’s going to let him slip through her fingers, he’s not as smart as all his PhDs would suggest.

She doesn’t think Raph still trusts her the way he used to, but he still folds himself down into her arms when she hugs him like it’s the one place he’s allowed to be small. And Mikey, the miracle himself, the one she secretly worries about the most, is making friendship bracelets again. 

It gives April hope. Bruised, knocked-down, never-knowing-when-to-give-up hope. 

Leo, she says inside her head, just in case he’s listening somewhere, I meant what I said. You were the worst. Figuring this shit out without you is hell on earth. I wish you were here, baby. Love you forever. 

She remembers the sound of his laughter so clearly that she almost actually hears it. He would have thrown his arm around her, smushing himself against her side, all bratty and little brother and certain of the space he was allowed to take up. He would have said something like, April O’Neil herself. Just what the doctor ordered. We’d be lost without you.

The irony would go right over his head.

April walks with Casey back through the lair—dark and sleeping and only half-lived-in anymore—and thinks it’s clearly the other way around.

Chapter Text

When Raph met Giorgio for the first time, he didn't know how to react. 

He listened to Donnie laugh, cruel and hurt, hurting so much the knife of it cut Raph through all layers of flesh straight to his soul. The desperate want on Mikey's face, almost frantic, eyes darting around like they might take this – this miracle away from him.

Raph didn't react. He felt completely numb, cataloguing the familiar eyes shining out from a young, young, young face. He must've been Leo's age, because Leo in Raph's mind was eternally the same painful youth. He didn't turn Gio away – he couldn't, not when everything felt so familiar in the worst way – but he didn't welcome him in either. 

That night, he carefully turned the thought of a new brother in his mind. Over the last ten years, he'd had far too much time left alone with his own thoughts. 

This was not a good thing. The biggest brother, the oldest, meant to protect. He'd failed. He wasn't enough. He couldn't win, because Raph protected then Leo turned around and said, 'hero moves are totally your style' which ten years later was twisted into an eternal, 'this is all your fault'. He couldn't protect them, couldn't save them, he didn't win either way. And this revelation of a lost brother pulled him to pieces. He was frozen in indecision, paralyzed, trapped. He didn't know how to react to Gio. 

So he didn't. 

[]

After Gio decided to stay with them, Raph didn't know what to do. 

Mikey glared warningly, over eggs and toast behind the kid's back when Raph sat with them for breakfast. And Raph had no roadmap, no path to follow, he was the oldest, he was the trailblazer. He didn't know how to do this without fucking it up again. 

Instead he tightened his hands into fists and breathed through his nose, trying to find something inside him that still knew how to be a big brother.

He wanted to try. He did. The more he saw the steadfast tenacity and the stubborn cockroach survival in this kid, he wanted to know him. He just didn't know how, all the edges of his shell had never felt more sharp. 

The longer that Raph sat with them, the more Mikey's shoulders relaxed. He passed orange juice over the table. Gio looked at him in the corner of his eye, wondering, but didn't ask anything of him. Afterwards, Mikey's gaze was far more charitable, reminiscent of what Raph used to be gifted daily and took for granted. 

"Thanks." Mikey said, after Gio asked to be dismissed from the table, leaving two older brothers circling the bottom of their coffee cups, lingering. Raph made himself stay seated, remembering an old promise he used to have, to never leave the table until all his brothers were up. To never leave someone alone. 

"I don't know how to do this." Raph admitted to the coffee mug, spoon lines encircling the bottom. 

"Do what?" Mikey pried, because he pried, because he never gave up, because he was the good and the sun and the whole wide world belonged to him. 

Raph wasn't any of that. He gestured weakly, like it might explain.

"This is all you need." Mikey caught his hand and squeezed, until Raph looked up and met the quietly blazing eyes. "Being here. That's all.”

Raph swallowed, throat bobbing. He didn’t move, a statue, feeling the warmth of his baby brothers grip. After a long, painful moment, he withdrew his hand and looked away. 

“That's all we ever needed.” Mikey added, voice blank. He stood up from the table, taking his mug to the sink and beginning the dishes. 

Raph hesitated. He thought about turning away, disappearing to his room, into the city, anywhere else where it didn’t hurt and he didn’t hurt anyone. Then exhaled slowly through his nose, standing and bringing his mug to follow its brother. 

Then he grabbed a dish cloth and dried. Raph didn’t say anything. Mikey didn’t look at him. It was tense. But it could’ve been worse. It could’ve been nothing at all.

[]

At least once a week, Raph had a recurring dream.

He was nine years old. He still fit inside the hand-me-down sweater his daddy gave him, pulling soft knit over growing spikes. He was strong enough to carry Mikey on his shell, and keep hold of a twin in each hand. Donnie always tugging to try and get away to investigate something, and Leo laughing in his ear. In the dream, he can never see any of them, only the sewer path ahead of them, dripping with humidity, and the small warm weight of baby Mikey on his back, the wiggling grip of Donnie in his left hand and the tight reassuring squeeze of Leo on his right. 

The dream started the same every single time, this imaginary scenario of his brothers, somehow preserved in his mind despite everything. And then it would change. The floor would crumble, the ceiling would collapse, the weight would vanish off his back, the grip slip between his fingers, feet encased in sand, laughter turned into too realistic screams pulled from stomped-on memories. Or the water would rise, creeping up Raph's neck, and he couldn't raise his baby brothers above his head, dripping water into haunting silence. Or his right hand was empty, and he didn't know why. Or his right hand was empty and he did know why. 

This time, this dream, it started the same. His gaze was forward, the cracks in the sewers, and then there was another, sitting alone. 

"Look." Mikey on his back said, pointing. 

Raph looked. But he had no more hands, no more space on his young shell. He wanted to help, but he couldn't. He couldn't let go. 

"Come on, Raphie." Leo's voice whispered. "You've got to reach out to him."

"I can't let go of you." Raph said, and he didn't know why he was crying. Leo was right there. He could feel him, pressed against his right. But the swarming heat in his eyes was a rush of rolling tide water, pouring out from him in overwhelming waves of tears. 

"Psh, come on, big guy." Leo's charming voice was not the baby-faced five year old he should be in this scenario, dream-logic accepting the change to sixteen blindly. "There's no limit on how much love you've got in there. I know that better than anyone."

"Please." Mikey said, in his ear. Arms around his neck. 

Silence from his left. Lifeless in his grip. 

The new presence sat alone, ahead of them. Raph couldn't move. Tear dripped down, wet sobs catching in his throat, and the waking thoughts of I am not enough I am not enough followed faithful companions into his dreams.

The cold crept in. Raph didn't move. And he woke up, gasping for air, hysterical with the tears. Because no matter what, any dream with Leo gutted him. He missed him in an inexcusable way, in an undeserved way, full of guilt and misery. Sometimes his strongest memories were of the screaming matches and endless arguments they'd had before he died. Of how frustrated and angry he'd been. 

And then these dreams would come, with the sugar-sweet of Leo's voice, reminding him so agonizingly that at the end of the day, at the end of everything, Leo had adored Raph. And he couldn't look at himself in the mirror without knowing that it had killed him.

Being loved by Leo was the best thing he ever had and losing it was the worst thing that ever happened to him. He had a painful well of love to give this clever, bright, sweet, funny, wonderful boy and no where to put it, it just kept burning him from the inside out. Leo was gone. Raph couldn't let go. 

And Raph couldn't catch his breath. His chest was beginning to hurt, distantly, unimportantly. He fought off blankets, drenched in sweat, so he could hunch over and scrape together some air. 

It didn't help. Every wave crested back to the drowning gasps, head dunking under water at the constant reality that Leo was dead, he was never going to stop being dead, and Raph would never be nine years old with them all safe around him ever again. 

His bedroom door creaked, and Raph's head snapped up. He was expecting Mikey, because who else would it be? But he was proven wrong as he saw Donatello, in the flesh and blood and a Mikey-special crochet blanket over his shoulders. Raph stared at him in undisguised surprise, laid bare and layers peeled back from the vulnerability of the fact that he, rather embarrassingly, still couldn't stop sobbing.

Donnie stiffly entered, shutting the door behind him, turning on the bedside lamp, and taking Raph's desk chair. He tapped his phone, and the sound of a rhythmic metronome ticked throughout the room. Without speaking, Donnie began an dramatic inhale for the length of six ticks, held, and exhaled in the same. 

"Follow along, Raphael." Donnie said after a minute, prim and brisk. "I'm not doing this for my health."

Right. Right. Raph was merely too stunned, because at most they exchanged icy conversations and avoided each other – letting himself into Raph's room in the middle of the night was uncharted territory. Though once upon a time it wasn't, it used to be one two or three brothers at time in the doorway, cold feet against his shins under blankets and snoring in his ear. 

But it was obvious Donnie wasn't here for himself. Other than looking tired, Donnie seemed fine. He was insistently breathing in time with the metronome, waiting the good ten minutes it took until Raph managed to catch his breath and do the same. 

"Your heart rate spiked alarmingly." Donnie explained, in the dull and softened edges of the middle of the night, looking at his hands. 

Raph's mind ran ahead of him. The love language of Donnie tracking his vitals, as invasive as always as a form of affection, and the undeniable truth that he showed up to help. In person, not behind the lab door, not sending someone else to do it. Despite the fact that Donnie was very pointedly looking anywhere but him, the levels uncomfortable one would usually find in torture chambers – Donnie doing this for him. 

"You don't have to do this." Raph said, with his newly found breath. 

"You were hyperventilating." Donnie replied. "You needed assistance. I provided."

This was certainly not the first time Raph had woken in the middle of the night in such a state. But it was the first time Donnie had come. The only difference now was that it was the first time since Mikey asked Gio to stay with them. 

Donnie was crawling out of his hole towards their new light. But Raph didn't understand why that would include him. 

Raph said, "That's not what I meant."

Lamp a warm yellow against the ceiling. Too silent air filled with their tempered breathing. Hangover of time, late and early all together. 

"Do you think I hate you?" Donnie asked, blunt. He kept his eyes on his hands, picking at his fingernails. 

Raw honesty pulled from deep, the salt still drying on his cheeks. "Shouldn't you?"

Donnie didn't answer, hands tightening. The silence pickled the room in sour atmosphere. 

"Sorry." Raph said, voice rough, scrubbing at his face and turning away. "I shouldn't put that on you." 

"Don't ascribe aspirations to me." Donnie agreed, standing up. His tone was cold, but the words were water on a burn, "Just because you blame you for what happened, doesn't mean I do."

Before Raph could even think of comprehending the statement, let alone replying, Donnie swept from the room and left him alone again.

[]

The reality was that Raph was scared. 

When Raph was scared as a little kid, he'd follow his father around like a duckling until Splinter turned with indulgent eyes, crouching to his level and asking what was wrong to his shadow. As he grew older, he'd voice his worries to Donnie who would logically and scientifically dissect every inch of the problem until Raph had to bow to the undeniable truths of his genius brother. He'd sit in the kitchen with Mikey, until the contagious cheer and humming and warmth of the oven melted all the fear away into a puddle on the floor, soothed by the balm of the sun of a baby brother.

But most of all, he'd merely put himself in Leo's line of sight, and his little brother, best friend, his right hand man, would see that he was scared and make it better. Hold his hand as they walked. Talk about something inane. Talk about something important. Mitigate the situation causing him stress. Problem solve. Hug him. Alleviate his fears without ever being told what they were. 

As an adult, Raph had none of these things — both because they were outside his reach, or because he put them outside his reach. Not seeking reassurance, for the plain fact that he didn’t deserve it. 

And looking at the gift their family had been given so belated, so delayed, so late to the party … Raph was scared of what it meant, what would happen if he welcomed Gio in, and what it said about Raph that he hadn't. He wasn't the same big brother that carried them everywhere anymore. In the wink of a portal, Raph had thought, I can't come back from this, and he never did. 

To walk in a room and see Gio sitting there struck Raph with unspeakable terror, heart skipping a beat, all his doubts and second guesses running frantic circles in his mind. A young kid on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest, movie paused. He recognized the opening scene of Tangled on the screen, frozen still of a frying pan in Rapunzel's hand. There was popcorn gunshots from the kitchen and the waft of butter, telling of where Mikey had gone. 

Raph was frozen in the doorway, muscles vibrating with tension, the desire to turn around and flee, only stalled by the memory of Mikey's face over coffee telling him be here be here be here. Gio looked at him, the placid stare betrayed by a cautious smile, uncurling his legs to put his feet back on the floor, facing Raph with gentle attention. 

"Tangled." Raph stated the obvious, for a lack of anything to say, feeling silly but heart pounding too hard to give him something better.

Gio gave a slow nod. "I've never seen it before."

Raph glanced towards the popping kitchen, knowing Mikey would take that lack of culture as a crime. He wanted to tell Gio that he would enjoy the movie, but the pathetic truth was that Raph didn't know the kid well enough to make that claim. Once upon a time, Raph knew his brothers' tastes down to the smallest detail, sorting Skittles colours for Donnie and pinching art stickers for Mikey and music vibes per mood for Leo. It was a bone deep-shame that he couldn't think of single thing Gio would like. 

Mikey emerged, a bowl of popcorn in each hand, and though his eyes flickered to Raph, he barely broke his stride to cross the room and plop on the couch next to Gio, nudging their shoulders together with a sticky-honey smile. "Extra-extra butter, how it should be. Help yourself, Clementine."

Raph had to blink spots of his eyes, the shadow of a charming smile waggling a bag of gummy worms and teasing the little brother tucked under his arm, early bird gets the worm, Angelito.

It was hard to stop being so afraid, when there was a ghost following Raph everywhere he went. 

"Are you staying, or what?" Mikey said, dangling the bowl of popcorn towards Raph in offer. Gio had drawn his legs back up to his chest to hug, watching Raph from the corner of his eyes. 

It was an immediate clench of his heart. An echo, be here be here. Raph couldn't look away from Gio's pillbug curl. 

"Yeah. Start without me, I'll be right back." Raph replied, turning around and leaving before he could doubt himself. He grabbed some stuff from his room and found the two little brothers were still waiting for him, movie paused, twisted to watch him enter. 

"I said start." Raph claimed a beanbag, exasperated. 

"Please." Mikey scoffed, but his eyes were on the three plushies in his arms. "Are those for us? Can I have –"

"Wait." Raph said, feeling a flush to his face, but insistent, "Gio's gotta pick."

"Ooooh." Mikey's mouth rounded out in understanding, then split in a smile that made him look about ten years younger. "You're so right, he does." 

"What are they?" Gio leaned forward to see them better, curious. 

"Pokemon." Raph set the trio between his knees. 

"Pick one." Mikey whispered conspiratorially, bumping their shoulders together on the couch. 

Gio's eyes flickered between the three options, assessing with a sincere amount of critical thought. Then gaze turned up, glancing between each other brother. 

"There's not a wrong answer." Mikey nudged. 

Gio hummed softly. He looked at Raph one more time, before pointing at the Charmander. 

"Great choice." Raph said, extending the stuffie to him. "Hold this."

Gently, Gio took the fire Pokemon and held it in his hand. Mikey grinned, shamelessly plucking the Squirtle from Raph's left knee to squeeze. It left Raph with the Bulbasaur, which was what he wanted anyway. 

Mikey started the movie, passing over the popcorn bowl to Raph with a grateful wink. A buttery reward. An innocent movie, good guys win. Raph ate a whole bowl of popcorn to himself, tucking the bulbous plushie under his arm. Mikey provided running commentary, gesturing with his Squirtle. And Gio…

Slowly, the serious face drew Charmander into his small tight bubble, pulling the plush to chest and wrapping both arms around it. Head tipping down, cheek squishing against the top of the Pokemon's head. 

Raph stared, because his throat was tight, his heart thudding, his mind rolling over itself. Gio hugged like he had so much love to give, all crushed up tight inside him. Something stomped down and compressed, just like the crunched little ball he'd pulled himself into. 

Beside him, Mikey caught Raph staring. Shoulders up, on guard, with a protective tilt, ready to insert himself between Raph and Gio if needed. Wary. Only to soften like the butter on their popcorn as soon as their eyes met. Giving a fierce moment of connection – he's something special.

Raph always knew his brothers were special. His whole life he'd watched them in awe, carried them to the heights they deserved, and loved them relentlessly the whole way. And in this moment, his grip on his plushie tightened to a stranglehold of a grip as he realized that count was starting to include Gio too. Thawing something old and sore, a muscle long atrophied. 

It hurt. The movie finished and Raph left, even as Mikey was cueing up a second. He didn't explain himself, an Irish goodbye, returning to his room thinking about that first moment Mikey brought a new brother home. How the numbness washed over him, and he didn't know how to react, and he didn't welcome the found brother home. 

There was a knock on his door. Hesitant. Unintrusive. Raph had been staring at his bedroom wall trying to reconcile everything. He got up slow, and opened the door to find Gio standing there, two plushies in his arms. 

"Thank you." Gio said, polite, tipping his head, offering them back. 

Raph took only Squirtle. Then turned away before he said, "Keep it, kid." 

Gio did not reply. Raph busied himself putting Squirtle back on his shelf beside Bulbasaur. When he risked turning back, Gio was staring at him with wide, dark eyes, fingers white where they clutched the Charmander plush. Tugging it almost subconsciously closer to his plastron. Then he swallowed, raised his chin, and said, "You don't have to do that, Raphael."

The death grip on the plush said otherwise. Raph flicked his gaze up and made sure to look directly at him when he said, "I want you to have it."

"Oh." Gio replied, slowly wrapping both arms around the squishy plush, pancaked against him. "Thank you."

Just a fucking kid. Raph couldn't help but catch all the scars he knew nothing about, the watchful gaze, the guilty self-soothing. The siren song of, here's a little brother that needs a hug, hadn't been so loud in a decade. 

"You're welcome." Raph said, voice rough, and had to turn away again. Too much. He couldn't quite give what Gio truly deserved, but he could give this. 

"Good night, Raphael." Gio said to his back.

Raph shut his eyes, swallowing around a shattered feeling in his throat, and croaked back, "Good night, Gio."

[]

The sound of shattering glass jerked Raph to reality. 

For a frozen beat, nobody moved. The kitchen was vibrating with the reverb of the noise, the three present completely still. 

"Shoot." Mikey said into the vacuum, wrinkling his nose. His glass Pyrex measuring cup was in a thousand glass crystal pieces on the floor, hands still held up from where his sleeve had caught the handle as he turned and sent it to the floor. "My bad."

"They're like ten bucks, we'll get you another one." Raph assured immediately. "Watch the glass." 

"I'll get the broom." Mikey said, edging away from the mess and heading for the hall closet. 

Raph had been distantly flicking through the news at the table, but abandoned his chair without thinking for a second when he saw Gio move. The young turtle had been effectively trapped against the counter by the glass, and was winding up to leap over the shards. The moment his feet left the ground, Raph caught him in a big arm and carried him away from the danger in a big arc.

Gio's throat caught in a gasp, clutching his arm at the sudden flight, still as stone when Raph set him down again into safety.

"Sorry." Raph said, equally big eyed, and explained inadequately. "You're… you're not wearing any shoes."

Gio glanced down, then said, "Neither are you."

"Which is why I'm not jumping over a bunch of glass." Raph could feel in this song in dance, that he'd wrestle the little brother under his arm and give them a noogie for such a stunt. But he didn't know if Gio would want that, so he didn't move. 

Not moving meant that he still had Gio wrapped in his strong arm. And the moment Gio leaned into his hold it startled the terrified little rabbit inside him into action, disengaging and putting two feet of distance between them. Then cursing internally, because Gio's hand chased after the touch for only a second before withdrawing guiltily towards his plastron. Raph opened his mouth to apologize, for something, everything, but Mikey swept back into the room with the broom. 

Gio didn't even look hurt at the rejection, merely resigned and crouching to assist Mikey to pick up the bigger shards and plop them into the dustpan. 

"Careful, baby, you're not wearing any shoes." Mikey said, and Raph wanted to laugh, acidic and bubbling in the back of his throat. He wanted to run away, to leave, to take away his inadequacy. But he wasn't doing that anymore. He needed to stretch the muscle. It was an absolute crime that Mikey had grown hair and Raph hadn't noogied it yet. 

"Neither are you, Mike." Raph wrangled his brother under his arm and fulfilled a prophecy that Leo never would've let hang for so long, making a huge mess of the ponytail as Mikey squawked. 

"Getoff!" Mikey was just as wily at this age as the last time they wrestled, squirming to kick Raph with his bare foot on his face. 

Raph ignored him with ease and swung him away from the mess. "I'll handle it. You two sit."

Mikey appraised him with a look, and he likely would've argued, if it weren't for the quiet plink plink plink of Gio still picking glass up off the floor. 

"You heard the man, Georgie." Mikey squeezed Raph's arm before climbing out of his grip. "Looks like we'll have to start eating those cookies now." 

Gio looked up, carefully drawing his hand away. Raph forced himself to smile, making a little shoo motion from the glass. He said, "Get them while they're hot."

The two had the still-steaming cookies, feet pulled up as Raph swept. He'd put shoes on, because he didn't want to be a hypocrite. A bad example. And when he was done, Mikey rewarded him with a cookie. His wavering smile said thank you a hundred times sweeter than the chocolate chips. 

As Raph circled the table to return the broom to the closet, he hesitated by Gio, and said, "Don't let this guy drop anything else, hey?" 

"Hey!" Mikey protested, eyes crinkling. 

"I'll keep an eye on him." Gio said, dry, looking up at him with their dad's eyes. 

Raph swallowing the balloon of fear expanding in his throat, hand shaking a little as he reached out and knuckled the top of his head playfully. "Knew I could count on you."

Gio's breath caught. Raph left, heart thundering, hoping that he wasn't fucking it up. 

[]

"Donnie?" 

Raph watched as Donnie flinched, turning a wary eye behind him. He was standing outside Gio's room, monitoring something on his bracer. 

Raph joined him, looking at the vitals stats scrolling. It was late, middle of the night, Raph had gotten up to try and work off some energy in the dojo since he couldn't sleep. He didn't want to know what kind of dreams he would have now. 

"He's having a nightmare." Donnie reported, monotone and expression flat, but itching at his skin. 

The fact that Donnie was standing there and not monitoring silently from his lab proved that despite everything, he was trying too. But instead of letting himself into the room like he had with Raph, he was stuck outside the door. 

"You could go in." Raph offered, not able to hide the uncertainty from his voice.

"He wouldn't want me in there." Donnie intoned, stiff. 

Raph had no idea what Gio would want. He attempted, "He wouldn't want to be stuck in a nightmare."

Donnie glared at him. "This isn't the same as you. I've never been a brother to him."

"It's not the same." Raph agreed, hurting in tandem with the ache written all over his little brother. Despite his words, Donnie was still here, still hovering, still wanting to help and not knowing how. It was a very painful common ground to have with him, but they had it nonetheless. "It's something different."

A strangled cry through the door. Raph met Donnie's eye for one more moment, before he tapped on the frame and let himself inside, not letting himself think. He left it open, an invitation to the genius outside, and used the light from outside to lead him to Gio's bedside.

The room was too plain, too sterile, too cold. No wonder the littler turtle was shivering like mad, a fisted hand digging into the mattress, trembling breaths. Raph had no idea if he was awake, and ventured, "Giorgio?"

No response. Raph made himself smaller, sitting on the floor, and said with more volume, keeping his tone light, "Giorgio."

A gasp. Loud and sudden, and the bonk as his shell was rapidly backed against the wall.

Raph raised his empty hands, and his mouth formed a smile he'd sworn he forgot how to make, invoked by a small, trembling turtle. "Hey you. It's okay."

Gio dragged in a ragged breath, squaring his shoulders, and stammering out a surprised and half-coherent, "Raphael–"

"It's okay." Raph repeated, because the little guy was trembling so hard it looked like it hurt. There was a sheen of sweat and bright fever spots on his cheeks that told of more problems than nightmares. He turned and called over his shoulder, "Hey D, is there a temp reading on that invasion of privacy of yours?"

Gio jolted up to stare at the doorway, illuminated by the hallway light. Donnie wasn't in sight, but after a moment his voice sighed and he said, "Ah. I will fetch Mikey."

"Donatello?" Gio whispered, mystified, still shaking all over. Donnie didn't hear the longing wondering, and his footsteps were retreating to fetch the one most qualified to deal with a sick Gio.

But that didn't mean Raph's heart wasn't wringing like a towel at the sight of acute distress, fever or not. And he wanted to help, despite all the reasons he shouldn't. He reached out to tug the Charmander free from the blankets and said, with authority, "Hold this."

Blindly obeying, Gio held the plushie to his chest, reflexively squeezing. 

"That's it, hard as you can, get the shakes out." Raph encouraged. 

Gio shuddered a breath, and crushed it tighter, ducking his face down to the softness. The hallway filled with hurried footsteps, Mikey swinging into the open room at top speed, already reaching for Gio before he'd even seen his state.

"Hi sweetness, not feeling well?" Mikey said, empathetic and warm and just a little panicked. 

The pokemon plush squished between them. Gio dipped his nose into Mikey's shoulder and murmured, "Sorry. I'm fine."

Mikey flashed heartbroken eyes and said, "What's the sorry for, huh? You're like a million degrees. We're gonna take care of you."

At the 'we', two sets of eyes turned to Raph, kneeling on the floor. Mikey was cautious, hopeful, quiet in a way he shouldn't be. Gio was dazed, waiting, watchful. 

Raph felt stiff and awkward. He swallowed, and said, "I'll get the Tylenol."

Upon stepping out, he realized Donnie was still there, sitting with his back against the wall and staring at nothing with a haunted look. Raph crouched in front of him, silent, waiting for his focus to turn outwards again, which it did slowly. The soft night was filled only with the shush and hum of Mikey's reassurances. 

Donnie met his eye. There was grief and misery, hollowed out and cold. But something else too, something a stubborn and watchful little turtle was building brick by brick inside of them all. When Raph stood, Donnie followed. 

The two of them picked through cupboards for Tylenol and bottled water and crackers. Without looking, Donnie asked him in a hush, "Doesn't he deserve better?"

"Better's already gone." Raph grunted. "We're all that's left."

Donnie loaded up Raph's arms with supplies. It was clear he had no intent of going inside Gio's room. He said, fake-lightly, "I won't stand for that kind of Mikey slander."

Raph cracked a despairing smile. "You're right." 

"I'm always right." Donnie replied, thoughtlessly. He hesitated, for a long, painful moment. "I don't know how he does it."

"Me neither." Raph said, tired just considering how much work and effort he'd put into holding them together for this long. "We shouldn't…"

He couldn't finish the sentence, that they shouldn't leave him to shoulder it alone. But he knew what he was asking, and especially asking of Donnie. Raph was far too aware that Donnie being alive was already more than he could bear, wrapped in barbed wire and scorn and isolation. But they were making progress, weren't they? Baby steps out of the darkness. 

Raph's hope was out of practice. 

Donnie pat his arm. He didn't acknowledge the unspoken, splitting away back to his lab, with the vitals still ticking away on his bracer. Raph took a steadying breath, and brought the supplies back to Gio's room. Even if he wasn't brave enough to stay, the red plush peeking out between the warm hug encapsulated something. 

Raph could've been the red hugging him. But Mikey had put the work in, and Raph hadn't. 

Maybe it was time to start.

[]

When Raph met Gio, he hadn't reacted. He'd felt numb. 

The thaw was getting to him. His heart was yawning open. He didn't know what he was scared of anymore, because the worst had already happened. And all that was left was this little brother who was yearning for something Raph used to have in abundance. 

Raph was waking up. And he felt more awake than he'd ever been, in this moment, as he came across Gio in the middle of the Hidden City, eyes dark and back against the wall. 

There was a foreign yet familiar indignation, that someone would dare approach one of his little brothers like that. Raph moved without thinking, inserting himself in front of the asshole getting in Gio's face, stepping into his space with a challenge. 

"Is there a problem here?" Raph growled. A sharp inhale from behind him, but it didn't matter because Gio was behind him and safe.  

"Who the hell are you?" The lynx yokai sneered, shoulders tense, glancing up and up at Raph's much taller and more intimidating form. 

"Your worst god damn nightmare, if you keep getting in my brother's face." Raph took another step forward, and despite the snarling bravado, the lynx took a step backwards, giving ground. A victorious and mean smile twitched at the corner of Raph's mouth. 

"Why don't you mind your own fucking business?" The lynx darkened his glare, fists tight at his side. 

"Raphael." Gio said, in a completely blank tone. 

"Two seconds, Gi." Raph didn't turn, raising two fingers over his shoulder, pinning the asshole with his poisonous stare. "Just gonna take the trash out."

"You don't have to–"

"He's gonna get what's coming to him, one way or another." The lynx spoke, despite the fact that his back hit the opposite wall from how far Raph had crowded him away from Gio. 

"Nah." Raph grinned, putting a meaty hand tight on the lynx's shoulder. "I think you're gonna make sure everyone knows what happens if you mess with a Hamato."

Whatever bluster remained in the lynx drained from his eyes when Raph bodily removed him from the situation. Maybe there was a bit more frustration than needed taken out on the guy, but all Raph could see was Gio's tight posture, cornered, chin up but so alone. He hadn't gotten to know the kid well enough yet, but everything he knew so far told him that he would've taken whatever was given and not told a soul. 

It reminded him too sharply of another young and stubborn turtle. Licking wounds in private, appearing unflappable in the daylight. Raph couldn't save him anymore. But the world didn't end the day that portal closed, as much as it felt like it had. There was still things worth protecting. 

There was a lingering presence, once Raph clapped his hands clean and shut the dumpster. Gio hovering around the corner of the alley, watching, cautious, uncertain. 

"Come on." Raph gestured him to follow. "Let's go home."

"Home?" Gio repeated, not moving.

"Yeah, silly. Home." Raph's smile wavered, because he understood the hesitation, the fear. He hadn't been anything the brother he was supposed to be, and it was only fair that Gio didn't trust that. "I bet Mikes is wondering where you are. I'll take you back."

Like a good little soldier, Gio took cadence beside Raph on the path back out of the Hidden City. He was tense, mouth opening and shutting silently a few times, as if gearing up to speak. 

Raph cut to the chase, the two of them weaving through late-night foot traffic in the shadiest part of town. "If anyone else gives you trouble, you let me know."

Gio swallowed thickly, and was finally spurred into speech, "You don't need to do that."

"I know." Raph said, because he did. This strong little guy had survived long before they showed up. The healed scars told more stories than the tight-lipped turtle. "But I'm gonna. You don't have to deal with that now. Not when I'm around." 

Because I'm around now. I'm here, Raph thought, guilty. Afraid. 

They transitioned from Hidden City to New York City in a rush of damp humidity. Raph's phone dinged, and he checked quick. Donnie. Gio okay?

Raph glanced up at the streetlight camera and winked. He pocketed his phone again and watched Gio's back as they climbed into the sewers. 

Only once they were securely underground did Raph try again, gently touching Gio's arm to get him to stop. He did, attentive and ready, meeting Raph's stare like he was waiting for a dressing-down. 

"I'm sorry." Raph said. It was long overdue. And only proven when Gio blinked at him like Raph had never done anything wrong, like it was okay that he'd been with them for so long and only now was Raph actually making an effort. That wasn't what family was meant to do. 

"I don't understand." Gio said, after a searching moment. "I'm… I'm the one who pissed him off."

"It doesn't matter if you punched him in the dick and insulted his mother. You're family, and that means I'm on your side." Raph's throat ached painfully, stretching his words thin. "And I'm sorry because I should've told you that right from the start. You shouldn't have to doubt your place here. That's not how it supposed to work in this family."

Gio stared at him. Huge, dark eyes, and after a blink they shimmered, wet. He said, once, soft, "Oh."

Raph wanted to hug him so bad it was a physical ache, hands tight at his sides. Gio crossed his arms over his plastron and glanced away, looking overwhelmed. 

They walked quietly to the entrance. Gio paused before they opened the door, and cleared his throat, though it was still scratchy when he said, "It's okay." 

Raph ached to hug him. The longing to wrap the tough kid up tight and protect him. It felt so presumptuous to ask two seconds after an accepted apology he didn't deserve. Gio's arms were still crossed, wound up. 

Neither of them moved. The door opened, and both turned to see Mikey, lingering. Strands of hair loose from a bun and flour dusting his frayed black t-shirt. He looked like home and comfort. Raph suddenly missed him fiercely. 

"Hi Mikey." Gio said, unwinding his tight posture. 

"Hiya Clementine, welcome home. Come inside." Mikey reached out to take his hand and squeeze, tugging him.

Gio turned to look at Raph. It stopped his heart, a stammer-stop somersault in his chest, and he smiled. Easy as breathing. The uncertainty in his gaze hurt. He had to do something to smooth it out. Raph said, making sure to pin Gio with that smile, "You heard him."

Mikey's shoulders relaxed a mile, and it was a crime that he looked so unspeakably grateful at even the smallest kindness Raph shared. He'd been climbing a mountain alone. Once inside, Mikey made them both hot tea. Raph intended to take his and leave, but not before stopping to kiss the top of Mikey's head and murmuring, "You're the best."

Mikey said, "I know," but his bottom lip wobbled as he did. Gio watched them from the kitchen table. It ached. Mikey hip-checked Raph gently in his direction.

Raph wrestled the doubt and indecision before resting a big hand on Gio's shoulder. Underneath his palm, Gio held his breath and didn't move. 

"You did good today." Raph rumbled.

Gio swallowed, otherwise as still as a rabbit, and said, "For what?"

"Letting me help you." Raph gave a tentative squeeze, which eased Gio's tense muscles, sinking more into the touch. 

"Family helps each other." Gio replied, in a reciting voice, flickering to Mikey when he asked, "Right?"

"That's right, baby." Mikey beamed, proud as punch, folding his fingers around his own mug in a way that didn't quite hide their shake. 

"That's right." Raph agreed, glancing at where he knew there was a camera before he added, "We're all here for each other, everyone in this family. Even if we've forgotten how for a while."

Mikey gently raised his mug in a cheers towards the same camera. Gio didn't know about the third brother watching, only gazing up at Raph like he couldn't quite believe it. That was fine. There was still time for Donnie.

"See you guys tomorrow." Raph promised, letting go, stepping away with his steaming tea. 

"G'night, Raphie. Thank you." Mikey said, and there was no doubt in his voice that he meant it wholeheartedly. There had been so long since Raph felt like he deserved any of that sunshine.

"See you." Gio said, quietly wondrous. 

Raph left before he could ruin it, eyes burning. 

[]

The recurring dream came faithfully.

Raph walked through the sewers surrounded by his brothers. Mikey's weight on his shell. A twin in each hand. They walked and walked and walked. Revulsion climbed up Raph's throat, because he knew this wasn't right. He didn't want to think about the reality. He wanted to be in this moment, his insular little bubble, his existence. 

Then his hands were empty. One gone, one out of reach. His shell was light, no burden to carry. His littlest brother was fending for himself. Raph was no longer young with a purpose, but old and lost. Alone in the sewers. 

The presence sat alone up ahead. He was lost too. But Raph couldn't move. 

Dripping from the ceiling. Musty and damp. Echoing in criss-crossing reverb. Raph's heavy breathing and all the things he didn't want to think about. 

He was alone and it was all his fault.

"Geez, trying to win the pity Olympics or something?" Leo teased, somewhere behind him.

Raph spun around. The emotion that was Leonardo, a mass of feelings, reduced down to a grin and stripes – worn down from time. He was still a child. Raph was the kind of adult he never wanted to be. 

"You know, I've never been smarter than D, and he told you that he doesn't blame you. So do you think I do?" Leo challenged, ephemeral head tilting to the side.

"He did." Raph rasped, throat so, so sore. "I know he did. In the beginning."

"Psh." Leo was flippant. "That means nothing. Donnie blamed everyone and everything, including himself. And including the birds and the trees and random strangers he'd never met. That shit gets tiring. You both know it won't save someone who's long gone."

Raph struggled through a breath, trembling with emotion, overflowing with it. More tears. It never felt like it got any easier. He begged, "Leo…"

"Because I am gone, Raph." The pain of how deathly serious he was, just this mass of feelings and displaced love. "I'm gone and I'm not saying you gotta let go, I know you'd never do that, but you've got so much love inside you. There's more than enough to go around."

Raph hiccuped through several gasps, suffocating in grief. His vision blurred. The smile through the mirage. 

Leo said, "I love you, Raphala. That's never gone."

The cloud dissipated. Raph fell to his knees, curling up small, smaller than he'd ever been, sobbing into his palms. 

And the presence behind him – lost, found, watching – the gift of a brother from the universe tip toed closer, touching his shell, and said – 

"Raphael?"

Delirium took too long to clear, but by the time it did, Raph slotted his horrible reality back into place. Bedroom, late, more nightmares, more tears, more weakness and inadequacy and, and, and…

Hamato Giorgio, crouching beside his bed, a worried notch between his brow. Hand hovering, withdrawn. He said, "Are you awake now?"

Raph stared at him. And stared and stared and stared, as tears streamed in silent horrors, and whispered, "What?"

"Donatello sent me." Gio drew his hand close to his plastron, uncertain. Then drawing in a deeper breath, spreading open his hands. "Do you need a hug?"

A punch in his chest. He'd underestimated Gio by a mile, because this was the bravest fucking kid on the planet. Raph could not imagine the sheer nerve it would take to offer that, after everything, this once bitten twice shy turtle, and fuck if it wasn't exactly everything Raph needed in this moment. Everything he'd needed for longer than he wanted to admit. He could only hope that he hadn't misread the longing in Gio's eyes, and that he wanted this too. He surged forward and scooped up the littler turtle into his arms. 

Gio's exhale in his ear was a caught sound, but the grip was tight, fierce. As if Raph was the plushie he was pouring pressurized and pent-up love directly to the source. Raph squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his found brother close, shuddering from head to toe, coming down from a nightmare, from the tortured blessing of a visit to remind him what was important.

This. Right here. Being here. 

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a very good hugger?" Gio said, muffled.

Raph gave a damp laugh, broken, winding his arms to keep him close. He should probably let go. He couldn't make himself do it. Gio didn't seem to mind in the slightest, knuckles stroking up and down his neck, humming just a little. 

"Sorry." Raph croaked, the rapid unravelling, a hundred miles an hour in his chest, too much emotion and not enough air. Gio fit perfectly in his arms. It hurt. 

"What's the sorry for, huh?" Gio said, dry, knuckles a rhythm, steady. 

Another chuckle, just as wet and borderline hysterical. 

It took a while before Raph found his footing again. Deeper inhales, though still drowsy and sad, something held together gentle. 

Raph pulled away first, scrubbing at his face, breathing through unwelcome shame. He said, rough, "Thanks buddy."

"Anytime." Gio said, and it was so solemn it cracked another fissure in Raph's heart. 

"Think I'm too wound up to sleep, I'm gonna go watch something stupid." Raph grabbed the blanket off his bed, and offered, "You can join me, if you want."

Gio smiled. It made him look so painfully young. "Yeah. Can I… can I see if Mikey wants to join?"

"Course." Raph scoffed, and gave into the urge to rub the top of Gio's head like a puppy. "I'll meet you there."

Gio's small laugh could've cured any ailment, split any ocean, and it put the air directly back into Raph's lungs. The kid hurried off, and Raph watched him go, momentarily sick and dizzy with emotion. But it passed.

Instead of heading to claim a bean bag, Raph diverted course to stand outside Donnie's lab. He looked up at the camera and raised his brow expectantly, not saying a word. 

His phone chimed. Donnie, of course. Raph glanced at it: I will be able see the movie just fine from in here.

There was one big brother duty that Raph had neglected for far too long. "Donatello, if you think I'm gonna let you watch movie night through the security cameras, I'm gonna teach you that I still know how to break into your lab. I will carry you out like a sack of potatoes." 

Silence. Raph didn't say, it's been too long. He didn't say, we can't live like this anymore. He didn't say, I know you dream of him too, I know you don't know how to do this either, I know you're also scared. Let's do it together. There's a kid out there who will never meet Leo, and we can't change that, but we can change this.

Instead, he stared at the camera and waited. And finally, Donnie opened the lab door. He looked exhausted, dark circles like bruises and carrying a pillow under his arm. 

"I will join under the stipulation that I pick the movie." Donnie said, rigid.

"Hell no." Raph picked Donnie up like a sack of potatoes and ignored his indignant shriek, catching the pillow as it fell out of his grip and tucking it under his arm. "Come on, we've got some little ones waiting for us. I'm not doing this alone."

Donnie stopped struggling, going stiff as a board. For a moment, the hallway was just Raph's echoing footsteps. Then Donnie said, reluctant, "No. You're not."

Raph grinned, even though it was sore. When they entered the living room, Mikey grinned back, fluffing out blankets as Gio started the projector. 

They watched a movie. It was terrible. Donnie fell asleep on the floor after critiquing all the actors. Mikey bought a blanket and curled up like a cat next to him. And Gio fell asleep on Raph's shoulder.

Raph stayed exactly where he was, awake and unmoving, long after the end credits rolled. 

Chapter Text

"There are boxes of clementines in the kitchen and the thing is that I love you again. The thing is that I love what orange tastes like so I eat too much of it and end up sick.

I only say “again” because I don’t know how to say I never stopped."

- The side effects of eating too many clementines by Alessia Di Cesare

Gio remembered being little. He remembered the homes and the words and the nights of going hungry because his own words wouldn’t come. He remembered not being tall enough to pick the locks on the cupboards, and storing up change he found in fountains in the peeling part of the floorboards with the hopes he’d accumulate enough through sheer determination to buy an actual meal from the nearby corner store. He remembered it not being enough, and drinking water to pretend that his stomach was full of something warmer and happier. 

Mostly, he remembered being quiet. Watching. 

Things change, he knows: often abruptly, without meaning to and when least expected. He’d trip-fallen somewhere sideways into a home and a place that’s always warm, but some things stay the same despite himself. He’s tall enough to reach all the cupboards in the kitchen now, except for the one above the fridge, and his words are short and blunt but they come easily when he calls them. He still watches. Part of him treats it like a task to absorb everything he can, to know this version of Donnie’s favorite mug, to know this Raph’s favorite spot on the couch. It’s a test. One he’ll get right if he pays attention. 

He’s never had anything like them, he’s never had anything at all. He’s not hungry, most days, in the same way he was; different and the same. 

Sometimes family is an ache right there in the center of his chest— he sees Donnie shrieking with half-maniacal joy and Raph scooping Mikey up easily in his arms, and Splinter (dad, he’s been told he can call him dad now) grinning exasperatedly at all the noise. It’s full and bright and always so warm it’s like standing directly under the sun, but he still sees ghosts like echoes around everything they do. Leo is his own ghost, too, but he’s something new. The piece at the center of the world he knew, one that folded right up without him. 

Gio watches. 

It’s important for them all to sit around the dinner table every night; they make a point of it. April and Casey Jr stop by more often than not, sometimes Cassandra and Draxum too, and it’s a type of loud that startles Gio in some hindbrain place the first few times. He has to excuse himself to the bathroom more often than he’d like just for something to hold onto. Just to watch his knuckles shift from dark grey to white and convince himself it will stay where he left it. He’s better at it now, he’s used to it. He gets why his Mikey always had the stereo on in the background. 

Usually, this Mike makes dinner based on some new recipe he saw from one of the chefs he watches. It’s always a surprise. Gio sees Leo hanging around on the kitchen stools, dangerously leaning them all the way back with a practiced ease and easily chatting back and forth with his brother as he preps. Mike makes all sorts of things: lasagnas, pastas, croissants, cakes, you name it and he’ll try it. There’s a familiarity in the unfamiliarity of it all, in the expectant head tilt and the waiting beck and call to Leo of: ‘Does that sound good?’ 

Leo winks back, every time. ‘You know, I had a craving for lasagna tonight. Read my mind.’

He’s glad the lights are all on, mostly. The little light above the stove never goes out. He’s glad that the whole of their home matches that warm hue in everything it is. 

It’s interesting to watch them all around the dinner table, though; the way there’s always space for seconds, leftovers if April wants to pack for school. The exact right amount for everyone, no matter which rotating host of guests appears under the bright lights with them. No one ever goes hungry if any of them can help it, the pantries are always unlocked and available. There’s even a list magnet stuck-tight to the fridge with a marker in reach for anything extra that April has told him time and time again really does mean ‘anything’. 

Mikey makes cookies, or a leafy and tangy mango salad, or a complicated looking tart, bursting constantly with new ideas and happily asks April if she can find more ingredients next week. He grins and eagerly waits for Leo to push his plate back and announce, on a timer, that this is Mike’s ‘best one yet’.

This isn’t a house that’s wanted for much, not in the ways that matter. He sees the patterns anyways. 

For one, Leo’s only ever in the kitchen if Mikey’s there. Or if he’s pestering Donnie about drinking all their coffee, or making dad’s favorite tea. He doesn’t saunter in after training like Raph just to whip together whatever host of items he can to make a sandwich, or scrounge for easy snacks like Don. He sits at the kitchen stool, tilts it all the way back with his foot, and dares it to fall. 

“What do you think, Leo?” Mikey asks, showing him a new recipe on his phone. “Sound good?”

Leo grins back, folds his arms behind his head. “You been watching my TikTok feed over my shoulder? I just saw a video about that, you know! Sounds perfect.” 

Back then, when it was just him and his older Mikey, he’d spent a lot of time in the kitchen, too. Mikey would spend hours scrolling through his phone with his tongue poking out in concentration until he finally found something they had the items for, and announce it with a quiet aha like he was letting Gio in on a secret. ‘You ever made these?’ Mikey would ask, like the answer would ever be yes. Gio’d never been in on anyone’s secret. He’d never had anyone to share one with. 

Their recipes were their hideout, this special thing his brother shared with him. The pilot light never went out. 

Here, Leo doesn’t lean into Mikey’s phone like he’s hiding big wondering eyes in the glow of the screen, though. He looks more like this is a give and pull, a routine, or a shared sweater he’s happy to lend. He happily eats everything on his plate and doesn’t ask for seconds, just like he’s checking a box. Bare minimum requirements met. Leo’s studying for a different test, Gio thinks. He’s gotten very good at knowing all the answers. 

It’s obvious, when he looks: Leo knows his brothers are onto him, is the thing. They have a lot of these silly unspoken dances, partially due to the kid’s incredibly quick instinctive need to pirouette the hell out of anything the second it starts to be about him, probably. He knows they know, and he knows they know he knows that they know: simple. 

He just doesn’t eat unless he has to, unless they’re watching. 

Leo will drink gallons of coffee at all hours of the day, rave about any plate at dinner, eat handfuls of popcorn during movie night without question, all because it’s a balancing act. It’s enough for them not to say it out loud. It’s enough for it to not be a real problem. 

There’s nothing to want for here, where everyone loves at the exact right volume and says it often and confidently. Where Mikey throws himself at Raph with a loud shrieking laugh, and will be caught and grinned back at every single time. There’s no danger in unspoken things or barbed histories, but Gio watches anyways. There’s patterns in patterns all the same: things changing, and inevitably also being the same. 

__

Gio knew a kid, once. His second or third home, when he was too short for the cupboards or the sink or even the fridge door when they removed it and made it lock up way too high. He can’t remember the kids name, only that he’d grown up all tall like a weed and it made him popular with the others at the home almost instantly. 

He’d grabbed snacks for the little ones in secret, sort of casually without complaining much, and never gotten caught. The other kids whispered that he must have a treasure trove hidden somewhere, and he’d wink and shush them back like it was some big pirate’s quest they’d have to suss out on their own. Gio thinks maybe he’d idolized him, just a little. Just for the way he made it seem fun. 

The day everything changed, he’d aged out— not quite eighteen, but old enough that when he’d announced he was moving out no one stopped him. People in the Hidden City didn’t really look for you when you wanted to go. You packed up, walked out, and didn’t look back; the city swallowed you whole along with everything else. The kids had torn up the whole house looking for where he must’ve hid his own stash: the chocolates he’d joked about melting away in his horde, the box of macaroni and cheese he’d boasted about pilfering. 

There’d been nothing. Not a single scrap. 

‘He took it with him,’ a kid complained. ‘Never wanted to share after all.’ 

‘Liar. He’s a liar. He never stole anything.’ 

Gio remembered thinking: I saw him in the bathroom. The very last day before he’d stored up his last few things and headed off into the twisting alleyways that never let you go. The way he’d leaned on the counter and looked at himself in the mirror and just stared for a while, something blank behind his eyes. He didn’t have the words for the way his expression made Gio feel, but he’d had to look away.

He sees that on Leo sometimes, when he thinks nobody sees.

It’s easy to take what’s given to you, to tell yourself it’s a gift. It’s harder to ask. 

The kid in the home never took anything for himself, Gio knew. He stole things for all the other kids because he knew it wasn’t right for them that there were locks or rules at all when they couldn’t even reach to try. He didn’t question why they’d lock it from him, though. 

Gio wonders about the locks sometimes, if they were put just high enough on purpose. 

__

“Hey, Gigi.”

“Hi, Leo,” Gio steps around the sprawl of skateboards and elbow pads carefully. Leo kicks his legs distractedly from the top of the half pipe. Noise greets them in bellowing calls and laughter just down below, where the rest of their family is egging each other on and playing nonsense games with backwards rules. 

“You got this one, Raph!” Leo calls, whooping when his brother grins up at him. The smile falls smaller when Raph looks away. 

Gio pulls out the candy bar he’d tucked into his belt, tossing it. Leo catches it without looking. 

“Got this at the Hidden City,” Gio sits down beside him. “Not sweet enough for me.” 

Leo eyes it, giving Gio the squinty eyed smile that he always does when Mikey makes him dinner or Don starts the coffee. “Cool. No sugar added,” he mutters, reading the label with a hum. “Not your jam huh? Not going to go all health foodie on us then?” 

Gio hums. “Not unless sugar becomes a food group.”

The surprise in Leo’s face is always priceless, he bursts out into a laugh. “You ever seen Elf? We should show you Elf.”

“Coming from the green guy?” Gio raises a brow. 

Leo hollers. “Two in a row! Oh, I hope Donnie’s recording this.” He unwraps the candy bar and takes a bite, grinning as he knocks Gio’s shoulder with his own. 

Raph nails a flip down below, and Leo cheers. He finishes the rest of the treat without pausing. 

__

Dinner has never been a family table for Gio, or a breath of relief at the end of a long day. It’s never been a constant at all, before Mikey. He’d learned to portion, to eat everything given before it was taken back, and not ask for anything else: dinner meant necessity, it meant a reward sometimes. It’s a miracle to think of the way Mikey had seen him, all the parts of him with his knobby knees and sharp elbows, and carefully stepped through the knot of it all until he could weave Gio back out. 

“See this?” he’d said, holding up a container. “Recipe says we need the whole can of sweetened milk, but I don’t listen to that part. If we make it too sweet, it’ll make Raph feel sick later. Usually two thirds is more than enough.” 

He tilted the can into their mixing bowl with practiced ease, somehow knowing exactly when to stop. “Then we just stir until it’s smooth. Donnie likes when we blend it a bit too, makes it fluffier and airier.” 

Scooping up the mixture, he placed it on the counter while humming the song that’d been on the radio all week to himself. “We’ll want to make another batch after.” He winked over at Gio, gap toothed and bright as always. “That way we can have leftovers tomorrow.”

“Leftovers?” Gio asked, unthinkingly for once. Mikey’s face did something funny, like it often did at the strangest things, and he turned back to the counter to pull out the blender. 

“Mhm! Means we can make more, just for us. For later. Hey, how’s about you and I go on a trip to the Hidden City, huh? We can get gingersnap ingredients too, make it a whole banquet for ourselves. Dine like kings.” 

Gio just stared, wide eyed and uncomprehending. Mikey’s laugh had been that in between one; touch of that wistful other thing they didn’t acknowledge, but he’d rubbed a hand over Gio’s head fondly anyways. 

“One day I’m gunna get through to you, Clementine,” he’d said, soft and just-so tragic. Gio hadn’t understood any part of it, then. 

He learned a lot with Mikey. He learned that there were no rules about the fridge, except to throw out the empty milk jugs, that tupperwares meant more, and the plastic wrapped dishes were for his brothers if they wanted it. He learned that they didn’t have to speak if they didn’t want to, because Donatello didn’t speak often, that no one had to ask for permission or eat only in front of Mikey to deserve meals. That food could be a thing that was there, an anytime option. That it didn’t have to hide. 

__

Gio’s been with his family for eleven months and three weeks and six days. He knows what day it is, what day it was supposed to be. He learned, in that other timeline, what anniversaries meant. It was the only time he’d seen that light in the kitchen waver. 

(Well before he’d met any of them, he’d thought it must be a sort of cruelty; to care about yourself through someone else, to love. All of it. 

He’d never met Leonardo, but the wreckage was there. The kind that only happened when the love was big enough, when it was good. He’d learned to love Leo in the shape of loss. 

It was an unkindness to know him that way.)

He watches his family carefully throughout the day: the way Mikey creeps into the shared hallway and tucks himself into Leo’s train car isn’t a surprise. Neither is the way they both stumble back out, bundled in Leo’s fluffiest blanket. He is surprised to see Don, leaned up on the counter in the kitchen with the coffee maker already brewing, if only because he’s made enough for Leo too. It’s the only treat he’s seen Leo ask for on his own, so. Of course Don knows. 

Raph follows a short while after. He lets Donnie and his robotic arms carry the array of mugs they’ve made, and picks up the blanket bundle of LeoandMikey all in one, plopping them easily in the living room. It’s already been made up with cushions and Raph’s pillows, he notes, with  the TV playing some space show he knows they rave about constantly. 

It feels like it's practiced, somehow. Like they all know how to ask and they all expect to be wanted. It’s the easy gravitational pull of them all, the way they lean in instead of away— sometimes the echoes and the ghosts ache louder when he notices all of the things they could have lost. The ways it would have been Mikey, here on his own in the dark and the cold before, trying desperately to keep the kitchen bright. 

He’s not alone here, not ever for a moment. Leo’s bundled up beside him, teasing and quick mouthed as anything, his brother’s curled around like the opening and closing of a thought all together. The kitchen light is on, but so is the living room, and the hallway.

“Are you coming?” Leo says, and Gio blinks back to himself enough to realize Leo’s looking at him through the half dark. He’s been watching from the landing above all of it, half in the tunnel— sniper’s angle, probably. Bird’s eye view of the action, instinctive and sidelined where he’s most comfortable. 

Mikey fusses and practically rolls them both over to turn his head upwards too. “Georgie! You haven’t seen this one yet, have you? It’s my favorite!” 

Raph plants both hands on his hip, lopsided fanged smile turned up to eleven. “Right of passage, big guy. Dee made popcorn!”

“It’s a button on the microwave, Raphala. Make is subjective.” Leo snickers. “And he burned it.” 

Don makes a quiet outraged noise, they break apart into tackling each other on the couch. 

Gio’s heart lurches. Echoes and echoes, louder than anything. It’s so much, constantly, to be asked. To see how much of his Mikey was a patchwork of all the people who loved him right before. For any of them to ask where he is and for him to have to say: “Yeah,” and “Be right there.”

__

(He’d tried, in the other world. He hadn’t known what the date on the calendar meant, just that Mikey hadn’t greeted him in the morning with a sunny smile and a hello clementine like he had been. 

He’d found Mikey in the room they didn’t go in, staring at the pictures. The lair had been silent in the ways it always was, creak of old metal in non-existent breezes all the way down. 

Gio swallowed, stepped in with a hesitance he’d never known around his brother.

‘I found a recipe,’ he’d said, landmines in his mouth, in his nerves. He’d searched it up on the Hidden City library computers and found all the ingredients for— well. April had told him it was their old cure for the cold during her half visit last month. He’d been saving up on his odd jobs for a slow cooker to get it right.

‘I’m not sure I can make it, would you…. Would you help me?’ 

Mikey was always so kind; overflowing and limitless in all the ways he never had to be. He’d known that Mikey was straining himself somehow for months, that the edges of him hadn't ever sat quite right, he just didn’t know how to help. Seeming okay felt like all Mikey had left sometimes, that pretend thing they had between them. Even still, he’s not prepared for how stiff Mikey’s posture was, kneeled there in the dark. The hang of his head, hair blocking his face. The fact he’d let it be quiet at all. 

It had been dark when Gio wandered over. He hadn’t known the lights in the kitchen could turn off.

‘Mikey?’ 

Gio should have known better, he’d been raised to speak when told to speak and to be silent when watched. It was maybe that there was something in bloom here, a weed finding a spot of light it had never had. He knew better, and he didn’t. He knew Mikey. 

‘Hey, uh, not today, kid. Sorry.’ Mikey said, without turning around. Wet and warbled in a way he didn’t ever sound. Gio panicked, stepped forwards again.

‘April showed me a recipe you used to like, if that would—’ 

‘I said not today! ’ 

They both froze. 

Ah, Gio thought, the dangling guillotine over his head falling. There it was. Mikey yelling rolled over him, a crest on an ocean wave crashing down. And under it: wide open relief.  

Mikey’d been so endlessly understanding and patient of his recalcitrant moods, carefully persuading him out into the daylight one step at a time for seemingly no reward at all. He’d been a bit afraid of it all, maybe, in the back of his mind. It seemed too good, too perfect. Not real. 

It made sense for people to be mad at him, for them to yell and put him in his place; grit and sharp edges and harsh words were real the way sleepovers and kitchen dance parties couldn’t be. He knew this script. 

Stay silent, speak when spoken to. Straighten your posture, run for the shadows when you can. 

Mikey stared at him, the long parts of his bangs dangling messy and frayed in front of his wide red rimmed eyes. The latter registered in Gio slowly, with a heartbreak. 

‘I’m— I didn’t mean—’ Mikey started, stopped. Strangely, stared down at his wrapped shaking hands. ‘Gio, baby, I’m so sorry.’

Mikey’s eyes flickered up to his, tracking back and forth desperately. ‘I—’ Mikey started. The way he crawled forward a step, on his knees, made some instinctive thing in Gio writhe with dread and he stepped backwards without thinking.

His brother’s face had fallen further, a haunted house with its shutters blown wide open.

‘I would never—’ Mikey stopped. Heaved a giant shuddering breath with eyes that were overbright and swimming at him in the hallway light. ‘I’m sorry.’

For a second, he looked entirely greyed out. Supernova of his big brother gone finally dead. 

That was worse, Gio thought. That wasn’t allowed, ever . He made himself reach forwards. 

‘You’re sad,’ Gio had said, stupidly probably. Not the words he wanted but those never found their way out. Mikey needed something to hold onto, he could dig inside himself to give him it. ‘Is… today’s a bad day.’ Factual, not questioning. He could be steady for Mikey the way he always was for him.

Mikey leaned into the hand on his shoulder with a sad lilt, a long exhale that shook on its way out. He hung his head again. ‘It’s. It’s not good, no.’ 

The room Mike was in held all the pictures they didn’t talk about, Gio realized. He glanced up to see his own reflection haloed back in the hallway light, in the portrait nailed to the cobblestone wall. Gio breathed out, cupped Mikey’s face in both palms the way he’d taught him to. Looked at his brother’s watery stunned eyes as deeply as he could allow himself to. 

‘It’s good. To cry.’ 

Mikey made a small noise. ‘Yeah?’ His hands braced themselves on either side of Gio’s. They trembled as badly as anything— breezes through big wooden houses. 

Gio nodded. ‘You can be sad. I know that you’re sad sometimes.’ Most of the time, in quiet ways. 

‘Doesn’t mean I should—’ Mikey cut himself off, hands squeezing Gio’s tighter. ‘I don’t ever want to be someone who yells at you.’ 

‘You aren’t.’ It’s a miracle, he thinks. But you aren’t.  

‘I’m sorry.’ Mikey said again, glancing up. He had the horrible feeling of seeing it from outside himself, for a second: his bright spark of a big brother, kind beyond measure, who taught him to love dinner time, to love the kitchen and the light, being sorry for any part of it all. Apologizing for being more than Gio’d ever had. 

He couldn’t possibly pull those words into himself. There wasn't enough time. Mikey must have read it somehow anyways. He huffed a tiny laugh, reached all the way up to press his thumb to Gio’s furrowed brow, smoothing it all out. 

‘I’ll do better by you,’ Mike said, softly. 

An impossible thing. Gio was sure all the goodness in the world stoppered itself right up behind this mess of braided black hair and freckles, actually. There were no words in the dictionary to explain even a fraction of how better didn’t exist to his big brother, the one trying to pull himself back from crumbling right in front of him. So he didn’t say any of them. 

You found me in the sea, Gio thought, half nonsensically. That’s always been more than anything . 

‘Can we make soup?’ 

Mikey sniffed again, rubbing his face with the palm of his bandaged hand. ‘Yeah. Yeah. What kind of soup, kid? What’s the um. The one April showed you?’ 

‘Creamy chicken chili,’ Gio recited dutifully. He didn’t mention the slow cooker, set up and dented in their kitchen, the way he’d saved portions of the scrapped change he’d gathered for months just to buy it. He’d researched, too— it was a good one, even if it was a bit bruised. He made sure it was.

‘Hah,’ Mikey’s eyes watered again, he coughed loudly. ‘Funny pick.’ 

Gio tilted his head and gave his brother space to stand. Pretended not to see him swipe at his cheeks again, because he loved him. 

‘It’s your recipe,’ Mike said after a moment. ‘You gotta ask me if it sounds good.’ 

‘Oh,’ Gio blinked. ‘Does it?’ 

Mikey grabbed his hand, even though he was nineteen and almost the same height as his brother and had lived most of it without anyone to lead him anywhere at all. Gio let him. ‘Yeah,’ Mikey all but whispered back. ‘Sounds perfect.’) 

__

It’s not that Leo doesn’t eat, is the thing. He does, so it isn’t a problem at least as far as his little brother is concerned. Gio can tell by the way he waves off seconds so casually that he thinks he’s mastered this game of his enough to skirt the rule books: Mikey can’t call a timeout because he helps make the food, Raph can’t call a foul because his plate is empty. 

Funny, really, the way Leo doesn’t grasp that the same metric of rule hopping is the method they all follow. 

“Your vitamins,” Don says, apropos of absolutely nothing the way he always is. He hands Gio a bottle, self labelled with Don’s special logo and all.

Gio stares down at it, and slowly back up at his brother. Donnie crosses his arms. “You’re taking them once in the morning, and at night. Bone structure is important in our line of work.” 

He doesn’t say anything. Don shifts, like clockwork. “Not a question, Giorgio? Not a mockery of mother henning from you? Do my ears detect… quiet acquiescence? I knew you were my favorite brother.” 

It’s a joke, he knows it’s a joke: wrapped beneath layers of silly banter and still bright and true like everything else he’s found here. It still catches him funny behind the rib cage with some vague urge to cry. He stares at the bottle instead.  “Leo complained?” It’s a safe bet, knowing everything about how they work. 

“Complained, mocked, teased, the works,” Don confirms with a sigh. “Agreed, of course. In the end. I did have to play the doctoring the doctor card thrice, however.” 

Gio smiles, something his other Mikey once said about doctor’s being their own worst patients tumbling around behind his eyes. 

“You’ll take them too, right?” Don asks after a moment. 

Gio glances up at him. “Yes,” he says plainly. Almost a question, if he let it be one. 

Don shifts his weight, glancing over Gio’s shoulder. “Good. And. It would be fully within your right to be upset with me, because Michael did tell me some may deem it as ‘creepy’ or ‘an invasion of privacy’ for whatever reason, but keeping medical information is important to have a baseline for further plans and adjustments,” Don clenches his jaw, nervous in a way that sets Gio’s nerves immediately on edge. “I scanned you. And I’m not sorry?”

“Okay,” he says, slowly. 

Don’s shoulders hitch up higher. “So. This won’t replace the nutrients you should have gotten, but I believe it can be preventative and ingrain better habits moving forwards. For. Bone health.” 

Gio blinks. Should have gotten rings strangely in his head. He thinks of tall locked cupboards and make-belief cups of water, of being watched back as intensely as he was watching. He thinks about the way the other Don watched, too. 

Oh . “I’ll take them, Dee.” 

Something softens in Don’s stance. He nods like an exhaling sigh. “Okay. Good.” 

Part of him wants to say that he’s grateful. That there are words bigger than himself he can’t possibly wrangle for the overflowing dinner plates and unquestioning trust, that his bones and nutrients were being cared for by the most gentle loving person he’s ever known and he’s already been led through that rabbit hole carefully. Part of him wants to tell Don that he’s happy to do the leading, this time around, but the larger part can see it: the unsure set to Don’s jaw. The awkwardness of him treading this far into territory Leo has mapped out more than effectively already. 

Gio’s been raised to look for small hints, the barely there tells of intentions. It’s a survival necessity to know what a fist thrown might look like before it crashes into your cheek, when a muscle twitch might mean danger. He doesn’t need that here, but it helps on occasion.

Ah, he thinks. You see it too. 

“He likes these,” Gio offers, pulling one of the candy bars he’s taken to storing in his pockets at all times. “If he needs to take those with food.” 

Don’s eyebrow raises, some measure of approval flickering in across his dark eyes. “Hm,” he says, simply. “Bribery does work.” 

Gio shrugs. He places the vitamins in his pouch carefully, too. This Don has given him all sorts of gifts: side hugs, weaponry, silly gadgets for everything in between. He knows how to recognize the shades of this kind of easy love in what he had before, too. It makes it all the more precious to keep. 

There’s a gift he can probably give back here, too, he realizes.

“Mike’s been reading up on superfoods,” he adds. “And Raph’s been looking into smoothies. Protein ones.” 

“Huh.” 

Gio makes a show of strapping his side bags back up, giving Don the time to mull it over. Gio’s been watching, after all. Leo may think he’s hopping across the rules just enough to not be noticed, but he’s got a little brother that memorizes everything he does, a big brother that loves him so loud it makes his heart hurt, and a twin that needs solutions. And he has Gio, who’s been loved better and brighter because of all of them.

“He’ll be okay,” he tells Don, because he means it. “You’re looking out for him.” 

Don’s jaw twists, brows tightening. “And you. Someone’s got to,” he says, like it’s annoying to him that Gio would think otherwise. “Take your vitamins.” 

__

There’s spaces, Gio finds, everywhere. Gaps that flit almost completely unnoticed. Mikey had told him once about this theory of atoms; propped up on the kitchen counter and too nervous to move, like if he breathed too loud Raphael would realize he’d crept even further into their lives, Mike with a cookbook and a stirring pot smiling big with his eyes closed the way he did when it hurt. 

“Dee told me about it, you know. All the atoms that make up everything, they’re all charged and have space between them you know? And you’re made of atoms too, so it’s like it bounces right off! Cooking’s all about that sciencey stuff when you get down to it, too. Not that I understand most of that, used to drive him crazy.” Past tense, not present here, and he nodded to himself, half spinning around the kitchen in the big lights and peppering in an array of ingredients with a practiced ease Gio knew he’d never master. “All I know is, make things that taste good. But!” He glanced over at Gio conspiratorially. “That means you have to check lots.”  

Mikey plucked the spoon from the bowl and held it out to him. “Right now, taste test.” 

Following Mikey’s trains of thought was a starlight blur he held onto most days. The kind that was fun singalong dance parties and full stomachs he didn’t know were possible, but sometimes it meant getting lost for just a second until Mike pulled him back on board. He could only tilt his head and blink. 

Mike giggled, gesturing even more with the spoon. “You gotta take a bite, ‘s tradition.” 

“But,” Gio blinked harder. “Germs?”

Mikey stuck his tongue out. “Pfft. Germs shmerms. We’re baking this baby anyways. Trust me.” 

I do, he thought to say. Heavier than he should.

He took the bite carefully, though, dough sticky between his teeth. He’d never had this: a taste test, an offered piece of a whole thing, any of it. Mikey watched him expectantly. “Oh,” Gio managed, and nodded. 

Mike’s smile widened. “See? First bite goes to the helper, that’s the rules.” And steamroll starlight’ed right ahead into baking them a whole batch.

He thought of it often in the months that passed: hand me down traditions, rules and lessons in a cookbook splattered with messy handwriting, the right amounts for leftovers always. He doesn’t know where his first Mikey learned to cook, whether it was a gently guided meditation the way he sees Splinter walk them all through now, or if it was a lone soldiering through failed experiments to breach into the unknown like Donnie loved. He’s only ever seen his Mikey there, in the kitchen singing alone, wafting smells of spicy sweet the way he remembers him best. 

If he squinted he could almost see it, too: a pair of matching twirling feet counterclockwise to Mikey’s. Someone to read recipes out for him when his hands were full, a different set of hands for a different stained page: a first bite. 

Leo is sitting in the kitchen when he peeks across the Lair. For once, alone— the big light is on across from him, he’s sure only because he’s far enough away from everyone’s beds to not worry about it spilling across his hideout. (And it is a hideout, Gio realizes, because he’s tucked his feet behind the rungs of his stool he always sits on, and himself into the farthest corner, and it’s the last place anyone blearily awake this early in the morning would think for him to be. Because, for the first time since Gio’s seen him, he’s not smiling big and strained, and none of the gaps are present. He wonders how often Leo climbs up here at night, why he can’t stand to be near by himself in the day.)

Gio knows his insomnia means he spends more time scrolling aimlessly on his phone than not, so he’s surprised there’s no glow peppering Leo’s face from where he’s bent over. He’s lost in thought fairly intensely, regardless– usual trained awareness narrowed down into whatever has captured his attention, enough that Gio can move in closer without him moving an inch.

A cupboard is open in the kitchen, the one just beside the fridge that Gio never opens. Before, he knew it as Mikey’s. It’s the place he kept all his tiny cue cards with blueberry muffin ingredients on, and where his hard to find ingredients lived, the one that was always open when Gio was around like Mikey couldn’t wait to use all his best things just for him. 

There’s a tiny sound, paper catching air, and Leo frowns harder worrying his lip between his teeth. 

It’s a book, Gio realizes, propped up on the counter in front of Leo, consuming all of his attention like it holds the answers to some giant puzzle. His little brother seems to be scouring it with an intensity that has his face crashing together in storm clouds, eyes tracking back and forth across the pages, shoulders hiked up around his face in a huddle. 

He almost doesn’t want to break the silence, but something in him lights up bright with concern over Leo’s stress anyways.

“Good read?” He asks, keeping his voice soft and low. Leo startles anyways, a barely there thing that still has his edges shaking despite himself. 

“Ah! Gigi, hey. What are you doing up?” 

Gio shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

His brother’s face scrunches into concern, helplessly. Of course it does. “Somethin’ bugging you, bro?” 

Gio considers this. The web of where to start looms out of his reach, lost behind a tangle of words he’s never been able to pick back out. He shakes his head instead. 

“Hm. Well, plenty of counter to pull up, Gi.” He gestures at the other stools. “More the merrier.” 

Gio watches as Leo closes the book almost nervously, half shoving it behind himself. Like it’s embarrassing, or he’s been caught snooping on something he shouldn’t. Gio catches the cover anyways, a barely there splash of the front cover.

It’s the cookbook. The one his Mikey used, with the scrawled writing and batter splattered pages, dog eared cliff notes perched on its yellowed pages. Only, it’s less yellow now like this. There are different crinkles and folds than Gio remembers, too. 

He hasn’t seen it since arriving here, and thinks for a moment that the sight should be a shock. Maybe it would have been, in the day time, in someone else’s hands. Here, he thinks he understands.

“Find any good ideas in there?” He gestures with a nod. Leo flinches slightly, and forces himself to breathe out. 

“I’m no cook,” he huffs, waving a hand. “Just uh, thinkin about what to mention to Mike tomorrow, is all.” 

His tone is warbly, eyes wet. There’s more to this than Gio can parse, something about the book and the notes and the highlighted sparkle stamped recipes he knows are inside it, about first bites and sounds perfect’s. He hums instead, moving further into the kitchen towards the cupboards. The patchwork of everything means that they all have a favorite mug, and sometimes it overlaps. Mikey’s favorite is often Leo’s which is sometimes Don’s, and then they spiral back again. He knows Leo’s real favorite is the one Raph painted for them when they were eight, though— he only uses it when it’s late, or if he’s quietly brute forcing himself through a cold. Gio likes the handle for it; the way Raph had tried to write the letters of their names on the inside where your fingers sit. 

He places two teabags in Leo’s, one in his own, the way they both like, and sets the kettle to boil. 

“You picked the—” 

“Decaf,” Gio nods. “No sugar. One milk.” 

Leo breathes a small pleased laugh, like he’s surprised Gio noticed. It’s silly, his brothers are all silly in ways that yank and batter at his heart like breathing. The thought gives him courage enough to say: “There’ll be enough for a second, if you want.” 

Not a question, not really an observation. 

He catches the flicker of surprise louder in Leo’s eyes this time. “Course. Sure.” 

Gio nods. He doesn’t call Leo out, and the kitchen falls quiet again. Another strange thing, to be in here without the radio, without the little light over the stove, and to have it still be warm anyways. Leo’s glancing back at the cookbook in the corner of Gio’s eye.

It would be silly to ask what his favorite recipe is; Gio knows in a thousand different ways already, with careful measured explanations and patient guiding hands. He knows that Leo sees it too, even if he doesn’t know what it will (could have) become. Every page is a carefully crafted note into how to love Mikey’s brothers the best, after all. The right spices, the right textures. A thousand tiny throw away notes about taste testing and fluffy batter and the right amounts to make exactly enough leftovers to share. 

Leo’s swallowing roughly, as he stares at it. His jaw works quietly like he’s trying to hold himself together, and Gio hurts for him.

It’s hard, he thinks, to be loved so loudly. He’s still learning too.  

Instead, he says: “So. Someone once told me, the best cure for late nights is a warm bowl of soup.” 

Leo swallows again, blinks hard before meeting his gaze. He snorts. “Yeah? Don’t know if I’ve tried that one. Warm milk is a classic, but. Soup’s new.” 

You will, Gio thinks. And you’ll say you like it with peppers the best, and Mikey will make it that way every time, always, enough that he’ll tell me, that April will buy them without being asked, and I’ll like it that way best too. And he thinks: There’s a list of every soup you’ve ever eaten sitting in a book that someone who loves you made. And he thinks:   We kept the kitchen warm for you. And he thinks: if you ask for seconds, I’ll make it.

“You learned a lot of things before us, huh?” Leo swings his legs back down from their perch, closing the book. “Must be smart, whoever they are.” 

Yeah, Gio thinks, and it’s an ache to think also: Not before you. Never before you. 

Leo’s smile falls softer. “You miss them.” 

It’s also not a question. Gio’s heart quakes between his teeth. He dips his head, trying to breathe past the missing at all. It’s a strange circular thing, too: mugs and recipes and grief, he’s never figured out where to put them down. 

“Hm,” Leo’s eyes shine, sad and kind. Knowing without knowing. “Well, if they’re ever in the neighborhood, they’re always welcome for dinner. Friend of yours is a friend of ours and all that.”

“Yeah,” Gio says for lack of any possible other words.

Leo stands up, taking his mug from Gio’s hands carefully. “Thanks. So… soup?” 

Gio nods. “We should have everything for it.” He asked for jalapeno peppers yesterday, unthinkingly. It feels like another ghost.  

“Sounds perfect, Gigi.” Leo knocks his shoulder against Gio’s gently. “Hey. Do you think we can make enough for leftovers?” 

Chapter Text

It takes all of six minutes for a family outing to the Hidden City to go completely off the rails. Raph would be mortified, except that’s not even breaking their record.

He has no idea how Gio got there as quickly as he did. One minute he’s sandwiched between Mikey and April at a stall selling little whimsical glass figurines that moved and changed color, fully prepared to fork over an absurd amount of money for the sizeable stack of them they had picked out so far, and the next he was on the other side of the market, shoving his way between Donnie and the witch that had snuck up behind him.

Raph was already in damage control mode, but now it swiftly shifts gears from the more harmless ‘convince Gio not to spend a cool two hundred dollars at the drop of a hat just because Mikey and April got suckered by some kitschy souvenirs’ and moves into the more immediately imperative ‘stop Gio from breaking someone’s arm for the crime of approaching Donnie with a look on their face that Gio didn’t like.’ 

It’s a task in and of itself to carve through the crowd without bulldozing over the yokai just trying to do their evening shopping. Raph tries to be mindful of his size on a good day, but he has a bad feeling. It doesn’t take much for anxiety to stir in the back of his mind. Every foot between himself and his brothers feels like a mile. 

Whatever happened in Witch Town three years ago, Raph is beginning to think April and Donnie only gave the rest of them the spark notes version, or else why would the witches still be nursing a grudge?

“Hey,” Leo’s voice pipes up at his elbow. Raph looks down into a smiling striped face as Leo hefts the bags of food he’d collected from Hueso’s victoriously. “Got dinner. Where’s the fire?”

“Twelve o’clock,” Raph replies, and decides he’s had enough mincing around. “Hitch a ride, kid.”

Leo whistles low, clearly impressed by the amount of trouble their siblings must have caused to warrant the urgency, but doesn’t hesitate to hop up on Raph’s shell, maneuvering around the spikes with the ease of a lifetime of practice. His leg has healed to the point that he no longer carries the foldable neon blue crutch on outings, but Raph gives him an extra breath to settle anyway. Then he straightens his shoulders and stands up tall and the crowd parts for him like water around a stone. 

The witch is hissing between her teeth, the mane of fur framing her face bristling with resentment, needle-point fangs poking out from beneath her top lip. Gio is meeting her glare with one of his own, the soft expression he’d been wearing not even a full minute ago, watching April ooh and ahh over a tiny crystal shark swimming in midair, a thing of the past. Donnie looks offended and he’s already running his mouth over Gio’s shoulder, because he’s never met a fire he wouldn’t throw gasoline on. 

The next few seconds seem to stretch into hours and also shrink into an instant. The witch lifts her hand and blows something out of her open palm that glitters in the lantern light like broken glass. It hits Gio’s face with the force of a slap and Donnie’s startled yelp is audible to Raph’s ears over every other sound on the street and a thick plume of smoke obscures all three of them. 

Leo’s weight disappears from Raph’s back. When the smoke has cleared and Raph has shoved himself the rest of the way there, Leo has the witch pinned against a storefront wall with his sword to her throat. She is very carefully not moving an inch. Donnie is digging frantically through a pile of loose clothes on the ground. Gio is nowhere to be seen at a glance. 

Raph’s immediate thought is one he’s not proud of later, but in the moment he thinks if Gio’s gone I’ll let Leo kill her. 

“What did you do to my brother?” Leo says with a smile that cuts as easily as any one of his blades ever did. “In ten words or less. Don’t waste my time.” When she only stares at him, quivering like a mouse under the cold, calculative eyes of a bird, he adds pointedly, “My arm’s getting tired.”

“Okay!” she blurts. With a pang, Raph realizes she can’t be that much older than Mikey. “Okay okay! It’s not permanent, it doesn’t even hurt, I’m not allowed to use spells that harm until I pass my A-Levels! I just wanted to ruin his day!”

“What’s going on?” Mikey says, brow furrowed as he and April join them. “Is that Georgie’s scarf?” 

“OKAY NOBODY PANIC,” Donnie interjects in a significantly panicked tone of voice, the scarf in question clutched in his hands. “We’ve found ourselves in a situation that I am very much not equipped to handle, so I am tapping out and tagging Raphael in. That’s your cue, brother dearest.” 

What Donnie could possibly be under-qualified for that Raph isn’t, he has no idea. And he has no idea what he’s going to see when he steps over to Donnie and looks down at what Donnie is hovering uncertainly in front of, what his bulky battle shell has blocked from their siblings’ collective view. 

“Oh my fucking god,” Raph says without thinking. 

“Raphael!” Donnie hisses. “I’m implementing a swear jar and you’ll be receiving my Venmo request imminently.” 

“How the turntables,” Mikey mumbles behind them, kept from crowding close to look by April’s arm thrown out in front of him. Just in case it’s something bad. Something he can’t unsee. 

“Is he okay?” Leo calls over. There’s a thread of tension in his voice that only the people who love him would be able to hear. “Someone tell me if I need to add to my Hidden City arrest record.” 

The witch’s eyes widen, and she looks like she’s about to risk wriggling her way to freedom, sharp sword against her neck be damned. 

“He’s okaaaay,” Donnie says in a not-reassuring way, tone lilting uncertainly at the end. Leo’s body language rockets past worried and straight into alarmed. 

“Stop,” Raph says, putting firmness in his voice but not raising it, hyper-aware of Gio’s eyes tracking his every move. “He’s fine, Leo. We’ll call Barry and get him sorted out. But I think it would make you feel better to come see for yourself, so get your new friend’s contact info and cut her loose.”

Leo scoffs, but sheaths his sword over his shoulder. “Gimme that,” he says without an ounce of charm, pointing at one of the bangles on the witch’s wrist. 

Her yellow fur is sticking straight out at this point, but she works the bangle off and all but shoves it at Leo without a word. Leo doesn’t bother explaining why he wants it, what purpose it will serve. Raph knows that Mikey, an earnest student of mystic arts ever since his arms healed from the invasion, would be able to track the owner of a personal item through hell itself and out the other side. 

The witch doesn’t know that, and doesn’t ask questions. She lingers one second, then two—then, when it’s clear Leo isn’t playing a trick on her, takes off at a dead sprint and disappears into the marketplace crowd. A few yokai have lingered to watch the show, but for the most part business has carried on as usual. Raph loves and hates the Hidden City in equal measure for its quasi-lawlessness and customary chaos. 

Mikey is all but climbing over April at this point, and she has both her arms looped around his middle to bodily haul him back, since no one’s given her the clear to let him go yet. Leo joins the cluster of his big brothers and, to his eternal credit, the state of their eldest sibling only stuns him into stillness for a moment.

Then he smiles the way he’s only ever smiled at Michelangelo and folds his legs underneath himself and says, in a voice so unlike the one he spoke to the witch with that he might as well be a different person, “Hey, you. Do you know who I am?”

A tiny spotted turtle with Hamato Yoshi’s brown eyes looks up at them, absolutely swimming in Giorgio’s dark clothes and gear, the compound crossbow on the ground beside him laughably big in comparison. The bead art ladybug keychain clipped to the bow stock is the only thing that makes sense for this tiny baby to have near his person. He can’t be older than four.

The baby turtle looks surprised that Leo is talking to him. He scoots his arms and legs a little closer to himself, hands curled into fists that he hides in the folds of the coat Gio had let Splinter tuck him into two hours ago.

Eventually, very carefully, he shakes his head. It must come as a blow. Gio spoils all of his siblings recklessly but he dotes on Leo most of all. 

“Aw, that’s okay,” Raph interjects, talking to them both but looking at Gio. He’s keenly aware of how much bigger he is than this pint-sized version of his only older brother, practically towering over him, and he’s quick to crouch next to the twins. He’s still in damage control mode, even if now it’s taking a tone that reminds him vividly of his childhood of being the de facto babysitter and the one responsible for breaking up screeching fights over the Wii remote and soothing hurt feelings. “Do you see how we’re all turtles like you?” he asks. 

Gio’s nod comes slightly quicker this time. He doesn’t uncoil from his tight little ball, but he doesn’t seem overly fearful. He just watches them with huge dark eyes, absorbing everything. 

“Well, his job is to make sure little turtles aren’t hurt after big falls,” Raph says, patting Leo’s carapace. “Does anything hurt anywhere? Do you feel an ouch?” 

Gio’s face is round and soft and young, with spots he hasn’t grown into yet that crowd for space on his cheeks and forehead—so to see him wearing that serious expression they’re all so familiar with at this young age will be both funny and cute just as soon as Raph is capable of finding anything funny or cute about the situation. 

Mikey, who finally breaches containment and lifts himself over Donnie’s shoulders to see, has no such compunctions and coos audibly. 

“He’s so precious!” 

“Michael,” Donnie says at length. 

“What, are you going to tell me he’s not?”

“Of course not. I’m a man of science, and it’s an indisputable scientific fact that baby turtles are adorable. But it’s not the time or place for selfies so put your phone away.”

Mikey scoffs, but slides his phone back into his pocket. Raph is about to lose what little is left of his cool. While the peanut gallery is sniping back and forth, Leo has inched closer, and Gio is agreeably allowing him to check him over. Aside from a tender spot on his knee that will bruise tomorrow, presumably from his rough landing, he’s perfectly fine. 

Leo still puts an unnecessary Barbie bandaid on the sore knee with a silly amount of fanfare, and then pokes Gio on his spotted cheek playfully, and earns himself a tentative, inching smile. 

They’re holding up traffic, but Donnie and Mikey turned and stared down the one person who dared clear their throat at the inconvenient turtle roadblock until that person got uncomfortable and silently walked around them, and no one else bothered them after that. But Raph still wants to get home sooner rather than later. He feels vulnerable, like his heart or a lung is on display out in the open, where anyone with cruel intentions might step on it or steal it away. 

So he mentions dinner, as if he’s thinking out loud. Leo looks guiltily over his shoulder at where the Run of the Mill takeout is probably laying in a heap on the street, but Mikey is quick to jump in.

“Oh, Georgie, let me make your favorite! Whatever you like to eat! And you can help me cook, how ‘bout that? I bet you’re a good helper!”

“That does sound fun,” Raph says. “What do you say, buddy? Does that sound good?”

Gio nods, the fastest response they’ve gotten yet. Then he surprises the hell out of Raph by lifting his arms, the universal sign of a child that wants to be picked up. It’s not a big, enthusiastic want, it’s more hopeful than anything—two little hands that still know how to reach out, that haven’t been taught otherwise yet. 

It bothers Raph that Gio is so comfortable with strangers. That he hasn’t cried or fussed even though he clearly doesn’t know where he is or what he’s doing here. That he tucks himself into a quiet little ball and just lets things happen, like that’s what he’s used to doing, and there’s no point trying to raise his voice to be heard. 

But Raph had a seventeen year streak of being the oldest brother, and he’ll always be the biggest, so it’s muscle memory to scoop the baby turtle into his arms. The tiny curve of Gio’s black, white-spotted shell is a perfect fit in the crook of his arm. 

The faded friendship bracelet that Raph has never once seen Gio without is comically big on his thin wrist and in danger of falling off at any second. Raph carefully removes the bracelet and pockets it for safekeeping, and Mikey passes over the prized ladybug keychain for Gio to hang onto instead. Donnie and April have Gio’s clothes and gear and bow bundled haphazardly in their arms. Leo is holding a sword down by his side, standing close enough to Raph that Gio probably can’t even see it.

“Do you want to see a magic trick?” Leo asks Gio in a sneaky tone that has, historically, always rallied other turtles into running headlong into mischief and trouble with him. 

Sure enough, Gio nods again, maybe even eagerly this time. 

“Close your eyes,” Leo says. 

Gio obeys, even pressing his little hands over them, ladybug and all. The ground at Raph’s feet glows blue, a disk that spreads wide enough to encompass all six of them. When Gio opens his eyes again, they’ll be home. 

Raph doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until Draxum completes a cursory examination of the tiny turtle in Raph’s arms and says, “He’ll be fine.” Then it feels like Raph’s lungs unclench and let air in all at once. His knees even go a little wobbly.  

“It is a common spell that schoolchildren use for mischief,” Draxum goes on, watching Gio with an unreadable expression. “It will last about a week, and he probably won’t retain any memory of his time in this state. So when you inevitably drop him, or lose him, or traumatize him in some other third way, he will not retaliate later.”

Like clockwork, everyone in the room starts talking at once, vehemently denying the possibility of ever doing anything to even remotely upset this babyfied version of their eldest sibling. In part, Raph thinks it’s relief that causes the outpouring of emotion—relief that they can put their worry behind them and be offended instead—and Draxum knows them well enough to know exactly what he’s doing as he feeds into the commotion with an eye roll. 

Raph looks down at Gio and the little guy tilts his head back to look up at him neutrally, ladybug keychain clutched in his hands. Waiting to see what Raph is going to do. He doesn’t like the raised voices, dark eyes more cautious now than curious, but he still doesn’t seem outwardly afraid. Probably because no one is outright yelling, and none of it is aimed at him. 

Gio is so small at this age. It feels impossible that any of the rest of them could ever have been this small, even though there are entire albums full of baby pictures in Splinter’s room that would emphatically prove otherwise. 

He doesn’t seem afraid, but he doesn’t look like he knows how safe he is, either. 

“These guys are real silly, huh?” Raph says. “If they get too loud, you just let Raph know, and I’ll hush them right up. That’s what big brothers are for.”

They’ve already broken down the situation to Gio as best they could, and Draxum was kind about using language little ears would understand during his assessment. It helps that Giorgio grew up in the Hidden City of some other dimension, surrounded by the magic that his siblings hadn’t discovered until they were teenagers—it was easier to explain to him that there was an entire life he’d lived that he’d just forgotten about than it would have been to explain the same thing to any of Raph’s other siblings at this age. 

And it certainly helps that four of the six people Gio has met so far have scales and shells much like his own. They match in a way that a child would pick up on instantly, that gives credit to the story they told him. It doesn’t matter in real life, but that sense of belonging is so important to children. 

Gio hasn’t expressed any disbelief—but he wouldn’t, would he? He hasn’t even asked a single question and Raph knows he must have them. He just watches everything carefully, paying very close attention when someone moves quickly or talks loudly. 

He’s so small, Raph keeps thinking. And so quiet. Donnie was nonverbal when they were children, but unless he was having a shutdown, he made himself heard in plenty of other ways. He wasn’t shy about using his teeth to make them listen. 

“Give it a week,” Draxum reiterates before leaving. He pauses in front of Raph, and his usual stern expression that only Mikey ever manages to melt doesn’t seem quite as severe as it usually does when he looks at the baby Raph’s holding. 

It occurs to him, abruptly, that Draxum only saw the turtles very briefly after their mutation, before Splinter stole them away to a kinder life. Gio is older now than he would have been back then, but not by much. Draxum thought of them as weapons at first, not children, but the last few years of coparenting unruly teenagers have informed his opinion. There’s something very complicated about the way he studies Gio. 

Raph understands Mikey’s affection for the old goat, and he understands Splinter’s grudging tolerance, and thinks he himself lands somewhere in the middle of the two. Raph will never be able to forgive him for Leo’s fear of heights. Raph will never be able to thank him for those tireless hours he spent healing Mikey’s hands. 

If he asked to hold Gio in this moment, Raph would probably let him. But it’s a relief when Draxum only nods to himself and heads for the door without another word. 

“Always a pleasure to have you in our home,” Donnie says loudly. 

“Isn’t it, though?” Mikey says, either not catching the sarcasm or electing to ignore it. 

“You guys are setting the worst example for our little guy,” April says, as if she wasn’t in the thick of the commotion all of five minutes ago. 

“Nuh-uh,” Mikey says maturely. “We’re the best role models in the greater Manhattan area, right, Georgino?”

Equally as surprising as when he put his arms out to be picked up back in the market, Gio opens his mouth as if he’s going to answer, and then quickly snaps it shut without speaking, like he suddenly remembered he wasn’t supposed to. He turns his head to tuck his face against Raph’s plastron, probably because everyone’s looking at him. 

“Hey,” Mikey says in a softer tone, some of the joy bleeding from him in favor of something with tender edges. But it only makes Gio press his face harder against Raph’s scutes, tiny shoulders creeping up to his ears. 

“Hey Georgie,” Leo singsongs abruptly, and waits until one big dark eye peeks out at him to go on, “wanna see another magic trick?”

Gio nods, maybe because he actually does want to see one, or maybe just to be polite, or maybe just because Leo’s the one asking. Leo shows Gio his empty hands and then reaches past his spotted cheek to pull a snack size Kit Kat out of thin air, like a street magician making a coin appear from behind someone’s ear. 

“How’d this get back there?” he says, playfully grandiose, unwrapping it perfunctorily and putting the prize in Gio’s tentative hand. 

Leo has never had a sweet tooth, but nowadays he always has at least a couple of Laffy Taffys in his pocket, so he can read the jokes on the wrapper and Gio can eat the candy. Raph is glad he has something that’s less of a choking hazard to offer the kid, that he thought that far ahead about even this. 

Gio takes a bite of chocolate wafer and his eyes get huge and round. He stares at Leo like he’s literally never tasted anything like it before and crams the second bite in his mouth before he’s quite finished with the first. 

“Woah, slow down,” Raph half-laughs. 

“Yeah, there’s plenty more where that came from, kitkat,” Leo says. 

“You’re gonna spoil his dinner,” Mikey complains, noticeably doing nothing to stop Leo from unwrapping another chocolate. His red eyes are studying the scene carefully, clued in to what Raph has largely guessed already, what Leo has probably figured out before any of the rest of them—that there is something here worth worrying about—but he smiles all big and scrunches his beak when Gio glances his way. 

From elsewhere in the lair, a door slams. Raph suddenly remembers that they had texted Splinter the bare details when they got home and then proceeded to completely forget about the group chat that has probably been blowing up ever since. 

“Heads up, boys,” April says grimly. Donnie takes three decisive steps backwards that put him solidly behind Raphael, and then, as an afterthought, a metal limb unfolds from his battle shell that draws Mikey back with him. Coward. 

Gio looks from Leo up to Raph, chocolate smudging against his fingers the longer he hesitates to eat his last bite of candy. He looks worried about whatever has made Donnie and Mikey hide, and doesn’t know April well enough to understand that her warning was half a joke, and doesn’t know why Raph and Leo haven’t reacted at all. He doesn’t know what cue to follow. He’s waiting to see what they’re going to do. 

“It’s okay,” Raph tells him gently. He’s rumbling, deep and low in his chest, and doesn’t know when he started doing that. “Remember we told you about our dad? That’s him. He might be loud at first, but not because he’s mad.”

“Sometimes you can have really big feelings that aren’t mad or sad, and it’s hard to make them come out quiet,” Mikey pipes up from behind them. Raph feels a familiar weight on his shell, slight and crawling upwards, a second before Mikey’s face pokes over his shoulder. He beams, and adds, “Like when you’re so happy you burst out laughing!” 

“You got lost once, and he was really worried,” Leo says. “He’s gonna be so happy to see you. He can’t wait, that’s why he’s running all the way here.”

Splinter is mid-lecture by the time he makes it to the den. They could kind of hear it as he was making his way down the tunnel, mostly indistinguishable and bouncing around off the brickwork and creating an echo effect that only made it more distorted. The tone was loud and clear, though. Splinter was ticked off. 

“—all of my children have cellphones and for what? For what? They are lucky I do not pay for them because I would certainly stop paying for them now! Money down the drain!”

“Oh my god, we didn’t check our messages for like half an hour,” Leo mutters under his breath. 

“I heard that young man!” Splinter snaps as he finally rounds the corner. Talking right over Leo’s wounded “HOW?”, Splinter goes on, “You had me worried sick! What sort of message was that, hm? That my Gray was cursed by some miscreant in the Hidden City, and you called Baron Draxum before you called your own father, and then refused to—to—”

It’s glaringly obvious when he finally lays eyes on Giorgio. His mouth hangs open, then snaps shut, and Raph has that realization he had before with Draxum. Once upon a time, all the turtles were this small, but Draxum never got to hold any of them. Once upon a time, Gio lived when Splinter thought he had died, only he got lost and grew up somewhere out of his father’s sight. 

He must have grieved for this baby, Raph realizes. He must have mourned him. Even when Gio came home, there were memories and milestones Splinter would never get to have with him that he had with his other boys. 

“Oh, Gray,” Splinter murmurs. “My little baby Spot. Look at you, sweetheart.” 

Leo looks completely disarmed by the tone of voice, and Raph isn’t far behind him. He hasn’t heard that voice from dad in years, since he was a little turtle himself. It’s different even from the gentle way Splinter talks in the medbay when one of them is hurt, or at bedsides after bad dreams. 

And it’s not surprising when Gio drops the candy he was still holding onto and stretches out his arms again, more hopefully than when he wanted Raph to lift him, more urgently than when Leo offered him a treat. Parents are something that little orphans probably dream about. And here’s a parent, looking right at him, talking as if he loves him. Gio’s reaching insistently, even wriggling forward like he’ll tip out of Raph’s grip completely if he has to.

Splinter is in front of Raph in the blink of an eye, lifting Gio out of his arms and tucking him close. He makes it look so natural, as if his arms aren’t made to make movies or fight endless battles in the Nexus, actually, they’re meant to do exactly this. Hold little turtles and rock them slightly, sticky smudged fingers and all. 

His eyes are wet. Raph is eighteen, and definitely still not old enough that he can bear to watch his dad cry. He reaches blindly for a nearby sibling, finds Donnie, and curls an arm around him. Tellingly, Donnie allows the hug without so much as a token hiss. 

“Sweetheart,” Splinter says again, rubbing his furry cheek against the top of Gio’s head. Some ancient hurt inside him finally beginning to heal. “My little baby. I missed you when you were gone. I’m so glad you’re here.”

The closest Gio comes to fussing is when he thinks Splinter is going to put him down. His fist tightens in the front of Splinter’s robe and his eyes get shiny and his lower lip starts to pucker. Raph can tell a baby brother that’s about to cry from a mile away and similarly Donnie goes stock-still under Raph’s arm and makes an alarmed noise in his throat, like someone witnessing the improper handling procedures of a live explosive. 

But Splinter is only resituating his hold to sit them both on the sofa, where Gio is parked comfortably in his father’s lap, and no tears are shed. The baby’s or anybody else’s. 

“I trust you have been taking pictures,” Splinter says in a tone that suggests he will seriously consider disowning all of them if otherwise. 

“Father, am I a joke to you?” Donnie asks flatly. “SHELLDON has already texted all of you the link to a shared photo album which syncs automatically at the top of the hour.”

“SHELLDON is the only trustworthy person in this house,” Splinter tells Gio, ignoring Donnie’s offended squawking. “Your silly brothers haven’t even found you something warm to wear! And look at your little arms, you are practically just skin and bones! They haven’t fed you either, I take it? Pah. Clearly we must do everything ourselves around here.”

“Dad,” Mikey whines, “we were gonna do all of that! We just got home!” 

“Are you seriously holding a grudge because we missed your calls?” Leo asks incredulously. “You left me on read for two days once.”

“There are five of you and not one of you picked up the phone. Ridiculous.” 

Gio is staring up at Splinter’s face. Some of the words going back and forth over his head are clearly too big for him to follow, and he’s missing vital context to fill in all the gaps, but Splinter’s voice is still that one exclusive to very little turtles. His normal register, just lower and calmer, easily shifting from soothing to playful without much tonal change. And Gio is absorbing it like a reptile basking in the sun. Like he’s never heard anything like it before.

Raph wants to convince himself that there are plenty of reasons for Gio to never have been spoken to lovingly at this age. He can’t think of a single one, but there must be. 

April can’t stay for much longer, because she has a nine o’clock class in the morning that she can’t skip and she told her mom she’d be home for dinner. But she promises to return tomorrow with Gio-sized clothes come hell or high water. 

“Just as soon as I figure out how to tell my mom I need baby stuff without her jumping to the worst possible conclusion,” April says, sounding hunted. She crouches in front of the sofa and adds, “Can I get a big hug for the road from my favorite polka dot?”

“Regular cuddlebug,” Leo remarks quietly, observing as Gio readily loops his skinny arms around April’s neck. He even rubs their cheeks together, marveling at the softness of her skin against his textured scales. April looks seconds away from scooping him up and running out the door with him. 

“He hugs us all the time,” Raph replies, knowing as he says it that it’s not the same. 

It would surprise a stranger to get a glimpse of the Gio that lives behind that resting murder face and closed-off body language, but Raph knows firsthand how affectionate his big brother is. 

He lets little siblings stuff their hands in his coat pockets when it’s cold outside, and fall asleep on his shoulder halfway through a movie they insisted on watching, and crowd noisily into his personal space to claim his attention. And he does it as if it would never have occurred to him not to do it.

He’s never asked any of them for a hug, though. Now that he’s thinking about it, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Raph can’t remember a single time that Gio asked anyone for anything at all. 

Raph wishes for about the millionth time in his life that he could peel back the screen behind Leo’s eyes and catch a preview of the puzzle his brain is rapidly assembling piece by inscrutable piece into some bigger picture. 

When April has finally wrestled with her cuteness aggression and won, giving Gio a final squeeze that would have been lung-crushing for a human person but only feels snug and affectionate to anyone with the built-in body armor of a turtle shell, she walks backwards towards the turnstiles blowing dramatic goodbye kisses to everyone else and Mikey steps up to bat.

“Time for the most crucial conversation of the day,” he says importantly. “Of our lives even,” he stresses, which Raph thinks might be pushing it. “What’s your favorite food in the whole world, Georgie?”

Gio is still waving goodbye to April with the hand holding the ladybug keychain, because the other is gripping tight to Splinter’s sleeve. It takes him a second to realize Mikey is talking to him, and a second after that for him to realize everyone is looking at him, anticipating his answer. He pulls both hands in tight to his middle again, even letting go of Splinter to do it, and doesn’t say anything at all. 

“Kind of a big question, Miguelito,” Leo swoops in before the gap in the conversation can grow any larger than it will take a little hop to cross. “You have ten different favorite foods for each day of the week.”

“Oh, that’s fair,” Mikey allows. “And Donald wouldn’t be able to list ten foods he liked if someone put a gun to his head.”

“I have a refined palate,” says their brother who once famously refused to eat anything other than butter pasta for two and a half weeks in a row when he was thirteen. “Clemmys guttata are omnivorous, and opportunistic feeders. They eat whatever they can find underwater. Not to say our George wouldn’t love peanut butter toast and Lucky Charms as much as the next preschooler, but something tells me Michael wants options with a little more pizzazz.” And even though he has gone on record more than once in recent memory to state in no uncertain terms that he would sooner walk backwards into hell than eat any dish involving shellfish, Donnie goes on, “Don’t we have shrimp in the fridge?”

Mikey brightens, struck with inspiration. “I can work with that!” 

He springs for the kitchen at full speed, hooking his arm through Leo’s on his way past and yanking his immediate older brother along with him—tribute selected for the mealtime assist. 

Raph can hear them bickering playfully from here, and if he looks he’ll see that Leo is already tying on his favorite apron, folding it over the way he must have learned from all those hours following Hueso around the back of house at Run of the Mill. And Mikey will untie his and retie it the way Leo does it, like clockwork. Neither of them will stop talking even once until dinner is made, their unending, overlapping chatter the closest Raph has ever come to understanding those ASMR videos April and Donnie send back and forth in the group chat.  

Similarly, Splinter’s ear twitches back toward the kitchen every so often, tuning in. And Donnie’s nervous energy is finally petering out. The battle shell disengages with a hiss of hydraulics, making Gio’s eyes get big and alarmed when it stands up on spiderlegs and walks in the direction of its charging dock in the lab. 

“I bet yours doesn’t do that, huh?” Raph teases. Gio shakes his head no rapidly, and Raph feels fondness pop in his chest like a firecracker. “Don’t worry, mine doesn’t either. Donnie’s one of a kind.”

“Thank you, Raph, but we can discuss my blanket superiority later,” Donnie says, earning a thwap on the knee from the tip of Splinter’s tail. With the heavy armor off his back, Donnie sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa comfortably, bracing his hands on his knees. “You understand English, but papa’s Japanese didn’t seem to land. Do you know sign?” He lifts his hands to sign along with the question, slow and deliberate. 

“Dang, Raph didn’t even think of that,” Raph admits. 

Gio watches Donnie’s hands repeat the question once. Uncomprehending, but very interested in whatever he’s doing. 

“That’s okay,” Donnie says easily, and settles in to teach the way he once taught April. “Let’s start with the alphabet. This will be easy for you. I don’t make a habit of telling them this, lest it go to their heads, but all of my siblings share a fraction of my genius. Cut from the same cloth and all. We are a family of very smart cookies. And you,” Donnie tells him, “are a very, very smart cookie.”

“He’s a snickerdoodle!” the eavesdroppers in the kitchen bellow in tandem. 

“You’re a snickerdoodle,” Donnie says solemnly. Splinter snorts, but otherwise doesn’t interrupt. 

Raph worries for the first few minutes that the finger-spelling might be too advanced, and he doesn’t want Gio to get discouraged. How old are kids when they learn to spell, anyway? But Gio picks it up quickly, the shapes he makes with his fingers becoming less clumsy the longer Donnie walks him through his ABCs. Splinter always used to say he was surprised by how quickly the turtles tore through their learning material when they were little, and Gio is as much Draxum’s bizarre lab experiment as the rest of them are. Maybe that’s what Donnie meant in the first place. 

Donnie hums something as he finger-spells H-E-L-L-O G-I-O, a tune that pings in the back of Raph’s mind as familiar and makes Leo giggle from over in the kitchen. Donnie smiles without even glancing that way, because the two of them have an inside joke for every other word they say, and it’s always kind of a special prize to make clever Leo laugh without meaning to. 

“You’re alright but I’m here, darling, to enjoy the party,” Donnie shoulder-shimmies as he sings what Raph recognizes now as an electro-pop song that always features on Donnie’s heavy rotation playlist when it’s his turn to pick the music in the car. 

“Don’t get too excited ‘cause that’s all you get from me, hey!” Leo pitches in loud enough that his voice carries over. 

“Yeah, I think you’re cute, but really you should know,” Donnie continues, signing along to the words for his riveted audience, “I just came to say hello.”

Gio mirrors the ‘hello’ sign, a B handshape held to his forehead and then pushed away, and when Donnie makes a show of applauding this major accomplishment, he makes Gio giggle, too.

It’s the first sound he’s made since they met this version of him, and it makes all activity grind to an abrupt halt in the kitchen, Mikey freezing comically in the middle of a taste-test. Leo looks as stunned as Raph feels. Splinter catches his breath, and Donnie flaps his hands like he has to shake out the pure joy he’s experiencing in this instant or else explode with it. 

“I told you guys I was the funniest,” Donnie whispers. 

Gio giggles again, clearly a fan of Donatello. He’s hanging off Donnie’s every word, an expression on his face that Raph is utterly familiar with—a little turtle amazed by every single thing bigger turtles do. Gio glances over at Raph, still smiling, checking to see that Raph is smiling, too. 

Raph’s cheeks hurt with how hard he’s grinning, as a matter of fact. 

“How’s that song go again, Dee?” he says. 

“I’m so glad you asked,” Donnie replies, and pairs his phone to the Bluetooth speakers. 

When the music starts and Raph scoops Gio up into his arms, Gio shrieks with high-pitched, bubbly laughter, sweeter than any snickerdoodle cookie. Raph spins around, dancing them over to the kitchen, where Donnie has already dragged his twin into an absurd rendition of the waltz that Mikey is sandwiched in the middle of. Splinter parks himself on a stool at the island and watches over them with gooey eyes. 

The garlic bread in the oven ends up burning around the edges before anyone thinks to save it, but Mikey carves away the bitter ends and gives the best piece to Gio. The shrimp alfredo is a success—Donnie’s plain alfredo received with ridiculous gratitude—and Gio eats until he’s nodding off at the table. 

“We’ll skip bathtime tonight, I think,” Splinter murmurs, wiping Gio’s face and hands with a washcloth instead. 

“Can we have a sleepover in the living room?” Mikey begs. “Please please please? We’ll be so careful, and he’ll love the string lights!”

“Only if you do not keep him awake with your shenanigans,” Splinter says sternly. “And only if Gray wants to go.”

“What do you say, Georgie? Sleepover?” Mikey says, crouching by Splinter’s chair to be face-to-face with the little guy in question. “We can turtle pile, and Donnie can bring the star projector out! His intro to astronomy TED Talk will put you right to sleep.”

“Offended scoff,” Donnie interjects. “I’ll have you know that presentation is peer-reviewed.”

“Believe me, Tello, we do know,” Leo says in the voice of a younger brother who has heard this argument enough times to recite it word for word. 

Gio nods yes with his fist, one of the simple signs he’s learned this evening, but it’s Raph he puts his arms out to, and Raph whose shoulder he pillows his tiny head on with a quiet sleepy turtle sound that shoots like an arrow straight into Raph’s core. 

He has no idea what Gio’s life looked like at this age. He thinks maybe it wasn’t anything like Raph’s childhood—maybe it was actually not very good at all. Someone taught Gio not to speak up, to watch everything closely and keep his hands to himself. Kids are sensitive to the moods around them, but it’s odd how Gio monitors expressions and tones like he’s measuring them against something in his head. It’s strange how careful he is. 

Raph thinks of growing up with his brothers, getting into trouble and shouting matches and scuffles, making a mess of the kitchen and flooding the bathroom and breaking dishes and TV remotes out of clumsiness or carelessness. They would shuffle shamefacedly when they got scolded, and sometimes tear up and sometimes throw a tantrum, but they never, ever looked at Splinter with any fear.

Gio, Raph thinks, grew up a different way. Wherever he was. Whoever he was with. They didn’t love him right. 

Feeling a hundred things all at once, each of them more prickly and upsetting than the last, Raph tucks Gio into the blanket Leo tossed over them before settling down and feeling the weight of his little brothers settling on and around him. It soothes the ache in his heart, and when Gio makes one final, sleepy click, it’s echoed on all sides by unthinking clicks and chirps, and by the rumble that starts up in Raph’s chest and rolls over the rest of them.  

April comes through for them, as always, with some of her younger cousin’s old baby clothes. 

All of the turtles were much smaller than human kids in their earlier years. Splinter described them as small enough to fit in his palm even after their mutation. Once they each hit their initial growth spurts, they seemed to grow twice as fast to make up for their slow start, but Gio isn’t quite there yet. He’s still, as Mikey puts it, all of two apples tall. 

So the toddler hoodie that April pulls over his head immediately falls past his knees, and she has to roll up the sleeves that trail over his hands, and it’s adorable. So many pictures. Gio might never forgive them for this when he’s himself again. 

Gio loves the big pocket in the middle. It’s where his ladybug lives, and where Leo constantly sneaks in a treat or two with the sleight of hand that Gio is endlessly impressed by. It’s also a convenient place to hide his hands when he gets nervous, which is still more often than Raph would like. 

But the kid is coming out of his shell more and more, trailing along behind his brothers like a duckling that got slightly bolder every time it wasn’t shooed away. He reminds Raph of a much younger Leo, who wanted to be a part of everything all the time and hated to be excluded in any way for any reason. 

Somewhere along the line, Raph got the idea that Leo outgrew that, but it turns out he never really did. He just got better at acting like nothing his brothers did could ever bother him, and being alone was super enjoyable, actually. Restful, even. 

Gio at this age isn’t fooling anybody, wearing his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. And what his heart told them loud and clear was that he wanted to be wherever his brothers were, doing whatever they were doing. Unlike when they were all kids together, when it was sometimes annoying to have a baby brother tagging along and demanding to be involved in everything Raph ever did, Gio couldn’t bother them if he tried. 

If anything, they’re probably more annoying than he is. No child anywhere has taken more selfies with their overbearing big siblings than Giorgio Hamato, and definitely couldn’t have been as good-tempered about it even if they had. 

The first time he dared to reach up and tug on the hem of Raph’s shirt, signing a hopeful ‘help?’ when he had Raph’s attention—wanting to be included in the table Raph was setting for lunch, apparently, even though it was barely enough job for one turtle, let alone one and a half—Raph reached down and scooped him right up, passing every plate and cup and piece of silverware to Gio for him to place instead. 

There was a space for him here already, they didn’t have to make one. 

Mikey currently has custody of Gio in the kitchen, supervising as the little spotted turtle presses cookie cutters into an absurd amount of chocolate chip dough rolled out to perfect even flatness. Mikey sneaks him a bite every so often like it’s some big secret, like it isn’t obvious they’re in there eating as much of the cookie dough as they’re cutting out, but Gio loves every second of the attention and soaks it up like a sun-starved plant. 

When the cookies are in the oven and Gio has been gently dusted free of flour and held up to the kitchen sink so he could wash his hands, Leo appears like clockwork.

“Hey, Georgie-Porgie,” he says. “You’ve been a busy little bee today. Do you have a minute to spare for your favorite second-youngest brother?” 

It’s as good as a rhetorical question, because Gio doesn’t have to fully understand what Leo is saying to simply nod along with him. Mikey is less than graceful about surrendering the kid, because he’s never had a little brother to carry around before and he’s loving every second of it, but Leo and Gio don’t go far. 

Leo sits them at the table, himself in the chair and Gio on the tabletop. His first order of business is poking one of the spots on Gio’s cheek because it always makes him smile. Then he pulls a small tube from his pocket, unscrewing the cap.

“This is a type of medicine,” he says, letting Gio hold it. “It’s a gel that we put on scars—on ouches when they leave a mark on us. Raphie—” Leo casts around for him, and waves him over. Raph gets up from where he and Donnie were both pretending not to watch from the sofa and parks himself in the chair next to Leo’s instead, and Leo says, “Raphie has some, too. On his eye, and his shoulder.” 

Gio’s dark eyes follow where Leo points. He doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t put the tube down to sign anything. As an afterthought, Leo scoots his chair back from the table and rolls up the left leg of his joggers, revealing the vivid scarring around his knee. 

Raph has figured out where this is going. Gio usually keeps his hands closed into fists or tucked out of sight completely, but practicing sign language made it impossible to keep that up, and Raph saw what must have Leo so disquieted; the pale scars on Gio’s gray-green palms that shouldn’t be there. 

“See?” Leo says, and waits for Gio’s nod. “Has anyone put medicine on your hands before?” This time Gio shakes his head. Leo, who became a criminally good actor when no one was looking, doesn’t let his expression change at all. “Can we try it out this once? If you don’t like it, we’ll stop.” 

Donnie has stopped typing on his laptop, and Mikey has stopped wiping down the kitchen counters. Raph watches Gio come to a decision none of the rest of them are privy to and then hold out his little hands, palms up, eyes down. 

For such a small gesture, it feels impossibly daring. It feels like a trust too big for any one person to hold. It probably feels to Leo the way Gio resting his head on Raph’s shoulder that first night had felt to him. 

But Leo, who knows a thing or two about being brave when brave is the last thing you feel, scoops those offered hands up and kisses each tiny palm with a silly mwah! sound. It wasn’t what Gio was expecting and surprises him into a shy smile. 

Leo doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He squeezes some ointment out briskly and massages it into Gio’s scars with his thumbs, explaining what he’s doing as he goes. His tone has been calm and breezy since they sat down at the table together, and Gio is following his cue. Gio isn’t going to get upset if no one else is. 

He still takes his hands away as soon they’re finished, but not as quickly as he might have a day ago. 

“You’re a much better patient than anyone else in this family,” Leo tells Gio, so serious it loops back around into playful. “Donnie would have taken a bite at me by now.”

“Perhaps,” Donnie intones flatly from the living room. 

“That’s why you get a treat, Jorgito,” Leo goes on, lifting Gio down from the table before reaching into his own pocket for a frankly ridiculous handful of wrapped chocolate truffles. He pokes them into Gio’s hoodie pouch one by one while Gio watches with starry eyes. “Don’t share any with Dondon, you earned these fair and square. But go make him open all of them for you. Doctor’s orders!” 

Gio takes off at a run, and the evil eye Donnie is giving Leo dissolves into his usual neutral expression by the time Gio has clambered gracelessly up onto the sofa beside him, signing ‘candy’ and ‘please’ like the earnest little angel he is. 

Leo makes tracks back to the infirmary, because if he’s going to be upset about something it’s going to happen where no one else can see. 

“He better not eat more than three of those before dinner, Dee! I know where you sleep!” Mikey singsongs in a bright tone that manages to sound like a direct threat of bodily harm, swinging around the kitchen island to plop into the chair Leo vacated. “That spell he’s under is so strange,” Mikey goes on in a quieter tone. “It turned him back into a baby, but he kept all his scars from his older years?”

Raph can follow that logic, because it’s the only thing that makes sense, right? But Raph had a front-row seat to Leo’s little pop-up clinic, and he had watched Leo rub a careful thumb over a spot on Gio’s arm that they had had to stitch up after a fight with the Foot Clan three months ago. It left a small scar that Leo had treated regularly with the same tube of gel sitting on the table in front of him now. 

That scar on Gio’s arm isn’t there anymore.

And Raph abruptly understands why little Gio hides his hands when he gets nervous. It’s the first thing he always does. He thinks of his older brother, who rarely leaves the lair without his gloves, who still crosses his arms when tensions are high, as if he never fully outgrew that particular knee-jerk reaction that was taught to him when he was very small.

It’s an understanding he’s poorly equipped for. What does he do with it? That sweet little boy in the next room isn’t really here. It isn’t actually possible to rescue him from whoever left those angry, raised marks on his hands, or do anything that will make any sort of difference. In a few days, he’ll be himself again, their Gio, strong and steady and unflinching in face of monsters and the actual apocalypse, and he won’t remember anything Raph tells him today, even if Raph managed to think of the right thing to say. 

“God dammit,” he mutters to himself at the table.

“Swear jar,” Donnie and Mikey chime instantly. 

Raph literally can’t deal with them at the moment. He stands up and announces that he’s taking a nap before dinner, and unless your name starts with a G, don’t bother him. Gio blinks at Raph, and then up at Donnie, and signs ‘C’. Donnie corrects his handshape, saying, “No, ‘G’. He means you. You’re the favorite. You have unimaginable power.”

Leo slips into Raph’s bedroom moments after Raph has buried himself beneath his weighted blanket. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the springs dipping slightly beneath his insubstantial weight. How someone as big and bright as a supernova can manage to seem so small at times is one of the universe’s worst jokes. 

Anxiety thrums in the back of Raph’s mind, never really going away, only making itself small and quiet when Raph manages to distract himself with other things. Now it’s spilling out of the box he put it in, stretching to fill more than its fair share of the space. 

Raphael was a child at the same time Giorgio was. It wasn’t Raph’s responsibility to protect him. He didn’t even know Gio existed back then, and they were an entire dimension apart. So why does it still feel like Raph failed him?

“I’m sorry,” Leo finally says. “I should have kept it to myself.” 

“No you shouldn’t have,” Raph replies immediately, because the root of ninety-percent of Leo’s issues is that he keeps them all to himself. One of these days Raph is going to convince him that there will never be a problem that belongs to his little brothers that doesn’t also belong to Raph. It won’t be today, but one day. “I just—I don’t know if it’s better or worse that I don’t know exactly what happened to him. And he’s never going to tell us, is he?”

Leo taps his fist against Raph’s shell, gathering his thoughts. Out of the entire family, he knows Gio best, if only because of all the late nights they sit up together, talking until night terrors are made small, until the dragging weight of insomnia isn’t quite so bruising. 

“I think living through it once was enough,” he says. “You know?”

Raph does know. He’s never really talked about the Krang parasite that dug into his head, about what it wanted him to do to the people he loved most in the world. About what he almost did to the brother sitting next to him right now. About the fragile shape of Leo’s neck in a stranglehold and the knowledge he lives with now of how easy it would be to snap it in his hand.

The thought of speaking any of those thoughts out loud, of possibly speaking something horrible into existence, makes Raph’s stomach turn sharply. He buries his face in his pillow and breathes in for five and out for five. He does it again, hearing Leo’s taps on his shell keep the count with him. 

Put this way, he understands why Gio would never say a word. Living through it once was more than enough. 

“I just wish none of it had happened,” Raph says. It sounds childish and he instantly feels stupid for saying it. But Leo curls up a bit, sinking down until his head comes to a rest on Raph’s shoulder.

“Me, too,” he says quietly. It takes the sting out of Raph’s self-recrimination immediately, because nothing Leo wishes for could ever be stupid. 

He doesn’t know how long they sit there together for, but at some point the sound of his little brother’s steady breathing beside him, and the oscillating fan ticking back and forth in the corner, and the indistinct laughter from the living room pool together and lull him into a dreamless sleep. 

When he wakes up, Raph feels as if he’d been hit by a truck and also dragged behind it for a couple of miles, groggy and disoriented. But the anxiety is back to its usual low simmer instead of the bubbling, boiling over state it was in earlier. Leo’s spot on the bed is empty, and Mikey is talking to someone right outside the bedroom door. 

He has about two seconds to establish these facts before his door is slammed open and Michelangelo bellows, “RAPHIE! WAKEY-WAKEY!” 

Oh my god I’m going to have to kill him, Raph thinks grimly, refusing to lift his face from his pillow. If he doesn’t react, maybe they’ll go away. Historically, it has never been true, but there’s a first time for everything.  

“Before you shoot the messenger,” Mikey goes on sweetly, knowing exactly where the line is that he can’t cross—a line that, for him, admittedly stretches out farther than anyone else’s but still has its limits, “I have a special delivery.”

Raph peeks out with one eye to find Mikey holding Gio out to him at full arms’ length. Gio is dangling in his grip agreeably, but now that Raph is awake and looking at him, he starts to squirm insistently, pawing at the hands holding him up, trying to get to Raph. 

It works better than a bomb going off in waking Raph the rest of the way up. He pushes himself upright on one arm and reaches out for the kid with the other, cradling Gio against his chest once he has him.

“A Georgie? Just for me? Exactly what I always wanted,” he says playfully, nuzzling the top of that spotted head and earning a sound halfway between a toddler’s giggle and a turtle’s pleased trill. He looks up at Mikey, lingering in the doorway with a cheesy grin on his face, and adds through gritted teeth, “Does your name start with a ‘G’?”

“Food in ten!” the brat says cheerfully, before shooting off without bothering to close the door behind him. 

“Ugh,” Raph says, letting his head fall back onto his pillow. He’s careful not to squish Gio under his plastron, the baby turtle tucked safely under his arm instead and seemingly content with the state of things. He mirrors Raph, folding his arms and tucking his chin in them, all wide eyes and white spots and sweet little face. 

It’s not the worst way to be woken up, Raph admits to himself grudgingly. 

And then Gio whispers, “Hi, Raphie.”

His voice is small and soft, almost inaudible over the sound of the fan. Raph picks his head up fast and stares down at him, uncertain if he actually heard that, or if part of his brain is still asleep and just making stuff up. 

Gio gazes back. He’s waiting to see what Raph will do, but he doesn’t look afraid. He looks like he knows how safe he is. Tiny and trusting, willing to reach out his hands again even though he’d been hurt before. 

We don’t deserve you, Raph thinks, but his older brother would hate to know Raph thought that even once. We’re lucky to have you, he thinks next, which his older brother still wouldn’t like, but would have to live with, because it’s true. 

“Hi, Georgie,” Raph whispers back. 

Gio is by no means a chatterbox. 

His pattern of speech is the same as when he’s twenty years old, littered with careful pauses, slow to string words together. He tacks on ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ at the end of everything like someone is waiting around the corner to grade him on his manners. He visibly overthinks it every time he opens his mouth to say anything at all. 

If Raph had a dollar for every time Gio looked up at him to make sure it was okay for him to speak, he’d have enough money to buy the state of New York by the end of the week. And he can’t think about why that is, because then anger and hurt and a wailing sense of unfairness that feels like a little kid stomping their feet shouting ‘no no no!’ will swell inside him until he has to do something with all of it, like break a wall. And he can’t break a wall because that would scare the baby. So he can’t think about it. 

But Gio doesn’t need any prompting or encouragement when Splinter comes home from a last-minute run to Stop & Shop. There’s supposed to be a storm tonight, and traveling through flooded tunnels is no one’s idea of a good time, especially not with groceries for a family of eight. 

“Someone needs to go unpack the car so all of you must roshambo for it,” Splinter announces by way of hello. 

Everyone else groans but Gio perks right up. He squirms down from the sofa and runs to greet dad with uppy arms and a hopeful, “Papa.” 

A direct hit. The old rat has to take a knee. Not even the Shredder was enough to defeat the former Battle Nexus champion, but a two foot tall baby turtle is another story. 

“Hello my little one,” Splinter chokes out, scooping the spotted turtle right up. “Ah, I have not been welcomed home like this in many years. It’s enough to make an old man nostalgic. Thank you, Gray.”

“Appliance store commercials make you nostalgic,” Donnie says without looking up from his phone. 

“If you tried to pick one of us up like that you’d pull something,” Leo adds. 

“And thank you my obnoxious blueberries,” Splinter says, still in his baby-turtle-voice but with a narrow look over Gio’s head at the peanut gallery that implies they’d both get whacked with his tail if they were within reach. 

Pops must be feeling nostalgic if he’s breaking out that childhood nickname for the twins. Leo was the blue and Donnie was the berry from the ages of zero to about nine, when they had decided they’d outgrown it. Now Donnie looks incredulous and Leo looks deeply embarrassed, like a couple of kids whose mom is blowing kisses at them out the car window in front of all their friends. It has the additional effect of shutting them right up, which might have been what Splinter intended in the first place. Raph is adding that to his arsenal for a rainy day. 

Gio is too well-mannered to demand dad’s attention back like all the rest of his spoiled siblings would have done, but his eyes are big and lamp-like, and he’s wringing his hands against his plastron like someone five times his age, and it gives him away anyway. 

“What’s up, buttercup?” Mikey chirps, swinging around to hang off Splinter’s back and hook his chin over the rat’s shoulder. 

“Gray,” Gio says carefully. Then he points to himself, and does the question-mark wiggle with his pointer finger. Me?

“Yes, you!” Mikey leans over even further to poke Gio’s beak playfully. Splinter is fully supporting the weight of two of his kids at this point, one significantly heavier than the other. “It’s a nickname! We all have them. You’re Spot, and Gray, and Georgie. And Georgathan and Gregory and Jorge and—”

“Point made, Michael,” Donnie says flatly, because he really will just keep going. 

Mirror neurons in full-effect, Gio smiles at Mikey’s smile. Then he fingerspells C-L-E-M and points to himself again. 

“‘Clem’?” Mikey sounds it aloud. “Is that you?”

Gio nods with his fist, and what little expression they’ve coaxed out of him over the last couple of days is evaporating by the second, leaving behind that neutral-faced toddler they first met. Mikey clocks it and straightens, bracing his hands on Splinter’s shoulder to glance over his head at Raph, brow wrinkling beneath his mask. 

Raph, for his part, is marveling at the fact that it has literally never occurred to him to wonder about where the name “Giorgio” came from. Gio told them that he didn’t grow up with them in the future—that he spent the bulk of his childhood in another dimension before making his way back to the one he belonged in. What are the odds that Gio had a matching name before he knew he was part of a set? Obviously he must have been called something else before. 

Donnie is frowning thunderously. When he shoots a sideways look at Leo and raises his eyebrows, Leo only grimaces back in answer, both of them clearly on the same page and not loving what they’ve found there.

“Share with the class, you two,” Raph says for the millionth time in his life, stamping down an ancient annoyance. They claim not to have twin telepathy and then have entire conversations without saying a word. Who are they trying to fool?

“Ugh,” Donnie says. He looks and sounds disgruntled, like he hasn’t decided how upset he needs to be yet but he’s leaning towards ‘very.’ “Clem—I said it earlier, didn’t I? Clemmys guttata. The scientific name for spotted turtles. It’s like if my name was Apa, short for Apalone spinifera. No individuality, no character, no dynamism.”

Splinter’s tail lashes, agitated. “You all had tags on your shells when you were just babies. I kept them because it was the closest thing to a birth certificate I was likely to ever have. They included information such as your weights and sizes, your approximate time of hatching, as well as your genus and species. I still have them in a shoebox somewhere.”

So whoever found baby Georgie after the portal separated him from his family must have seen that tag. They must not have realized that it was the classification of what, not who, he was. 

Raph kind of hates that, actually. Even pets are given names. 

But he also hates the way Gio is getting nervous, making himself smaller where he’s tucked in the crook of Splinter’s arm, like he did something wrong by bringing it up. 

So he steps over and crouches down the way he’s gotten in the habit of doing with his baby-fied older brother. Splinter helps him out by turning slightly so that Gio and Raph are face to face. 

Gio tucks his chin slightly, and it would be easy to mistake the gesture for timid, but Raph knows better. For a second, Gio’s older self shines through. 

The kid isn’t even wringing his hands anymore, just clasping them so tightly it’s causing his dark gray-green skin to blanch. He’s watching his biggest brother with those archer eyes that miss absolutely nothing. He’s prepared for Raph to be angry with him, even though all he’s done is ask a simple question, even though Raph hasn’t so much as frowned at him once. 

Raph cannot break a wall, he reminds himself sternly. 

“Hey, big guy,” Raph says, smiling his biggest and warmest smile. “I’m sorry, it must have been pretty confusing, all of us calling you by some name you didn’t know. Do you want us to call you Clem instead?”

None of them would like doing it, but Gio’s comfort is more important than how the rest of them feel about a name he used to go by. It’s temporary, and Raph’s bratty little brothers will do as they’re told for once, or he’s putting them in air jail. All of them, air jail. 

But Gio shakes his head fast. He signs ‘no,’ too, touching his fingers to his thumb. 

“No, please,” he adds for good measure. “I want to be Gio.”

“Gio it is,” Raph says firmly. 

Mikey plants both his hands on Raph’s left shoulder and pushes with all his might. Raph doesn’t move, but Splinter is propelled a step backwards. Mikey uses the space he created to flip over dad and land nimbly in front of him and scoop the baby out of his arms. 

Gio doesn’t react beyond an initial widening of his eyes. A few days of constant exposure to Michelangelo has acclimated even the most cautious child in the world to his whimsy and enthusiasm. When Mikey smushes their cheeks together, Gio even smiles. 

“Do you like bananas?” Mikey asks solemnly. 

“Yes,” Gio says. 

“Do you like cake?”

“Yes,” their resident sweet-addict says unremarkably, like that isn’t the understatement of all time. Leo makes an incredulous scoffing noise, a laugh that’s trying not to start. He’s probably thinking of the same thing Raph is, which is the time Gio ate six red velvet cupcakes in one sitting and called it breakfast with a straight face. 

“Did you know I made a banana split cake for dessert?” Mikey whispers conspiratorially. “It’s almost ready to eat—I just need someone to help me add all the sprinkles on top.”

“I can help,” Gio says earnestly, leaning away to look up at Mikey with big brown eyes. Every person in the room would give him anything he wants, no exceptions, but probably the only thing he wants now in the whole entire world is to help with the sprinkles. 

“Aw, Georgie, I knew I could count on you! Helper gets first dibs, so let’s go make sure you get the best piece!”

Raph drags Leo with him to go haul in the groceries. Leo complains about it while in earshot of everyone else, but he doesn’t actually hate one-on-one time with his second-oldest brother. He loves it, actually. He just has to put on a show for no one’s benefit but his own for reasons that are a mystery to everyone but himself. If Raph would have remembered that in those tumultuous months leading up to the invasion, he would have saved himself a lot of grief. 

For now it’s enough to trip Leo and then run ahead of him, hearing the initial startled squawk melt into a competitive cackle and bracing for the weight of a little brother that lands on Raph’s shell moments later. 

Even with the ability to portal back and forth, it makes sense to two teenagers to precariously amass all the shopping bags at once and make a single trip. There’s a paper produce bag of tomatoes that almost doesn’t make it, and would have tipped out all over the kitchen floor if not for the quick save of Mikey’s sunshine-golden magic catch. 

“You boys are too silly for your own good,” Splinter grumps without heat, but he pats Raphael’s arm fondly before elbowing his way through the kitchen toward the fridge. 

Gio is sitting on the edge of the counter, kicking his feet idly and eating maraschino cherries out of the jar that Mikey left unattended. Donnie is leaning against the island beside him, pretending to be absorbed with his phone, but coincidentally within reach if a certain toddler were to slip and fall or start choking. 

Donnie is also, as far as Gio is concerned, the answers guy. He reaches out one pink-stained hand and pats Donnie’s arm very gently. Donnie, who would have no less than twenty things to say to anyone else who dared touch him with cherry fingers, each more scalding than the last, simply says, “Yes, George?”

“What is he like?” Gio asks. 

“Who?”

“Gio,” he says. 

Donnie blinks and sets his phone down. “What are you like? Oh—your older self, you mean?” Gio hesitates, but ultimately nods, and Donnie hums thoughtfully. “How best to describe Hamato Giorgio. A conundrum.”

“He’s so cool,” Mikey pipes up, with a smug glance at Leo. They have newly reached a point in their lives where it’s tentatively okay to make jokes about certain aspects of the day the world almost ended, depending on the joke. Leo’s early-onset hero worship of the long-lost Kraang-killing brother who’d brought him home that day is always okay to joke about, because Leo isn’t teased until he’s red in the face and sinking into his shell nearly enough. 

Leo scowls and shoves a carton of eggs at Mikey for him to put away, but noticeably does not refute the statement. 

“He’s a tank,” Raph adds, smiling automatically when Gio’s big dark eyes find him. “Steady as a rock, rolls with the punches. When he gets knocked down, he doesn’t stay down for long.”

“Proficient at his chosen craft,” Donnie says. “The tool he uses requires precision, focus, and hand-eye coordination, often in the middle of confusing or frenetic situations. But he never misses.”

“And he’s nice,” Mikey says, exchanging the jar of cherries in Gio’s hand for a can of cool whip. Gio holds it and has no idea what to do with it, so Mikey forms his fingers around the nozzle and presses, giggling at Gio’s surprised jump. He directs the baby turtle to the dessert dish, and as meticulous as he usually is with his cooking, he lets Gio apply the whipped topping the way he lets his brothers add color to his spray paint murals—as if each clumsy pass and crooked line is a worthwhile addition to his art. He beams every time Gio glances up to make sure he’s doing it right, so warm and bright and indulgent that it’s almost hard to believe he’s been the baby of the family all along. “He always has time for us, day and night. If we need something, he’ll get it. No questions asked,” Mikey goes on.

“Even if maybe a question or two should be asked,” Splinter mutters, likely having a flashback of the absurdly big tuna fish Gio had once brought home after Mikey made a passing remark about wishing he had the means to make sushi for lunch. They had nowhere to put it. They ate sushi for days. But Mikey had squealed with delight when he saw it, which made every single thing anyone else had to say about it a moot point to Giorgio.

“He’s our big brother, and he’s the best,” Leo says, folding his arms on the counter. “Hey, can I get some of that?” He leans over and opens his mouth, and Gio blinks at him, and then down at the can in his hands, and then attempts to apply whipped cream to Leo’s face. Some of it makes it into his mouth, but most doesn’t. Leo laughs, silly and sweet, before it even occurs to Gio to worry that he’ll get scolded, and wipes the errant cream into his mouth with his thumb. “We love him to pieces, and he loves us, too. It’s a good deal all around. Everybody wins.”

Gio gazes up at him, searching his face for something. He nods, and smiles back, and then giggles when Leo scoops some whipped cream out of the dish and smears it onto his nose—at which point Mikey declares Leo banned from dessert prep and Leo says, “Oh, big words from Mr. Eats-Peanut-Butter-With-His-Fingers,” and Donnie picks up both Gio and the discarded cherry jar and relocates the three of them to the other side of the island, out of the line of fire. 

Gio opts to stay in Donnie’s lap rather than return to his seat on the counter. Donnie looks down at the top of his head, but if he’s surprised he doesn’t show it. As all big turtles are wont to do with smaller ones, Donnie will hold him for as long as he wants to be held. 

From the way Gio’s sticky hands clutch Donnie’s arm, as if he might lose it if he doesn’t hold on, that’s one universal truth he hasn’t learned yet.

The storm rolls in later than the forecast called for, starting in earnest the next afternoon. 

The first crack of thunder is so loud, even underground, that it makes everyone jump and Mikey almost fumbles the huge mixing bowl of eggs he’s whisking. It even startles SHELLDON awake from the nap he was taking in the charging dock in the corner. The string of beeps he lets out must be something pretty foul in binary, because Donnie whips around as quick as a snake. 

“Watch your language in front of the impressionable youth!” he yells after his kid, who makes a quick escape down the hall. 

Raph’s about to step into the line of fire for his robot nephew’s sake and point out the obvious—that none of them have half an idea what SHELLDON said, let alone the four-year-old among them—but Leo beats him to the punch.

“Uhhhhh speaking of the impressionable youth,” the slider says, “where’s George?”

“He’s right—oh,” Mikey stops short. His tiny spotted helper has vanished from where he had been parked on the stool pushed up to the counter. 

Mikey puts his bowl down and joins Leo in looking around, a frown tugging at his mouth. While he’s distracted, Leo swipes a chunk of bell pepper from his cutting board, which may or may not have been his endgame all along. 

“That’s so weird, he was here two seconds ago,” Mikey says.

Raph pushes back from the table and gets up to check the living room. A Jupiter Jim movie is playing on the projector, and Gio has revealed himself to be as much of a fan as the rest of his siblings are, but there are no little turtles sitting transfixed in front of the screen. 

“Not in here,” he reports back. 

“Stay calm, people, we have protocols in place for this,” Donnie says, tapping his bracer until it projects a holographic screen of color-coded GPS location pins. 

“Donald, you did not microchip that baby,” Mikey intones ominously. 

“Of course I didn’t. That would be unethical,” Donnie replies. He even rolls his eyes, because he has no sense of danger. “I implanted the chip in his nineteen-year-old self two days after he first moved in, like a reasonable person.”

Raph pinches the bridge of his beak and reminds himself to revisit this conversation later. For the hundredth time in their lives. 

“Can you find the kid or not, Dee?”

“Please, name literally one time my Genius Built methods have ever failed us in any capacity. Of course I can find him,” Donnie scoffs, only to frown at the big error symbol that pops up on the holoscreen a second later. “Ah. Update, due to certain magical interference, the tracker currently does not exist. I can’t find him.” 

“Great contribution, Tello,” Leo says, sounding like he’s fighting for his life to keep a straight face. “Maybe now we can just look for him with our eyes.”

Another rumble of thunder bullies into the conversation. The new lair is a repurposed subway station, closer to the surface than the old one had been, and this is the first time it’s stormed this hard since they moved in, so none of them were prepared for the magnitude of the sound. It reverberates through the tunnels and pipes, amplified by the metal and cement and hollow spaces. 

“He probably went after SHELLDON,” Raph reasons. “I’ll go find him. You two bozos stay put and help Mike finish making lunch.”

“Are you punishing them or me?” Mikey demands. Behind him Leo steals a cherry tomato off the cutting board, because he also has no sense of danger. Raph gets while the getting is good. 

Gio isn’t in the lab, where SHELLDON is buzzing around singing Speed Drive by Charli xcx to himself, or the bathroom. 

Anxiety begins to stir in the back of his heart, where it’s lived for as long as he can remember. It sleeps some of the time, but not as much as it used to. 

The steps leading up to the front door have been baby-gated to lengths of absurdity, part of Donnie’s manic lair-wide Georgie-proofing—so the odds of Gio making it past the stairs and into the dark maze-like tunnels in the handful of seconds someone wasn’t actively watching him are slim to none. 

It doesn’t stop Raph from worrying. He doesn’t want to shout Gio’s name, because he doesn’t want to do anything on purpose that would make that little boy’s eyes get big and fearful, but he can feel his steps getting more frantic with every room that he checks that comes up empty. 

The door to Gio’s room is ajar—it’s rarely ever closed—and Raph pokes his head in without expecting much. Baby Gio got an eyeful of it on the whirlwind tour Mikey took him on but didn’t seem particularly interested in exploring the space. 

It’s a comfortable room. Cozy, even, which is a style that a total stranger might be surprised to find out that Gio subscribes to, but absolutely no one who knows him needed longer than one second to conceptualize before they realized it made perfect sense. 

There are string lights draped across the ceiling, and a huge felt board that takes up half the length and height of the back wall, where photos and drawings and little mementos are pinned. A downy polka-dotted duvet swallows up the bed, and the curtains strung across the front-facing window, to block some of the light that beams in from the living areas, are polka-dotted for good measure—because if there’s one thing this family loves, it’s leaning into a bit. 

And it would be tidy if not for Gio’s little siblings leaving evidence behind of their constant comings and goings. Donnie’s Switch and wireless headphones have been tossed on the bed, and Leo’s guitar is balanced crookedly on the chair by the desk, and the desk itself is covered in the half-inked pages of a graphic novel Mikey is brainstorming. Even one of April’s college textbooks has ended up in here. 

Growing up, Raph never understood why all three little gremlins wanted to be in his room all the time—sprawled on his floor bickering over snacks, or cramming into his bed to make him watch two hour long video essays about any obscure topic under the sun—and then Raph got a big brother, and it all clicked. The huge pink beanbag that used to live in Raph’s room gravitated to the corner of Gio’s, where it ended up staying as a permanent fixture. Half the time Raph just lets himself in and flops into his designated seat, in the exact same way that Donnie and Mikey and Leo consistently get on his last nerve for doing. 

Gio, who thinks everything his siblings do is silly or charming or both, complains about it a lot less than Raph does. 

“Georgie?” he says, just in case there are any turtle toddlers lurking.

Of course no one answers, and he’s turning to leave and find another place to look, when he hears two separate sounds. A vicious growling bark of thunder that echoes down the tunnel, and a muffled whimper from much closer. 

Raph stops dead in his tracks. Now he’s listening for that second sound again specifically, straining to hear it, all his ninja senses and supersoldier senses and—most of all—biggest brother senses on high alert. 

He hears it, and follows it down onto his hands and knees to peer under the bed at where a tiny spotted turtle is hiding. 

Gio’s face is streaked with tears and he’s shuddering from head to toe, hands clamped over his ears, limbs all curled up like every frightened instinct in his body is urging him to go inside his shell. 

Feeling his heart break clean down the middle, Raph trips over himself to soothe, “Hey, hey, kiddo, it’s okay! Gio, what—”

Thunder rolls, and Gio flinches and makes another quiet sound of fear, and Raph realizes immediately what the situation is. He is also about two seconds from bodily lifting the bedframe and flinging it out of the way to better scoop Giorgio up. He has always, historically, hated any potential barrier between himself and his siblings with a single-minded fervor. He can’t even function when someone he loves is crying and he can’t reach them. 

He reigns in the impulse to charge forward. It takes both hands and considerable willpower. 

Running in recklessly always worked out when he was a child, because stakes were low and his brothers would follow him anywhere even if they fully believed his plan would fall apart as early as step one. 

But as he got older, and had to force the leadership reins into Leo’s unwilling hands, and that charming and reliable guy who was forever on Raph’s right hand side with a clever idea or an exit strategy suddenly became someone willing to let them all fail just to prove a point, Raphael learned the value of thinking things through. 

And he can’t just throw the bed out of the way, he reminds himself with gritted teeth, because that would scare the baby. 

So instead he settles on his plastron right there on the floor, cheek pressed to the rug, and starts to rumble deep and low in his chest. April calls it his car engine sound, and Donnie has correlated it with the healing frequency of a cat’s purr more than once. Guaranteed to comfort frightened little turtles or your money back. 

Sure enough, after a moment, Gio’s eyes peek open. He’s crying so hard he’s hiccupping, but other than that he’s barely made a peep. Until he manages to focus on Raph’s face, and then his sobs have a little voice behind them. 

“Hey, big man,” Raph soothes. “Raphie’s right here. Nothing bad is gonna happen while Raphie’s right here.” 

Gio doesn’t budge from where he’s wedged against the wall but he’s listening. He’s such a good kid, always listening. His limbs are curled so tight they must hurt, it would probably feel better for him to just pull inside his shell at this point, but for whatever reason he stays in a miserable little ball. 

“That storm is pretty loud, huh? Raph doesn’t like it either.” He reaches an arm under the bed, offering a hand. “But you know something? The best thing about being part of such a big family is that we keep each other safe. Even when it gets loud and scary and makes you wanna hide, you’ve got all of us here on your team.” Then, with a silly frown, he adds, “I’ll go wrestle that storm right out of the sky and make it say sorry for being such a bully and making my Georgie cry. How ‘bout that?”

Thunder rumbles again, and Gio jumps and shivers at the sound, but when he starts to squirm it’s forward, towards Raph’s open hand. He holds it with both of his much smaller ones, tears dripping from his chin, grip white-knuckled. 

Mouth wobbling, he bravely shakes his head. 

“No?” Raph says, playful and gentle in equal parts. “Okay, I’ll stay in here with you instead. Do you think I could fit under there? Scooch over a bit.”

Something that might one day grow up into a smile touches just the corners of Gio’s mouth. He shakes his head again. 

“Raphie’s too big,” he whispers. Raph scoffs in fake-offense and the almost smile on Gio’s face inches closer to the real thing. “We can go under the table,” he adds very earnestly. 

“That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard,” Raph says, down for literally anything that will make his babyfied older brother stop crying. “Come on over here, spots. We’ll go together.”

Some jangling, dislocated thing in Raph’s heart only settles when he’s got Gio in his arms, tiny, insubstantial thing that he is. He sits on the floor for an extra minute, rumbling extra loud, until Gio’s pulse slows its frantic leaping into something closer to its normal resting rate. The next time the storm tries to speak up where it isn’t wanted, Gio’s tucked safely under Raph’s chin absorbing his car engine sound and only shivers. 

Red catches Raph’s eye, a familiar hoodie hanging from the handle of the closet door. He’d given it to Gio months ago, when a cooking incident led to Gio’s jacket getting tossed into the wash, and Raph had said, “Here, you can borrow one of mine.”

He’d fished the old hoodie out of a basket of clean laundry and passed it over. It wasn’t anything to write home about, weathered and faded over the years, the hem stretched out and a corner of the hoodie pocket peeling away thanks to a loose string. 

But Gio looked stunned when he saw it. He took it from Raph’s hands robotically and pulled it over his head with a mumbled thank you. It was laughably big on Raph’s big brother, who would probably only have a few inches on the twins for a few more years.

Raph grinned and helped Gio roll up the sleeves, saying, “All my siblings steal this one from me constantly. Right of passage. Look, see? Perfect fit!”

“Yeah,” Gio said hoarsely, thumbing carefully at the frayed hem as if it was spun with gold. “Perfect fit.”

Since he seemed to like it so much, Raph let it keep mysteriously ending up in his room. And Raph reaches over for it now, tucking it in with his armful of Georgie as a makeshift toddler blanket before he finally pushes to his feet. 

“Sorry,” Gio says very quietly as they make their way back toward the light and laughter pouring out of the kitchen. “For hiding.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Raph says, startled. “Georgie, you got scared, that’s not your fault. Of course you hid, that’s what any smart little turtle would do. Mikey hides when the toaster pops too loud. And I get scared all the time.”

Gio clearly doesn’t believe him, frowning deeply. That stubborn face is one-hundred-percent their Gio.

“Raph’s too big and strong to be scared,” the spotted turtle retorts, as close as he’s likely to ever come to a more age-appropriate “nuh-uh!” 

“Hah,” Raph says, “I wish that was true.” He looks down at Gio and tells him, “The thing that always makes me feel brave is remembering that I have all of you guys with me. I have a thing I say that helps. Maybe you can try it next time you get scared. Just say I’m not alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Gio repeats obediently.

One day, Raph thinks, it’ll stick. 

Until then, they’ll keep reminding him. They’ll drag him out of the dark a hundred thousand times and lead him to a warmer, well-lit place, where his siblings will trip over themselves to put a smile on his face, even if that means eating frittatas on the floor under the kitchen table. 

Leo keeps stealing food from Mikey’s plate until finally Mikey snaps and goes in for the kill, and Donnie shrieks when they kick over the pitcher of lemonade because now he’s sticky and someone will be paying for it, and Splinter comes in to investigate the noise and takes in the scene playing out under the table and says, “Why are you like this? Who raised you?”

The rest of the storm passes the way storms always do. The next time thunder rumbles through the lair, Gio is too busy giggling to hear it. 

Raph wakes up early the next morning to the feeling of something going missing. A tiny weight beside him that isn’t there anymore. 

The only reason it isn’t immediately alarming is because he can hear Leo talking quietly, the only cue his subconscious needs not to panic. He still cracks one eye open in time to see a familiar silhouette disappearing out his bedroom door. 

Since the storm, Gio has been a little clingier and a lot quieter. It seemed to have stirred up anxiety that hasn’t settled yet, like sediment in water that’s taking its time drifting back to where it usually rests. When he isn’t actively being distracted from it, it sits with him, casting him in shadow. 

He has enough shadows as it is. At four years old, they’re so much bigger than him. 

I wonder if he had a nightmare, Raph thinks, and with that thought the grogginess still clinging to him vanishes instantly. With the sigh of someone who knows he won’t get back to sleep until he checks in, Raph hauls himself up out of bed. 

There’s a light spilling out of the living room doorway, a block of warm yellow stamped across the hall. More than that, it’s the sound of his brothers’ voices that Raph’s following, that he’d be able to follow clear across the world. It probably wouldn’t even be the hardest thing he’s ever done. 

“—couldn’t get back to sleep either,” Leo is saying as Raph draws nearer. His tone is low and friendly, an automatic balm to frayed nerves. “I appreciate the company, Jorgito.”

It slaps Raph upside the head that he managed to forget about his little brother’s years-long losing battle with insomnia. In part, he thinks guiltily, because ever since Gio moved in, it’s been something they all worried less about. 

Those first weeks after the invasion were rough for everyone, but it was especially hard to watch Leo wake up from a night terror and have absolutely no idea where he was. No idea if he was safe. Shuddering away when they reached out to him, eyes darting around the room with an expression of raw fear—as if he was an animal being hunted by some unimaginable monster, and not a teenage boy surrounded by the people who would kill for him with their teeth and bare hands if they had to. 

All of them got a lot of practice at talking him down, at remembering to keep a light on for him. But Gio had a built-in fast-pass. Gio only had to put himself in Leo’s line of sight and take his hands, this brother of theirs who found Leo in the dark and carried him home in the first place, and all of the electrified, lock-jawed terror would seep from Leo like water down a leaky drain. If Gio was here, it meant he’d already been saved. It was a touchstone that never failed. 

Even after Leo recovered and moved out of the medbay and left those night terrors behind, Gio continued to make it his business to keep the younger turtle company on sleepless nights.

The odds are very good that no one has thought to check in with Leonardo since Giorgio was cursed. Raph tries to think of when he last saw Leo without his mask and can’t pin it down. 

“Guess you’ve always been an early bird,” Leo goes on, “even back when you were just a little baby bird. Mikey’s the same way—up with the sun for every second of the day till it goes down again. The circadian rhythm of a bumblebee, and just as busy as one, too. Ninety-percent of papa’s gray fur is that maniac’s fault, don’t believe anything anyone else tells you.” 

Whatever Gio says in reply is too quiet for Raph to hear from the hall. He moves forward, enough to look through the doorway, and his heart melts into putty at the sight of Leo curled up in dad’s armchair with Gio nestled cozily on his plastron, the two of them nearly nose to nose and tucked under the cover of the family-favorite quilt. 

If Leo’s tired, it doesn’t show. It’s hard to tell with him even on a good day. But his smile is one of the crooked, sincere ones. 

“It’s nice of you to give me the chance to turn the tables.” Leo pokes one of the spots on Gio’s face. “I get to be the one that helps you out for a change.”

Gio asks something with his hands. Raph can’t see clearly enough from this angle to make out more than just the little question mark wiggle at the end. It makes Leo laugh, warm and golden, spilling light as easily as the glow from the lamp pours into the hallway. 

“Are you kidding? My big brother Georgie is a professional monster-slayer. I learned all my moves from the best.”

Gio doesn’t say or sign anything else—he just considers that statement with a gravity ten times his current age, visibly working it around in his head the way he’d work a jawbreaker around in his mouth. Then he carefully tucks himself under Leo’s chin, one small hand clinging to the long tails of Leo’s mask. 

He doesn’t look like he’s going to fall asleep again, even when Leo starts to hum a song by The Cranberries. He looks more like he’s prepared to soldier awake through the next hundred hours in a row if it means more time to absorb a hug and a song from someone happy to hold him and sing to him. Gio’s big dark eyes stay stubbornly open, even when Leo scritches along the scutes of his tiny spotted carapace, a tried and true tactic to put baby bothers to sleep. 

A riot of tenderness in his chest that only smaller turtles can put there, Raph turns on his heel and takes himself into the kitchen. It’s hot chocolate o’clock. He wonders for a split-second if he should be concerned about Gio’s sugar intake, and then immediately decides that that sweet kid deserves all the spoiling they can manage to pack into however many days they get to have him. 

When Raphael pushes past the noren-style curtains into the kitchen, he’s surprised to find Mikey there already, wide-awake—staunchly proving Leo right about being up with the sun like the bumblebees. 

Only Raph’s little sunshine isn’t very bright this early morning. Mikey is staring hard at his hands, brushing softened butter over rolled-out dough and rubbing a mix of cinnamon and brown sugar on top of that. He must see Raphael in his periphery—or at the very least sense him with the not-unremarkable perception of someone who is all at once a living weapon, trained ninja, and student of mystic arts—but he doesn’t look up or offer a cheerful, cheeky greeting. There is a distinct downward tuck to the corners of his mouth, firmly unsmiling. 

“Hey, kid,” Raph says, watching him as he collects mugs from the cabinet, “everything okay?”

“Uh, no,” Mikey replies sardonically, as if it’s an obvious answer. He battles with himself for all of two seconds before blurting, “I’m not stupid, Raph.” 

Raph has no idea what he’s just walked into, but it doesn’t feel like he’s dealing with a grumpy turtle who woke up on the wrong side of the hammock. There’s a level of real hurt in Mikey’s voice that has all of Raph’s protective instincts rearing their collective head. 

“Nobody said you were stupid,” he says immediately. “You’re everyone’s favorite person. Wars have been waged for less. What’s going on?”

Mikey’s frown deepens, pure upset in his bright red eyes. He moves onto rolling the dough into a tube and continues to pointedly not look at Raph. 

“I keep thinking about the other day. The scars on Gio’s hands that upset you and Leo so much. I didn’t piece it together right away, but I’m not stupid. If Donnie’s tracker that he put on Gio when he was nineteen disappeared, Gio’s scars from then would have gone, too. But they’re still there, because they were there when he was a baby. Someone hurt him. Over and over, until it left a mark.” 

He stops, brow furrowing, face screwing up the way it only does when he’s trying to act older than his age—usually when he’s trying not to cry. 

“And he’s so thin. What the hell. We need more food than humans our age do, we burn through calories like crazy, and I bet—he was probably always hungry, he probably never got to feel full, and that’s not fair. And it’s just another thing that he carries around with him. And none of us ever noticed, because it was already a part of him when we first met.”

The tears finally burn their way out of Mikey’s eyes, dripping down his cheeks. He glares hard at the dough as he portions it into rolls, the set of his jaw daring Raph to comment. 

Raph circles around the island to put a hand on Mikey’s carapace, unable to bear the space of the counter between them for a second longer. When it doesn’t cause the smaller turtle to snap, Raph rubs those sunny patterned scutes the way he can remember doing from as far back as five years old. 

“It’s not fair,” Mikey says again in a voice that wobbles. “He doesn’t tell us stuff. And it wouldn’t matter even if he did ‘cause we couldn’t fix it anyway.”

“We are fixing it,” Raph says, knowing it’s true in his blood and his bones. “You’re fixing it, by doing exactly what you do every day. By doing this,” he adds, tapping the corner of the baking pan that the dough rolls are being nestled into, a just-because little kindness that comes to Michelangelo as easy as breathing. “It means the world to him, Mike. You know it does.”

Mikey rubs his face dry on the inside of the collar of his hoodie, takes a deep breath while he’s still hidden, then pops out and declares, “He deserves it!”

“Hell yeah he does,” Raph rumbles back. 

The rolls are covered and left to rise and the counter is wiped down, utensils and dishes moved to the sink. Then Mikey squares his shoulders and summons a smile. It’s a good one, huge and toothy and dimpled. He’s dredging up that familiar force-of-nature optimism—less naivety and more plain willingness to wrestle the world into the shape he wants it to take one impossible hurdle at a time. 

He spares a moment to shove himself forward into Raph’s arms for a squeeze, and then swings around the island to shoot for the living room at full speed, shouting, “Are we turtle piling?”

“‘Morning, bumblebee,” Raph hears Leo say affectionately. “Hey, Gigi, you think there’s room for Mikey in here?”

“Always room for Mikey,” Gio’s little voice answers clearly. From the way he starts to giggle at the same time Leo lets out a theatrical oof, it must have been all the encouragement Mikey needed to dive right in. 

Their overlapping chatter keeps Raphael company as he heats enough milk to fill four mugs. He isn’t going to go crazy and make the from-scratch stuff on the stove the way Mikey finds any reason to, but he’ll add a dash of cinnamon and vanilla extract to the instant mix the way dad always did when they were kids. And he puts an ice cube in Gio’s, knowing the little gremlin is going to go in for a scalding gulp at the first whiff of chocolate. It’s the work of less than ten minutes, and most of that time is spent waiting on the microwave.

Raph’s fingers are too big for the mug handles, but big enough to comfortably carry all four at once into the living room. He doesn’t so much distribute them as he does hold out his hands and wait for smaller ones to reach out and extract their color-coded drink. 

“Ooh, thanks Raphie!” Mikey says. 

“We’re gonna have to eat raw carrots for lunch at this rate,” Leo says, wrapping both hands around his mug to better absorb the warmth. “Don’t think I didn’t clock the butter and sugar on your sleeve, Michael.”

“Aw, what?” Mikey says, leaning out of the turtle pile enough to check the sleeve in question. He puffs out his cheeks when he finds the stain near his elbow. “Whatever! It’s all for the cause! I’m making cinnamon rolls for my favorite cinnamon roll,” he goes on, nudging his shoulder into Gio’s tiny one.

“Me?” says Gio.

“Of course you,” Leo scoffs playfully. “You see any other cinnamon rolls around here?”

Gio’s eyes are huge and deep and watchful. His mug looks laughably big in his hands. He says, “Your favorite?”

“My favorite ever of all time,” Mikey says, utterly serious. He even means it—all of his siblings are his absolute favorite sibling. 

“Really?” Gio checks in a quiet voice. He ducks a little bit, shoulders curling, as if he’s waiting for them to lose their tempers over all the repeated questions, every inch a little turtle weighing the pros and cons of hiding inside his shell. 

“Really really,” Raph answers right away. 

“Even though I’m a brat?” Gio asks. 

Leo goes so still in Raphael’s periphery that he might as well be carved from stone. Mikey is more obvious about his upset, sucking in a sharp breath that hisses through his teeth. Raph’s last drink of hot cocoa feels blistering as it makes his way down his throat, the rest of him abruptly and absurdly cold. 

“You are not a brat,” Leo says with as much feeling as when he said I missed on purpose. 

“Who said that to you?” Raph asks carefully. 

“Everybody,” Gio says. It would sound matter-of-fact coming from anyone else. It still hurts like a knife to the chest. Especially because Gio’s mouth turns down, and his eyes fall to land in the lukewarm chocolate he isn’t drinking anymore, and he says, “I want to be your favorite Gio instead.”

“You are!” Mikey chokes out, practically a shout, and he doesn’t need the warning look Leo gives him over the top of Gio’s head to know better. He bites the inside of his lip until he’s certain he can control his volume and says, “Don’t you listen to anybody else! You’re our big brother and you’re brave and cool and kind and smart, and we love you so much!” 

Gio doesn’t immediately break into a smile at that, which should have been the first red flag. 

It should have been one of several clues that Raph has been too slow to put together into the obvious picture. Giorgio isn’t a secretive child—he isn’t even really a secretive person at twenty, as mysterious as a plain brick wall—but he speaks so sparingly that it’s hard to gauge when he doesn’t have anything to say, and when he’s doing his best to talk around something that will hurt him. 

Later, Raph will kick himself for not catching it. Gio has been asking over and over what the other Gio is like—the big Gio. The better Gio. He’s been absorbing everything they’ve had to say with a serious little face and a downturned mouth, assimilating the information into his understanding of his place in their family. 

Of course all of that would lead to the place that it does.

Donatello had felt a type of way about finding out he had incidentally been excluded from impromptu early-morning turtle piles and seized custody of their baby brother for the rest of the day in comeuppance. So Gio should have been tucked away in the genius’ bedroom for an afternoon nap, but instead he was wide awake and peeking through Raph’s door.

Gio hugs a teddy bear as big as he is to his stomach, looking up at the much larger turtle with careful, worried eyes, and asks, “When I’m the brother you like again, will Raphie still hug me?”

Raph has been April’s little brother since about two weeks after they first met when he was six years old. He’s always been Splinter’s baby and will never outgrow that no matter how big he gets, forever his dad’s ‘sweet little apple pie.’ 

But he’s never been one of the younger turtles before. He’s never had a big sibling who was like him in ways his father and sister weren’t, by limitation of species or mutation. At seventeen years old, it was quite the curveball. A not-unwelcome adjustment period.

Raph remembered wanting, more than anything, to make a good first impression. He seemed to be the only one worried about it. 

A few weeks after Gio moved in, on an afternoon that Mikey had unilaterally decided he wasn’t going to share Leo’s attention and kicked everyone else out of the medbay for the duration of an impromptu Jurassic Park movie marathon, Donnie had in turn made his boredom their eldest brother’s problem. 

Raph sat on the couch as Donatello did the same thing he did with Gram-gram, the same thing he did with April once upon a time, where he showed off machines he had built and unfinished projects he was still building in a bid to impress, the way a cat might proudly present a dead bird.  

Gio didn’t seem to get tired of the seemingly endless show-and-tell production, gaze attentive and engaged. His words were short but sincere each time he said something along the lines of, “Very cool.”

Donnie chortled, dark and sinister, steepling his hands like a cartoon villain. “Yes,” he intoned, “at last. The validation I crave. Today George, tomorrow the world.”

Before he scuttled off to find some other piece of tech to drag out of his lab and parade around, he gave away how pleased he actually was by flopping across Gio like a wet noodle for one of his trademark limp-armed hugs. 

The full deadweight of a teenage boy, plus his shell, plus his shell’s shell, would have winded anybody who wasn’t prepared to have it tossed in their lap without warning—but Gio’s oof was barely audible. His surprise was more obvious. 

His hands had hovered for just a moment, the most uncertain Raph had seen him up until that point, this terminator of a brother who never flinched and never faltered and never second-guessed what the right thing to do was. And then they drifted down to land on Donnie’s shoulder and the top of his head, and when nothing happened after a few seconds except for Donnie’s content turtle trill, they settled into place more firmly. 

Donnie bonked his head into Gio’s stomach affectionately before he scrambled up from the older turtle and over the back of the couch, creature mode activated. When something in the next room clattered to the floor in his wake, followed by the comically loud sound of breaking glass, Raph almost gave into his first, second and third impulse to plant his face in his hands and swear. 

“Sorry. He’s excited,” he said instead. “We don’t, uh, get to meet new family very often. Just say the word and I’ll sit on him.”

“He’s fine,” Gio replied immediately. “I just wasn’t expecting it.” 

He sounded like he meant it. All his bewilderment from a moment ago had already been packed away like it had never existed at all. Gio’s dark brown eyes only met Raph’s for a split second before moving away to the Netflix show being projected onto the wall that neither of them were really watching. 

Raph was nervous about good first impressions, but he seemed to be the only one. Everyone else was throwing the full gamut of their inexhaustible personalities at the spotted turtle like they needed him fully amalgamated into the family in as little time as possible and were willing to work nights to make it happen. 

And Gio was proving to be totally implacable, a far cry from the rest of the reactive, chaotic clan. Nothing they did ever seemed to rile him up or rub him the wrong way or really do more than make him blink. 

April called it Gio’s capybara energy. She kept sending videos to the group chat of the most unbothered animal on the planet chilling with hawks and alligators. It wasn’t entirely off the mark, but only where his siblings were concerned. The Giorgio that Leo told them about, who squared up to the Krang in the prison dimension without so much as flinching, was much more likely to try to take a bite out of any predator that came too close to his flock no matter how much bigger than him they were. 

“Was he different in the future?” Raph asked curiously. “Donnie?”

There was a long pause before Gio answered, “He was older.”

That made sense. Raph guessed it wasn’t the strangest thing in the world for his little brothers to outgrow being so demonstrative, but he couldn’t really picture it. It was hard to imagine a Donatello who didn’t crawl into Raph’s arms any time of day or night when he needed a good bear hug. 

He resolved to get more cuddles in while he still had a Tweedle Dee receptive to cuddles.

“Raph can’t imagine growing out of hugs,” he admitted a little shyly. “That’s, like. What my arms are for. You know? I don’t even know who I’d be otherwise.”

Gio was looking at him with an expression that Raph didn’t recognize. Someday he would know how to read his big brother’s neutral bearing as easily as he could pick apart the charmingly faultless smile Leo always hid behind, but in that moment he had no idea what Gio was thinking. 

“You were older, too,” Gio said.

Raph rolled that around in his mind like a marble, trying to decide how he felt about it. 

CJ had told them little odds and ends about his family, when he could bring himself to talk about them at all, and the picture he painted was one that Raph struggled to place himself in. 

He liked to believe he’d be like CJ’s Uncle Rapha when he was older, strong and steadfast and capable—carrying the weight of everyone he loved without ever letting them down. He really wanted to never let them down. 

Gio was still watching him. Something about having the spotted turtle’s undivided attention made Raph want to keep asking him questions. He was suddenly closer to understanding why their little brothers were so keen to pester Raph twenty-four hours a day. 

“Can you give me just one spoiler?” he wheedled. “Was I still a good hugger in the future?”

Gio exhaled, the ghost of a laugh. It wasn’t an entirely happy sound, but he was smiling crookedly when he looked away again. 

He said, “One hug from you could have saved the whole world, Raphael.”

Raph didn’t get it then, but he does now. 

Because now Gio is this tiny little thing, holding a teddy bear as big as he is and looking up at Raph with huge worried eyes, because all the hugs Raph’s little brothers grew up with as the norm are absolutely not a given in his life. Because while Raph was sleeping in turtle piles and splashing in rain puddles as his dad held his hand and squabbling over the biggest piece of cake for dessert, Gio was alone, raising himself, going hungry. He was hiding from thunderstorms under the bed. He was learning that he was unwanted, that nobody would come for him when he cried, and that it was better not to cry at all. 

Yeah, Raph thinks, tears pooling in his eyes and spilling over when he blinks. One hug would have done it. 

He picks the baby turtle up the way he’s done a hundred times over the course of the last week, that spotted shell small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, weighing next to nothing. Gio had to be taught how to be held, but he’s an old pro at it now, tucking himself against Raph’s shoulder with a sigh better suited someone ten times his age. His fingers clutch at the front of Raph’s shirt, always wanting to clutch at something, usually only having his own hand to hold.  

He’s so little. He shouldn’t know the first thing about hardship, not when he’s this little. 

“There’s not a single version of you that I don’t like,” Raph says firmly, the second he’s certain his voice won’t break. 

He can’t see Gio’s face from this angle, but he can picture the stubborn pout on that spotted face as clear as day. 

“You like the Gio who’s cool and strong and smart,” Gio mumbles, as close as he’ll come to arguing outright. He’s rubbing the tiny fold of Raph’s shirt that he’s holding between his thumb and forefinger, like he’s trying to commit it to memory. “The one who fights monsters. You said so.”

“I do like him,” Raph says. “But I also like the Gio who’s a bit silly. The one who eggs the twins on even when they’re at their noisiest, and lets Mikey draw all over his shell with paint markers, and would eat cheesecake for every meal if we’d let him. Does he sound familiar?” 

It takes the toddler a moment to answer, but when he does it’s with a very shy, “I like cheesecake.”

“You sure do.” Understatement of the century, honestly. “And you let our brothers get away with everything under the sun, because that is apparently a fundamental law of the universe when it comes to you,” Raph says with a lightness he doesn’t really feel. “You’re my brother and that’s all that matters. That’s never ever gonna change. Whether you’re four years old or forty or a hundred. I’m always gonna be right here to give you all the hugs you want.”

Gio nods just barely, a whisper of movement against his shoulder that Raph hardly feels. 

Raph remembers how tentative he was with Gio when they first met, holding back from him because he was stupidly preoccupied with making a good first impression. Because Gio was so cool and so reserved, and Raph didn’t know where he fit as a little brother when for so long he’d been the biggest.  

Back then, there’s no way he could have known that Gio used to be this child who never took an inch more than what he was given. Who would sit outside until he died of exposure unless someone opened the door for him. It just wouldn’t occur to him to come inside and claim a seat at the table for himself. 

And how much of Raph’s nervousness read as rejection to the brother he was still getting to know? 

And how many times has Gio worried about the same things Raph used to, fitting in and making a good impression, earning love that should have been his from day one?

It’s never just been handed to him. He’s always had to work for it. 

“I don’t love big Gio more than I love baby Clem,” Raph says. His heart could burst with how much love it’s holding, actually. He needs about half a dozen more to fit it all comfortably. “I love both of you, all of you, forever and ever and ever. Okay?”

“Okay,” Gio says in a tiny, wobbling voice. His fist in Raph’s shirt is white-knuckled, like it would take an act of god to move him. Raph would like to see god fucking try. 

“What do we say when we need to feel brave?” Raph nudges gently. 

“I’m not alone,” Gio recites. He leans back and looks up at Raph, an expression on his face that Raph recognizes as the same one that used to mystify him when Giorgio first moved in. The one that used to leave Raph guessing what his older brother was thinking, since he didn’t have the first clue how to read him back then.

It was hope all along. 

Two days later, the curse will finally expire in an explosion of smoke that ruins lunch prep and ends the life of Mikey’s favorite ceramic mixing bowl when he drops it in surprise. Three people lunge forward at once to scoop the baby out of the way of the broken shards underfoot, collide with their solid twenty-year-old brother instead, and end up football tackling each other into a pile on the floor. 

“What,” is all Gio says, at the bottom of the stack, followed quickly by, “Donnie?”

“Eurgh,” Donnie replies, face-first in the concrete. 

Gio sits up, taking stock of him, then the rest of the room in short order. There’s a wrinkle in his brow that spells confusion, but otherwise his expression is the resting murder face that gives away nothing. It’s much harder to take it seriously when they have all seen first-hand what it looked like on his little baby face.

“GIOOOO!” Mikey hollers, collapsing on the eldest turtle in an enthusiastic embrace that Raph is quick to get in on. Donnie is only more firmly squashed where he’s caught in the middle, and starts scrabbling uselessly for freedom like a trapped raccoon. 

“We were in the Hidden City,” Gio says slowly. “There was a witch.”

“We’ve got a lot to catch you up on, Gigi,” Leo says, joining the pile on the floor because he would stroll amicably into hell if that’s where his brothers were hanging out, and only complain about being left out in the first place. “But first you owe me like a gazillion naps. I aim to collect.”

“We’re under strict orders from Barry not to overwhelm you with details till you’ve had a chance to adjust,” Mikey announces, curtailing the dozens of questions Gio must have. “Up up! We can’t adjust on empty stomachs! And since the pancake batter is all curse-smokey, may it rest in peace, it must be deli sandwich o’clock.”

Gio is clearly unhappy with the missing time, but he can’t argue with proof in front of him that all little brothers are present and correct and accounted for. Everything else takes a backseat to that. One gray-green hand drifts to his empty wrist where a faded friendship bracelet usually lives, and alarm sprints across Gio’s expression clear as day when he doesn’t find it there. 

“I’ve got it,” Raph says immediately, reaching into his pocket for it. “We kept it safe.”

“Oh,” Gio says. He’s never explained the importance of the bracelet to any of them, and seems surprised that they’ve been paying close enough attention to guess as much on their own. He slides it back on, and brushes the pad of his thumb over the fraying ends the way Raph has seen him do a thousand times, and says, heart in his hands, “Thanks, Raphie.”

Later, they’ll fill him in. They’ll show him all the pictures, the tiny baby hoodies, Splinter will cry on him a bit, April will dramatically mourn not having his big round cheeks to squeeze anymore, and through it all Gio will look a little embarrassed, a little amused, and more than a little bewildered. 

Much later still, when Leo’s dead to the world asleep with his head in Gio’s lap, and Mikey is sitting on the back of the sofa with his legs draped over Gio’s shoulders and his chin propped up on Gio’s head and his headphones on, and Donnie is sprawled in Raph’s giant beanbag giggling evilly at whatever he’s doing to people in his Minecraft server also with his headphones on, Gio glances sideways at Raph. 

“Sorry if I was a lot to deal with,” he says. “People used to tell me I was nothing but trouble when I was little.”

Raph has to wrestle with a dozen things he’d like to say to that before coming up with, “Well people didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. You were an angel.” It comes out a dangerous rumble, and he can’t help but add, “Anyone would have been lucky to have you, Georgie. Those families before us had no clue what they were throwing away.”

Gio looks away quickly, half a rueful smile on his face. Not buying it, not really. He might believe that Raph believes it, but he always believes the best in his brothers. 

Nice words don’t leave scars like the ones he carries on his hands, and he learned all the wrong lessons for years and years before meeting the people who loved him the right way. 

That’s fine. Raph has time. And he also has it on good authority that just one of his hugs could save the world. It is, after all, what his arms are for.

He seizes Gio without warning and hauls him into a crushing embrace. He’d feel bad for waking his little brother up if they weren’t going to wake him soon anyway to try to salvage some pathetic approximation of his semi-regular sleep schedule. As it is, Leo just groggily crawls away to shove and elbow his way onto the beanbag next to his twin instead and conks right back out again.

Above them, Mikey giggles. In his arms, Gio sighs. But he’s happy, Raph can tell. He knows what it looks like. He knows how to find it.

He hopes whoever he is in the future will still know how to find it.

Chapter Text

Draxum sips coffee from a mug that says You Float My Goat and observes the chaos unfolding before him like a land surveyor. 

The turtle lair has become something of a second home to Baron Draxum over the last couple of years. A reluctant, grudging second home—let him make that very clear. He was adopted despite his best efforts, digging in his heels and leaving claw marks behind as he was dragged along by the current. 

Likening the Hamatos to a tidal wave is putting it kindly. They are a catastrophic weather event just waiting to happen. But there was only so long a person could swim against the tide before they either drowned or accepted the new direction their life was going. Draxum half-drowned half a dozen times on the way here. 

He’s fairly certain that no one believes him when he complains about biweekly family dinner. He doesn’t even believe himself half the time. 

It’s hard to believe when he has taken to lingering, well past an acceptable time to make a beleaguered escape—like earlier, when the dessert and coffee came out, and no one asked if he was staying longer, they just poured him a cup. 

The flourless chocolate cake was rich without being overly sweet. Which was probably why one of the servings received a healthy scoop of whipped cream to top off the ganache, and why Giorgio endured a round of good-natured teasing from all sides with a straight face when that plate was set in front of him. 

Draxum is watching him now, the newest addition to their number. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of the den with his hands out in front of him, while Leonardo uses his hands to rewind multiple skeins of yarn into balls. He has said all of six words all evening, but it’s far from a standoffish silence, and it’s absorbed easily into his brother’s general mayhem. He’s watching Leo work like nothing more interesting exists on the planet, at least until Michelangelo plows into the room with a messy armful of his own art project for the purpose of parallel play. 

The tiny spotted turtle that Draxum had not had large hopes for. It was significantly weaker than its counterparts, and prone to sickness. He had even, he recalls with an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach he refuses to acknowledge or name, considered discarding it altogether once or twice. 

He saw the portal open as the lab folded in, he saw the spotted turtle vanish in a sharp cut of light. It was two times a lost cause. Draxum will never admit how many hours he spent searching the wreckage of his life’s work for the hopeless creature anyway.

And here the lost cause sits, broad-shouldered and solid, as if nothing has the power to move him. 

“Ugh,” Leo says abruptly, interrupting Mikey’s stream-of-consciousness chatter to project his voice across the room where the rest of his siblings are sitting around the island, “April, you are such an Aries.”

He almost certainly hasn’t been listening to April’s story, he had just decided she had gone uninterrupted for too long—the prerogative of obnoxious younger siblings, Draxum has learned against his will. Leo is facing the wrong way for anyone in the kitchen to see the little smile on his face that only comes from successfully stirring the pot. It’s a secret just for Mikey and Gio and—incidentally—Draxum.  

Their human sister whirls around to gape at the back of Leonardo’s head as if stunned by the audacity. 

“Coming from a GEMINI of all people,” she starts hotly. 

“Woah now,” Raphael says, lifting his hands, but it’s too late. Donatello has already lowered his phone. 

“What is that supposed to mean,” he says in a tone that suggests there is no right answer. 

“I’m a Pisces,” Mikey pipes up cheerfully, laying on his stomach and kicking his feet and getting glue seemingly everywhere but on the collage he’s making. He lifts a messy hand and pokes a magazine cutting to Gio’s cheek; the residual glue on his finger is enough to make it stick, a crooked pink star damp enough that lettering from the opposite side bleeds faintly through. Mikey giggles, and the sound of it settles neatly in Draxum’s heart like a bird returning to its nest. It must feel similar to Gio, because his face softens the same way. 

“I’m a Cancer,” he replies gamely. 

“What,” Leo says, not a question. “No you’re not,” he goes on, “because if you were a Cancer, your birthday would be, like, next week. We’re not prepared for that.”

Gio blinks at him, face giving nothing away. 

Leo says, “Gigi. Tell me it’s not next week.”

“It’s fine,” Gio says. “It’s not until the fourteenth.”

Mikey lets out a hysterical bark of laughter, quickly smothered by a glitter-covered hand. Because everyone in this family could sniff out a trainwreck three days before it happened, drawn to trouble like bees to honey, the other three have tuned into the conversation occurring on the living room floor, and it’s Raphael who says, “That’s today.”

Gio frowns, unconvinced. “Is it Monday already?”

“Okay, people, focus up,” April says, clapping her hands together, “we have less than four hours to pull off the best last-minute twentieth birthday party this town has ever seen. I need everyone to bring their A-game.”

“Oh, oh, we gotta go to that party store on 8th,” Mikey says, scrambling to free himself of paste and stickers and newspaper pulp. “They’re open till ten and they have piñatas!”

“Loving the energy, Michael,” Donnie says, “but if you touch me before washing your hands I will have no choice but to kill you and then myself and Georgathan’s party will be off to a rough start.”

“Wait, someone has to get Pops,” Raph realizes, as he picks Donnie up by the shell in one hand and Mikey in the other and holds them an arms length apart, “if he misses out on choosing Gio’s birthday cake he’ll never let it go.”

Leo uses Gio to push himself upright, leaning his weight on Gio’s shoulder while he maneuvers his forearm crutch into place. Gio supports him by sitting still and steady, unable to do much else with his hands still wound in blanket yarn. 

The slider points at him, eyes narrow and forbidding, mouth a firm line. 

“I’m forgiving you this once because you genuinely have no concept of time and one of us should have asked before now and added it to the family calendar. But next super important date you keep a secret, we’re fighting.”

“Noted,” Gio says solemnly. 

While his siblings hold court in the kitchen, he patiently works the yarn off his hands and twists it into a hank, setting it neatly out of the way on the pile of finished yarn balls. There’s no salvaging whatever Mikey was dreaming up, but Gio puts lids back on paints and twists glue caps closed. 

Of all the turtles, this one comes the closest to the vision Draxum had of them—soldiers. Powerful and resilient and obedient, doing what needed to be done, never talking out of turn. The runt of the litter, the one he had given up on for the most part, turned success story. 

It makes him unreasonably unhappy. 

“You’re not seriously going to eat more cake, are you?” Draxum says for lack of better thing to say. He doesn’t usually have to fill silence in the turtle lair. Silence is a critically endangered species here. “You had a piece at dinner, and half of Blue’s.”

“Birthday cake is different,” Giorgio says plainly, which means yes, he absolutely will. 

He isn’t wearing his gloves. There are pale scars on his palms, long-healed, that are too neat to be anything but intentional. The marks on his arms and shoulders are easier to look at because they, at least, are randomly-placed and incidental. All of them are little miseries no child should have had to live through. 

Least of all, Draxum thinks, a child of mine. 

“You know, your brothers have two birthdays each.” He doesn’t realize he’s going to say it until he does. “The birthdays that Splinter chose for them arbitrarily when they were infants, and the accurate dates I had recorded prior to their mutation. They have unilaterally decided their arbitrary birthdays are their real ones, and treat the dates I gave them as freebies. An excuse to make me buy them food and presents more than anything.”

Yoshi cackled when he got wind of the whole thing and encourages the behavior with glee. He calls it seventeen years of back due child support. 

Draxum does not say that he feels some small warmth when turtles show up at his door, uninvited and inconvenient but never unwanted. He wouldn’t hate to see Giorgio adopt the obnoxious tradition, but he doesn’t say that either.

What he does say is, “I can tell you when your second birthday is. I haven’t forgotten.” 

Gio stops what he’s doing, watching Draxum with dark unblinking eyes, totally implacable. 

What would he have been like, if he had been allowed to grow up with the others? Draxum knew him only briefly after his mutation, but he knew Giorgio to be a fussy baby, only ever happy when he could shelter next to his siblings. He cried easily, wanted to be held always. How much of that child would he have outgrown naturally? How much of that child never grew up at all?

What feels like an hour later, Gio says, “If you want.” As if it truly doesn’t matter how many birthdays he’s granted, even if that number is zero.

Give them an inch, and the Hamatos will flood your life with nonsense. You will never know another moment’s peace. You will forget, altogether, what it felt like to spend your days alone. No one is immune to or exempt from their nature. 

And Draxum, for better or worse, has been adopted. 

“Enough,” he says, setting his mug aside and standing at full height. The teenagers all stare at him owlishly. Draxum frowns at them for a moment longer, to be sure he has their attention, and says, “If we are doing this, we are doing it right. No one does fireworks like fire yokai. Michelangelo, April, you’re with me. We’ll pick up the Caseys on our way.”

“Explosion brigade,” April whoops, and bumps fists with Mikey, who is still very much in air jail.

“I think I should be in the explosion brigade?” Donnie interjects, also still in air jail. 

“We want NYC to still be standing tomorrow, Tello,” Leo says patiently. He’s studying Draxum with a furrowed brow, gold eyes darting between him and Gio as if he’s looking for evidence of the conversation they had out of his earshot. “All good?” he asks his eldest brother, protective streak a mile wide to those who know what to look for. 

“All good,” Gio says, smiling at him. “You know, Casey Junior is a Leo,” he adds, entirely for the round of gasps he receives. 

“Isn’t that July too?” Mikey shrieks. 

“That little sneak!” April says, whipping her phone out to send a strongly-worded text. “He was sitting right there when we were planning the twins’ party and he said nothing. Gonna try to pull a fast one on me? I don’t think so, pal.”

“Nice try, throwing Junior under the bus, but we’re still getting you a piñata and a birthday cake and all the balloons these bozos can fit in the tank,” Raphael rumbles, nudging Gio’s shoulder with his elbow. 

Gio exhales, his familiar ghost of a laugh, that blink-and-you-miss-it good humor. It’s barely anything, but it always makes his little siblings glow with happiness to hear, like they’ve won something worth bragging about. 

For a brief moment, Gio looks back at Draxum. 

“I’d never turn down free cake,” he says.