tushanshu_logs | I need you. You. You. You. In the Morning. When my soul's on fire!

Entry tags:

I need you. You. You. You. In the Morning. When my soul's on fire!

Characters: Michaelangelo and...You?!
Date: Catch-all for March, but it could also be earlier.
Location: The Dojo, WA-3B, the Market.
Situation:
Maybe you're under 10 and are looking for the tumbling class the kids are talking about.
Maybe you're not under ten and you're looking to spar in a room that is now slowly emptying with bounding children. Inside there's a turtle cleaning up after them.
Maybe you're in the market shopping for food, and then...BOOM. Nearly five foot tall turtle in street clothes.
Maybe...something else?
Warnings/Rating: None...yet.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

((Backdated to the 22nd of January))

At three AM, in the darkest part of the night, Raphael finally drags himself home. He doesn't know what will be waiting for him there, and part of him doesn't even want to know. The best he can do now is crawl through the window closest to the bathroom door, drag himself into its temporary safety, and lock the door behind him.

His sai clatter noisily onto the bathroom counter, but he doesn't bother stripping off the rest.

The shower runs, and he eases it so hot he can hardly stand it, the water scalding the dirt away. The blood that flakes and peels from his skin, running a rusty river down the drain. Most of it isn't even his. His hand hurts, his head hurts. He hasn't slept. Hasn't eaten since it happened. He can't.

It hurts, but he deserves it. He so fucking deserves it.

His shell scrapes the shower wall as he sits, hugging his knees, and buries his head in his arms until the water runs cold and the whole room is choked with steam.

He can't go out there, but what else is there left to do? He can't run forever. He can't hide in there 'til he starves, as tempting as that seems. Eventually, he's gonna have to come out. Eventually he's gonna have to deal with the consequences of what he's done. Eventually he's got to get a grip.

But right now, he just feels sick. Black inside. Sicker than he's ever felt in a long damn time, and he isn't ready to be reminded all over again.

In his room Mike lies very still. Long before he hears the clatter of steel on ceramic, he knows something is...off. Not wrong, just different. Years of goofing off in lessons doesn't mean he's not in tune to the energy of a place. Especially a place he's called home for a while now. Energy shifts when people move about, and for folks like Raph...well it just gets the hell out of the way.

There's the telltale hiss of hot water sings through out the house as it moves through the pipes. Then the sound of scute covered bone sliding across tile.

Raph's returned.

Mike's out of bed before the water sings a different tune, signifying the loss of its heat. But before it shuts off completely, he right back to where he started from: in his room, playing at sleep.

Outside the door is a plate of food. Nothing flashy or fancy. Just cold leftovers, a couple slices of bread, and a large container of weak ginseng tea. It's the best substitute for Gatorade Mike's been able to find. With enough lemon it's easy to trick yourself into believing it's not tea at all.

Edited 2014-03-09 06:19 (UTC)

It takes him a long while to even scrape himself off the shower floor. For too long he sits there with the water off, listening to the dripping shower head patter off the tile. He doesn't want to get up. He hates himself so much he'd rather just sit there and torture himself until he starves or finally, really goes insane.

Already went insane. Too many times before. Every memory plays through his head with searing clarity. Every time he snapped. Every time he lost control.

It's fucking eerie how much of those memories are black, laced with flashes of blood and teeth and somebody's terrified eyes.

He thought he was getting better. He's tried so fucking hard to be better. But it's a part of him. More than he'd like to admit it's a fucking part of him, and it makes him feel sick. Like some kind of mental patient. Crazy.

But after a while, even he can only sit there hating himself for so long. Every inch of him aches, but he has to move. He has to keep going. Because what other choice does he have? Killing himself? Even he isn't that pathetic, even if it would feel like he was doing his family a favor.

So he pulls himself up, cradling his busted hand against his chest. Can't even look at himself in the mirror as he roughly towels himself off.

And then he stops. Holds his breath. Listens to the quiet house on the other side of the door. Waiting for a sign that Leo's up, waiting with a lecture. Hating him. But there's nothing. No quiet scuff of movement, no sounds of breathing. Nothing.

He turns the doorknob as silently as he can, his heart hammering in his chest. Ready for another fight. He's always ready for another fucking fight. But if Leo tries starting something with him, he swears he'll deck him right in his stupid smug mouth.

But Leo isn't there. Just the dark and quiet suite, and something on the floor he almost trips over on the way out, making him bite down on a curse that hisses almost silently through his teeth.

Food. Left out for him. Like he's some kind of freakin' charity case. Mikey. It had to be Mikey.

It's a weird feeling that makes his eyes burn and his chest ache. What the hell did he do to deserve this? Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

Though he's hungry, licks his lips, but it's hard to swallow around the tightness in his throat. So he bites down on his tongue. Leaves it where it is, and limps off into his room. Collapses into bed, curling around his injured hand. But he won't sleep. There's too much screaming in his head, and staring dully into the dark is way more inviting than dreaming.

He can't stop thinking about the mouldering food just outside his door. About the silence that met him instead of the fight he'd been expecting.

He'd come home ready to be hated, and he would've deserved every minute.

Somehow, the kindness is almost worse.

When Mike comes home this night, things seem normal. For a while. Leonardo has yet to learn the nuances of his cousin's behavior, but he has grown up with a brother similar in spirit, if not demeanor - and recently, he's been keeping a harder eye on those close to him. So as minutes go by, and then an hour, then longer, it's hard to miss the distant sense of wrongness surrounding Michaelangelo.

Leonardo isn't sure what to think at first. Whether he should intrude. The bond between him and his cousin is far more familial than personal, and he doubts his ability to extract anything from him at all. So he plays along - pretends that everything is normal, too. Pretends he doesn't notice the slightly haggard look, the poker face that's just a little too perfect.

Then Raphael doesn't come home.

On its own, this isn't a strange thing. He and Leo have an agreement that has been honored for over a year in this world; sometimes they need space, time to think, blow off steam. Sometimes they make plans without saying anything. And sometimes they just can't stand the sight of each other. But things have been different ever since Mike came into the picture. Leo can't quite explain how, but his very presence keeps them a bit more grounded. Keeps him more responsible.

It's different. Hauntingly so. And the connection between Mike's oddness and Raph's failure to come home isn't too difficult to make.

Leonardo doesn't know what happened, but he doesn't press; lets his eyes pass over Raph's door without a second glance as he says goodnight to Michaelangelo. But when he enters his own room, he pushes the door until it's opened barely a slit, drags a cushion from his mat, and takes up a lotus position near the door, listening.

Around three, he hears rustling in the bathroom. A clatter. Running water. It runs for a long time - then it shuts off, and it's silent for even longer. And finally, finally, the quiet, almost imperceptible creak of a door near his.

Leonardo says nothing. Doesn't move. Doesn't think. He retains his position for an hour more; two, three, longer. He won't sleep tonight, but now, it's by his own choice. Raph is home. Everything else can be addressed in the morning.

Morning. It comes far too quickly, which leads Mike to believe he did manage to drop off to sleep at some point. Not that it feels as though he's rested. His whole body aches and feels heavy, and he's not sure if it's some lingering phantom trauma due to his brain just not fully accepting Korra's healing blue water, or if it's merely the stress of the last few days.

Grudgingly, he rolls out of bed, and pads his way down to the kitchen, finding a touch of solace in the familiar routine.
A familiar solace that quickly dies when he sees the peace offering still sitting outside the bathroom door.

Mike's heart and stomach sink.
He didn't take it. But...that doesn't make any sense. Raph always takes it. It...this...this is how you say you're sorry to Raph. That it's okay. That there's no hard feelings. That way no apologies, serious ones, ever have to be spoken aloud.

This is just like...
Mike swallows hard, or tries to.

This is just like after the whole incident with the wrench. When Raph just left and never really truly came back. The night Mike lost his best friend.

There's a slight waver as he bends to pick up the untouched plate and earthen thermos. With a heavy heart to match his aching limbs, he makes for the kitchen to start breakfast.

Morning comes with the scent of cooking food and welcoming sounds coming from the kitchen muffled through his bedroom door. It shakes him out of a light doze, squinting at the sunlight pouring through the window. It's something he still hasn't gotten used to.

But the exhausted, bone-deep ache in his muscles cementing him to the bed... that's almost painfully familiar. He's woken up too many mornings badly bruised and hardly able to move to think too much about it. He can only sigh and push on, let it fade with rest and time.

Though the raw throbbing in his badly swollen hand makes it hard to think of anything else. When he accidentally bumps it moving around, it sends an excruciating lance of pain rushing up his arm that makes him bite down on the inside of his cheek. And he thinks, Good. He deserves this. He deserves every minute of it.

He'd be happy to just lie there forever, almost enjoying his own agony. But it's like last night in the shower. He knows he can't. He has to face his demons eventually. And as much as he wants to wait it out, come out when breakfast is over and the house goes quiet again, shutting himself away like this is only gonna pile on more trouble for him in the long-run.

It's the hunger that finally drives him out. Going without is another one of those sickeningly familiar things, but it's been over twenty-four hours since he's had anything in his system. He never bothered to replenish after the fight (and the fight after that fight), and while the hunger pains have long faded into a gnawing hollowness in the pit of his stomach, his head feels like a hundred pounds of lead and the scent of cooking breakfast wafting from under the door is starting to drive him crazy.

He can't hide from them forever. He could wait, but that would probably only make things worse.

Go to Leo. Don't freakin' wait for him to come to you. If he waits around any longer, Leo will come knocking on his door. He can't let that happen. At this point, coming out on his own is the only way he can still have some scrap of control. He can't let them have the upper hand in this, because he'd probably end up tearing Leo's fucking head off, too.

So he pulls himself out of bed with a groan. Pain sears like hot iron through every bruise, and the muscles under his plastron feel like they're ripped to a bloody pulp inside him.

He remembers that feeling, too. An old war injury, from when the Shredder tried cracking him like an egg after he tried to leave Earth. They'd stopped him, had the Utroms to patch them up when it was over, but his shell never did heal back to the way it used to be.

Usually, it doesn't give him problems. Sometimes it's just a ghost of old pain on cold days. It really only bothers him when a bunch of idiots try getting in body shots at a freakin' turtle dumb enough to let them. And last night, when he fled the fight ring with his head full of screaming, he'd been followed by just those types of idiots.

Dai Jin, the guy he attacked from behind, was part of a notorious Fire Sector gang. A gang Raph had previous beef with from a few other ugly fights long before he disappeared for those six months. And last night, after dragging their screaming friend off the stage, they'd sworn to get revenge for Jin's ruined knee.

So they'd fought like a pack of wolves just outside the warehouse doors. They were hungry for blood, and Raph gave it to them. Let them get the hits in Mike refused. Let them use him like a punching bag until he got mad enough to get his second wind and end it.

He's paying for it now, blood-for-blood. A broken hand and a sore stomach by a bunch of moron strangers is a small price for his cousin's ruined face. But he deserves every bit of it and more.

Getting to the kitchen is a slow process. Every step hurts, but he refuses to show it any more than he has to. Luckily, he doesn't get spotted on his pit stop to the bathroom. And this time, he finally dares looking at himself in the mirror.

He looks like shit warmed over. Half his face is swollen and bruised sick yellow. There's a deep cut above his eye and another one on his shoulder he knows better than to clean out and disturb the scabs. With one good hand and no way to stitch himself up, he can't fix it without help.

Leo will have to do it for him.

Fuck.

Part of him wants to put his fist through the freakin' mirror, but he thinks he's thrown enough temper tantrums in the last few days, so he puts on his best "don't screw with me" face and heads for the kitchen instead.

He doesn't even look at anyone when he gets there, just limps toward the icebox, pulls out one of their homemade ice packs, and sits down heavily at the table. It takes everything he's got not to wince when he plops the ice pack on his busted hand. Even sitting hurts, but he doesn't freakin' care.

Then he just sits there, heart hammering in his chest, and waits for the world to start crashing down around him.

And when it does, he's gonna fight it every step of the way.

Edited 2014-03-11 09:23 (UTC)

The only person to look at is Mike, and he's certainly not making eye-contact. At least, not at first, and certainly not without permission to do so. That's always been Step One when it comes to Post-Fight with Raphael Aftercare.

Don't speak until spoken to.
Don't make eye-contact.
Give wide berth.

And so Mike just keeps on keepin' on with what he's doing, which is apparently futzing with a steamer he's rigged to make something akin to oatmeal. Good, hearty food that'll stick to your ribs, that's what's on the menu this morning.
That and good, strong coffee, the smell of which gets stronger as he pours a large mug of the stuff.

As a personal rule, Mike takes his caffeine carbonated and with as much high-fructose cornsyrup as the law will allow, so this cup of coffee isn't for him. But it is for someone who prefers their brew to have the viscosity of motor oil.

The quiet isn't expected. What he was expecting, he hardly even knows anymore. If it were his Mikey, there'd be jokes. There'd be teasing. There'd be making light of this crappy situation. His Mikey might not be all that great dealing with stuff when things got serious, but he knew how to piss Raph off in just the right ways. Make him mad about something else instead of dwelling on what a wackbag fuckup he really is. It'd still be tense. It'd still be awkward. But it worked in its own weird way.

But this isn't his Mikey. This time, that isn't how things are gonna work. Though the quiet, the space... it's almost nice.

He finds himself relaxing without even knowing it, his mind wandering back to the throbbing in his hand. He hunches over more, propping his chin on his fist.

Then he starts stealing glances at Mikey's turned shell. Just quick ones he hopes go unnoticed. He can't believe he's still up and walking around after the beating he gave him. And when he catches a glimpse of the side of his face, from what he can see it's like nothing even happened.

Just the thought of talking to Mike makes his chest tight and his stomach hurt, but he does it anyway, his eyes glued to the icepack on his hand.

"You healed up quick," he rumbles. His heart is still beating way too fast, but he tries to make it sound as casual as possible.

"I cheated," he says with a tone that sounds like it's trying really really hard to be aloof. When Mike turns to actually look at Raph for the first time, there's such a sense of relief in his expression that his good-nature is far more believable.

Mostly because this time it's genuine.

"Korra," he says simply and half shrugs, as he pads his way over towards Raph and places the cup of coffee by his cousin's good hand.
And just like that, the conflict is over. Permission has been granted for contact, an offering has been made. So long as that offering is accepted, then this is all in the past for Mike. Where it will remain, and never spoken of again, unless Raph deems it so.

"There's Ishmeal if you want. Or I could cook up some sausages."

Ishmeal. The Turtle solution to Oatmeal.

It's times like this he wishes he wasn't so emotional, because the minute Mike puts down the mug, his throat tightens, and there's a pressure behind his eyes he can't blame on the hunger headache. Just the tiniest of gestures - making him coffee, putting it where he can reach it, the smell of cooking food - it's all fucking touching.

He doesn't deserve this.

Whenever he screws up like this, he expects yelling. He expects judging looks. He expects everyone to punish him like he's been punishing himself. Never, ever does he expect kindness.

"Thanks," he rasps and leaves it at that; too busy gritting his teeth against the emotion overtaking his voice.

It's still hard to say if he told Leo. Normally he'd expect to be met bright and early with a lecture and preludes to a fight. And the absence of Leo can only mean one of two things: either he's sitting back and letting them deal with it themselves, or Mike's kept him in the dark.

He has no idea what to think or feel about this, so he feels it all - shame, regret, more than a little self-pity, and the sting of homesickness that always burns so keenly whenever he's around Mike. Not his brother, but Mike. So different, but so weirdly the same. He made his coffee for him, and he even knows how he likes it.

That'll never stop being weird, and he thinks, as the time and distance goes on, it'll never stop hurting. But now Mike's seen the worst of him. Now he knows more than he'd ever be able to say. And he knows. He always knew.

He can see it in the way he moves around him. Before, when the air was still thick with tension. He knows, because his Raph is just the same.

When he lifts the mug to drink, the coffee is bitter. He can't imagine how it could be any other way.

Mike offers only a tight smile and a quick nod before turning on a dime and leaving Raph to his coffee. When his brother's voice takes on that frayed-edge sound, the best thing one can do is not acknowledge it. To just leave him be to collect himself, because offering any kind of solace might trigger something larger. Something of an emotional cascade that won't stop until it's run out of fuel.

So instead Mike moves as if, Thanks, was an indication that Raph would like BOTH Ishmeal and sausage. Maybe an egg or two, though Raph doesn't get a say in how those are prepared. If Mike can help it, he only prepares eggs one way: Scrambled, where the curds are large and fluffy. Maaaybe a little browned and crunchy around the edges. Just for the texture shift.

Just then a timer sounds, and Mike pulls a couple of slices of day old bread out of the oven. He flips those onto a plate, and slides that onto the table by the coffee. If his oversized oven mitt should happen to remain with the plate, well then that might just have been an oversight on his part.

And surely not an indication that Raph could hide his hand in the mitt should Leo come down for breakfast before Raph's ready to let Mike look at his hand. Surely not. No. Never.

Edited 2014-03-13 20:18 (UTC)

At some point, the smell of food comes drifting through his cracked door, hand-in-hand with quiet sounds of someone rustling around in the kitchen, the clapping of pots and pans. Michaelangelo is awake. Leo is often the first one up on nights he does sleep, but it doesn't mean he's the first to emerge from his room - and since he's still playing along with this game of normalcy, he doesn't go out yet. Just sits and waits in his meditative pose, listening to the faint sounds of life in the suite like he always has, every morning since Mike came to live with them.

It's maybe an hour or so later that he decides it's time. He drops his hands in his lap, head hanging down as his eyes close. He breathes a slow, careful sigh, bracing himself for the morning ahead. Then, in one smooth motion, Leo stands, pushes the cushion against the wall with his foot, and takes his bandana from the nightstand. The door closes with an audible click as he steps out into the hall, pulling it shut behind him.

When he steps into the kitchen, he glances at Mike, and then gives a more studious look towards his brother. Raph looks like hell. Whatever happened last night, it hadn't been pretty. But this is very strange, very different territory with Michaelangelo involved, and even worse, the tension in the air is already so thick he may as well have walked into a room filled with molasses. He can only imagine how much worse it's going to get as soon as he inserts himself into the situation.

No time like the present. Leo steps around his brother, giving him hardly a glance as he takes his place at the table. Silently, he lifts the bandana and starts tying it around his head.

He can still play it normal for now. We'll see how much longer it lasts.

The energy in the room shifts so quickly it could give a person whiplash. Here comes Fearless Leader, giving him the judging look he'd been waiting for. And Raph visibly prickles under his gaze, not failing to meet his eyes with a challenge. Go ahead, his voice growls in his head, say something. I dare you.

He knows he looks like crud warmed over, but that look. It feels like he's rubbing it in. And he's waiting for it. Oh, he's waiting for it. Go ahead, Fearless. Tell him he's lost it again. Lecture him about losing his temper. Remind him how all of this is his own fault. Because the second Leo opens his mouth, he'll deck him right in the face. He swears.

But the kitchen stays silent save for the scrape of the chair and the sound of Mikey's cooking. Raphael's grip grows tighter on his coffee mug, taking a long, defiant gulp of the bitter stuff.

Leo's acting like it's normal. Like nothing's changed. And maybe it hasn't, but Raph hasn't even taken the time to consider that maybe it's all in his head.

Yes.
Normal.
Everything is normal.

Actually, it really kind of is, from Mike's perspective. If he had a nickel for every tense breakfast he's had to mediate, he'd be Donald Trump levels of rich.

Mike keeps his back to the both of them as he waits for Leo and Raph to silently square off at the table.

Leo enters and says nothing.
Raph says nothing.
Leo sits and says nothing.
Raph says nothing.

So, Mike says everything.
"GoooooOOOOoooood morning, Leo. Sleep well? I hope you're hungry. We've got Ishmeal, and sausage, and I can make you an omelet if you want. There's coffee."

Mike only pauses to place a mug of piping hot coffee in front of cousin.

"Tea'll be a few minutes. Just have to get the water boiling again."

Hey, if they're not going to talk, then Mike has no problem filling that vacuum. None what so ever.

Leo finishes tightening the knot in his bandana, and with a final tug, his arms drop onto the table a little bit too forcefully. His brow creases, but he continues to say nothing. He can't indulge this charade much longer... but he isn't entirely sure how to broach the topic, either. Not without triggering the nuclear elephant in the room.

Whatever happened was clearly between Raph and Mike. Leo likes to pretend that his brothers' business is always his business too, but he knows that isn't the case. They're sitting here, eating breakfast like all is forgiven - and Leo might believe it is, if not for that suffocating tension. And the fact that it looks like someone woke Raph up this morning by putting him through a meat grinder.

When his brothers start getting hurt, that's when it becomes his business.

"Just tea is fine, thanks." It's a little stiff, but still his best attempt at civility. Eating is the last thing on his mind right now.

He sits up straighter, pulling his arms off of the table; still not directly looking at Raph. He wants to wait until Mike's settled down until he goes into the topic, and goading Raphael into bringing it up first won't go over well. Of course, goading Raph is sometimes as simple a matter as breathing.

And Raph continues to smolder, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. He feels trapped, cornered into this imminent shitfest he brought onto himself. But he'll only sit there, letting his own sick feelings build like tar inside him. Thick and poison.

This isn't normal. It's not the same. They shouldn't even want him here. It makes no freakin' sense.

But he's not an idiot. He can see the way their eyes avoid him. And there's still way too much tension in the air, building up inside him until it's threatening to explode. Though without any kind of signal, no threat or prodding, it won't. It just lies dormant and angry, waiting.

For now, all he can do is drink coffee and stew, still trying his best to ignore the amount of pain he's in, his head and his hand throbbing in time with his heart.

"Righteo," he says brightly as he picks up Leo's mug and uses its contents to refresh Raph's coffee. Back home this was something they'd do all the time. Waste not, need a little less than you did before.

Mike makes a show of shaking the last few drops from one mug into the other, before spinning the cup in one hand. He tries to keep the brothers in his periphery as he returns to the stove, and the water that's heating there.

"One tea. Coming right up. No problemo. Can do."

He pauses.

"What kind of tea, Leo? I've got lots. Oolong, Orange pekoe, Green, Splinter's special..."

He will keep going if someone doesn't stop him.

"Green." Quickly, without missing a beat. Leo sets one arm back on the table, staring intensely at his finger as though it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

Truthfully, he's growing anxious. The more glances he steals towards Raph, the more concerned he gets. Some of those wounds look like they need more attention than they've been given. Typical. But he can feel the tension rolling off of his brother in waves, and he asks himself if he's willing to compromise the clean start he's so desperately tried to set up.

... dammit.

His fist curling on the table, he bares his teeth softly, hissing in defeat. Then he hoists himself up from the chair and navigates towards one of the cupboards, pulls it open, hauls out a small wooden box that he rifles through before turning back to the table. Leo uses a foot to drag a chair closer to his brother and sits, placing the box down. He sorts through the bottles and vials until he finds a thread and needle, then sets them on the table and pushes them forward.

"Actually, forget the tea. Mind boiling these instead?"

Now it's Raph's turn to turn his eyes down, sighing deeply as the weight of his guilt crushes the air out of his lungs. If his hand wasn't so fucking busted he could've done it himself. And now he's gotta be taken care of when the last thing he wants is for someone to touch him.

He doesn't want to be in this room anymore. If he didn't have to eat and scrape himself back together again, he wouldn't even be here. He'd be out, alone, where he can breathe.

Where he can't hurt anyone. Where they can't hurt him.

As shitty as he feels about going off on Mike like that, about losing himself again and hurting someone he cares about, he still doesn't forgive Mike. There was trust that was broken. And Leo... he doesn't even want to be anywhere near Leo.

He doesn't turn when Leo sits next to him, only glares at his muddy reflection in the coffee cup, watching his brother cagily in his periphery. It's hard not to hunch away from having someone that close to him when all he wants to do is repel everyone and everything from his space.

Though it's not like he's got much of a choice.

These?
Oh.

OH!
Mike freezes for a moment, his eyes widening in shock, as if he's slightly worried for his oldest cousin's life, mostly because he is. This isn't the way this goes down, not where he's from. Not...no so fast so soon so suddenly. He's expecting Raph to recoil like a spring that hasn't fully relaxed.

Mike looks from the thread to the needle and then to Raph. Then he does that again. He's waiting for a sign from Raph that this is okay. He's looking for permission before he moves. Mike is forever loyal to Leonardo, and in this instance that loyalty requires him to venture out into the minefield ahead of his leader.

"...I can do it. If that's okay," he adds quickly. "I mean, no offense, but it was Leo that stitched me up the first time, and we all know how that worked out." Mike pushes at the sleeve that covers the scar left over from his fall at the TCRI building. When he sacrificed himself so his brothers could escape.

It doesn't matter to Mike if the joke falls flat. Anything that focuses the attention away from Raph and back onto him will be a win in Mike's eyes.

Leonardo stiffens, his eyes pinning Mike as though sizing up an obstacle on the battlefield. All these eggshells, whatever the hell happened to create this tension, and Mike wants to be the one sewing Raph shut. Obligation, or guilt? Or because that's how it's always been in his universe? Hell, maybe something else entirely. Leo doesn't know enough to have any sort of clue.

A thread of annoyance pulses through his veins. It seems like everyone is doing their best to keep him as completely out of the know as physically possible. He is not going to fight over who gets to treat Raph. This parading around, trying to ignore that elephant in the room - it's ridiculous. Whether they like it or not, he's getting involved.

"Michaelangelo."

His tone couldn't be clearer.

There's a feeling like hot oil building up inside of him, and the amount of unbridled hate he's silently channeling at Leo is reaching dangerous levels. His good hand balls into a fist on the tabletop, his jaw clenched tight around the urge to just start screaming and swinging until he's fought his way out of this shitty situation.

Mike was giving him space. Giving him time to think. Maybe "nice" wasn't the word for it, but it didn't make him feel like this. Now Leo's just inserting himself into everything and it pisses him off even more. But what did he expect? This's how it always goes.

Look at Raphael, screwing up again. Can't even take care of himself. Bet Leo feels real smug about controlling his life when he's lost control of everything.

As his mind reels, the pressure inside him builds. Builds until he feels like he's about ready to explode, his breath hot in his lungs as he fights to breathe deeply. Keep his head cool and his vision clear.

He hates this. He hates this so freakin' much. If he could just get up and run, you bet your ass he'd be out of there in a heartbeat.

"Fiiiine," he says putting his hands up in surrender, and with more than a little whine to his voice. There's a fraction of a second there where his focus flickers over to Raph.

To where Raph has made a fist with his remaining good hand.
crap.
Time to change tactics.

"Can I at least put something down on the table first? You know, before you go playing operation in a place where eating is supposed to happen?"

The longer this goes on, the more antsy Leo gets. He realizes that Mike is just being exceedingly mindful of the Raph-shaped time bomb ticking away at Leo's side, but that's the thing about time bombs: prolonging the situation is the fastest ticket to disaster. The sooner they get Raph cleaned up, the sooner they can leave him alone, let him explode somewhere else if he needs to get it out of his system.

He's sure Mike has plenty of experience dealing with Raphaels... but Leo does, too. By existing in the same room, he's turned into a living vacuum, sucking up Raph's attention and ire. Every single thing he does or says will be noticed and reacted to. Sitting around and pretending like he's not going to act... that would be the worst thing he could do. It would just wind Raph tighter and tighter and tighter.

Instead of answering, he takes a small container filled with salve out from the box and then pushes it to the side, clearing an area for Mike to do whatever he wants.

For a moment, Raph's kind of impressed at how Mike stands up to Leo. And how Leo actually listens, if only partially. He's fighting for him. He's freakin' fighting for him after he pounded his face into the ground in front of a bunch of strangers. Probably almost killed him. And now he's trying to pry Leo off his case.

It almost sucks the anger right out of him, because holy crud.

But it's too easy to fall back into anger. Too easy to keep pouring his hate in Leo's general direction. Though at least his urge to punch him square in the face is ebbing.

Instead, that hand goes for his mug again, taking a defiant slug of his coffee, glaring moodily straight ahead. He wants to eat now. He'll deal with Leo and his bullshit later. He's siding with Mike on this one, and Leo can freakin' deal.

Everyone just needs to leave him the hell alone.

Edited 2014-03-16 06:34 (UTC)

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