Chapter Text
Donatello Hamato is no older than five when he first hears the words "autism spectrum disorder." At the time, he isn't able to say anything at all—but he's able to understand what people are saying, thank you very much. At least... most of the time. Donnie understands "spectrum" and "disorder." Spectrum, like how people describe different colors (he'll learn later about the full breadth of the electromagnetic spectrum, but for now he is only five and only knows about visible light). And disorder—when there is something wrong with you. Something disruptive.
So it is needless to say that Donnie's restless mind jolts to a stop when he realizes that those words are about him.
Lucky for Donnie, his ever-nosy not-twin brother Leonardo is also there, and can't seem to help himself from blurting out—"What's au-uh, au—uhm... what?"
Splinter looks down between Donnie and Leo, but even with his refusal to look directly at Splinter Donnie can tell that his dad isn't really looking at him, moreso simply acknowledging his existence before turning to his brother. His brother, Leo, who can talk like it's no big deal to anyone. Well, at least Donnie can read and he can't. Not that Leo would know it, because, well—the whole not-talking thing.
"I'll tell you later, Blue," Splinter waves the two boys off and goes back to talking to the unfamiliar stranger in their house. The stranger is a mutant, like them, but dresses completely in white and had spent the last few days asking Donnie pointless questions about pictures of frogs and pictures of children and if he can imitate their facial expressions or, really, understand what any of it means. Which he does—mostly. Mostly. He's given multiple-choice answers, which are easy enough for his five-year-old brain to comprehend. At least the stranger in white understands that he can read. He's also given math questions, which he likes a lot more than the multiple-choice questions. Donnie likes math, a lot. It just... makes sense to him. Not like his dad, or his brothers, or this stupid "autism" thing that no one will explain to him.
Donnie is eight when he is allowed unrestricted internet access—which, in retrospect, is concerning. It is also sort-of-maybe-possibly Donnie's fault for finding a computer in the nearby junkyard, taking advantage of the fact that his dad never leaves his chair in the living room unless it's to pick up a fallen remote. And even then, he usually has one of his sons pick it up for him—sons whose names he still doesn't seem to know. Donnie just wishes he'd acknowledge him—he knows he's behind his brothers, but that doesn't mean Splinter can't at least notice that Donnie exists (he's equally neglectful towards all of his sons, but Donnie hasn't noticed that quite yet).
Donnie can talk now, too, which is probably one of Raphael's biggest regrets. Raph had done his best to teach Donnie to speak using a combination of Lou Jitsu and Jupiter Jim movies, and Donnie had caught on quickly. It had started off with Donnie repeating "Hooooot soup!" in response to everything, but had soon evolved into full sentences. And now? Donnie won't shut up.
He talks about Lou Jitsu. He talks about Jupiter Jim. But most of all, he talks about technology—television sets are his first obsession, but that quickly changes when he finds a computer and realizes that there's so much more he could be learning, and all at his fingertips!
The Fibonacci sequence is his favorite right now. It's good for focusing, too. Zero plus one is one, one plus one is two, one plus two is three, two plus three is five, five plus three is eight, and—well, you get it. He's also discovered something called Pascal's triangle, but a thought occurs to him before he can delve too far into that one.
The words come back to him. Autism spectrum disorder. He's heard the words since, of course—except mostly just as "autism." He's still not sure what it means, because even though he's now able to speak and ask for himself without Leo somehow reading his mind, his questions about it are ignored. Raph always (very conspicuously) avoids the question, Leo will laugh, and Michelangelo will seem just as confused as Donnie feels.
So he types the words into the search bar and clicks the "I'm Feeling Lucky" button, even though he isn't feeling very lucky and he's not sure why Google has a button like that for searching, anyway. The answers are less than satisfactory and all say essentially the same thing: that autism is a neurodevelopmental (he'll have to look that word up later) disorder that affects several different aspects of life but with two primary categories: social and restricted/repetitive behaviors. But nothing else is helpful. The most he's able to find is a list of symptoms that he reads over and pretends they don't apply to him before closing the tab halfway through because he can't take it. The wording makes it sound... awful. Is he really so awful?
"Hey, Donnie, buddy, I know you're excited, but you gotta share the computer with your brothers," Raph chides before little Donnie can overthink it too much. He's not able to close the other tabs before Raph takes it from him, but he hands it off to Leo within a second and if he'd seen what was on the screen, he doesn't show it. There is a tight feeling in Donnie's chest, but he's not quite sure what it means. He doesn't like it, though, and he thinks that maybe it's because he has to share the computer even though he was the one who found it.
Donnie is thirteen when it starts to get to him—like, in the he-can't-feel-his-legs-and-his-chest-feels-like-it's-caving-in-and-his-face-feels-way-too-hot kind of way. By now, he understands what autism means. Everyone in his family understands what autism means—and the formerly oblivious Michelangelo most of all, probably. He's maybe the easiest of Donnie's brothers to get along with, but he can't help but think that maybe it's because he feels bad for Donnie's... condition. Raph clearly does—he'll lie to Donnie if he thinks it'll make him feel better, which always takes a turn for the worst when Donnie figures out that he's lying and gets even more upset than the truth would have made him in the first place. And Leo is, well... Leo. Donnie's not sure he feels bad about anything, ever. He's always on Donnie's back about something, butting into his personal space and making jokes about replacing Donnie and butting into Donnie's personal space all the goddamn time. But... Leo does also insist that Donnie is his twin and will often refuse to do things without him, so... Maybe that's all they are, jokes, and Donnie's taking them way too seriously.
But that's besides the point. Even if Leo's jabs really aren't actually jokes, that will just reinforce what Donnie has learned about himself:
- There's something wrong with him on a fundamental level. His brothers pass it off as simply being "different," but Donnie knows it's not different in the same way that Hawaiian pizza is different from Meat Lover's. He's "different" in the way that he's not supposed to exist in the way that he does. He's supposed to make eye contact and express his emotions and be comfortable with physical contact that he doesn't initiate himself and be able to talk about something that isn't science-related.
- Donnie is more like a computer than he is a person. Of course, he isn't human. At least, not completely. But he doesn't even feel like a person in the philosophical sense—and it only takes a few comments from his brothers to solidify that. He knows that Mikey feels bad when he doesn't react well to something his younger brother does for him, but Donnie can't figure out what the "right way" to react is, especially without feeling even more fake than that Mrs. Cuddles toy that Raph is so afraid of. Speaking of Raph, Donnie's oldest brother doesn't necessarily try to treat him any differently, but he's good at inadvertently making Donnie feel isolated—especially when Donnie's actively trying to express emotion and yet Raph still assumes that he's being insensitive. Leo, though, may sting the most. He and Donnie used to be inseparable as kids, and no matter how often Donnie would insist that they were different species of turtles and didn't even know when each other's birthdays were, they certainly acted as much like twins as Leo claimed they were. Somehow, Leo always seemed to know what Donnie was feeling. And yet... now Leo feels the furthest away from him. Maybe it's a matter of juxtaposition, because they used to be so close, but no hurt will compare to the sting in Donnie's chest when Leo actively compares him to his robotic creations ("I totally see the resemblance, man! Hearts of tin, amiright?"). It takes all of Donnie's strength to ignore the jab and inform him that it's actually aluminum and not tin that he used for his latest creation. He'd considered titanium, but he'll save that for a later project. One that's important to his brothers too and not just Donnie himself.
- Donnie will never be a Mad Dog. Sure, he has the symbol on his belt, and sure, he's a teenage mutant ninja turtle just like his brothers, but... it's clear there's a divide between himself and his brothers. Actually... Donnie's not sure how many more jokes he can take about being kicked off the team. Even Mikey's started making them, and Donnie had thought that at the very least, Mikey liked him. (And that's not even touching on the even bigger gap that forms when they all receive mystic powers next year, with the exception of Donnie. Because of course.)
So Donnie decides he'll fix himself—in a way. He crafts himself a battle shell to match the solid protection of his brothers, he adds mechanical arms to his battle shell to make up for his subpar motor skills, adds medication and other schedule reminders to his gauntlet, adds noise-canceling headphones as part of his goggle set, and adds a new function to his tech-bō whenever he finds himself falling short on something. And... he'd never dare tell anyone, but he now has a spreadsheet on his computer (his own computer and not one he has to share, finally) with pre-planned reactions for things his brothers will inevitably say or do or feel. Raph is the easiest, probably—he has a distinct smell for each of his emotions, which is... odd, but not too much so considering pheromones are a primary method of communication for most members of the animal kingdom. Mikey would be after that—he's very expressive, but that doesn't do much for Donnie when not a single facial expression clicks in his brain the way it's supposed to.
And then there's Leo.
Leo, like Mikey, is also very expressive—but he's expressive in a dramatic way, where Donnie can never tell whether or not he's doing something for show. He always seems so... Happy? Cocky? Careless? (Carefree might be a better word, but Donnie's spiteful). Donnie knows that Leo couldn't possibly feel that way all of the time (and he's caught his brother looking rather sullen when he leaves his lair at four in the morning to grab a snack and has to pass by his insomniac brother). So... Leo's probably feeling something all of the time, but that something never seems to be what Leo expresses on his face or what Donnie interprets him to be expressing on his face.
But... he has a spreadsheet. And that's a start.