Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They’re nine when Donnie, his half-soul, turns to him, and says, “Leon, you don’t have to be good at something for us to love you.” 

The words are said so simply. It’s as if Donnie couldn’t care less and is merely repeating a fact he’s tired of explaining, but Leo has known his twin all his life. Would recognize the minuscule twitch of his mouth when he’s suppressing annoyance, or the slight lift of his voice when’s disguising worry, or the split second of hesitation when he’s a half-spoken question away from a hug. Leo recognizes Donnie’s love the moment he presents it.

Leo’s mouth pulls into a half-smile. “Dude,” he says, pushing off the bed to sit up, “where did that come from?” 

Donnie turns away. There’s a tweezer in one hand and a soldering iron in the other. “You were moping.” 

“I was not.” 

“And in actuality, I am a frog who only happens to share the physical characteristics of a soft-shell turtle.” A subtle pause. “That was sarcasm if that wasn’t obvious. Your mopiness on the other hand: incredibly.” 

Leo crosses his arms. “Oh yeah? How can you tell?” 

Donnie briefly stops tinkering with the circuit board to look up from his desk and gesture vaguely at—well, all of him. 

Okay. Maybe. Just maybe, Leo is moping.

It was Mikey’s eighth birthday yesterday. They had made a whole thing about it—strung a You’ved Aged banner across the living room ceiling, attempted (emphasis on the attempted) at an orange pound cake, and brought their little brother in blind-folded before showering him in confetti. 

When it came time for gifts, Donnie volunteered to go first. He presented Mikey with a completely remodeled Donkey Kong arcade machine, fully equipped with a motion seat and an advanced sound system. 

Raph went next—said he saved up his allowance for months as he handed Mikey a whole set of art markers, brand new, brand name, that carried more than twenty different colors. 

And Leo—

Well, Leo didn’t have any of that kind of stuff. An arcade machine or brand name art supplies. That genius nor sense of responsibility. Instead, a few days before, he snuck out of the lair and spent hours scrounging the entire junkyard. Got a few cuts on his fingers from stray bits of metal. Shivered through the dark and night. He managed to round up a set of mismatched Lou Jitsu and Jupiter Jim figurines—and also snagged a few duplicates. He cleaned them up. He adjusted a few odd angled limbs, even put one in a cast using some gauze he had lying around. 

Then, the birthday came, and handing them to Mikey felt like poison dripping into his gut. 

It was—kind of pathetic. Maybe, it just… was pathetic—the image of his gift in between his two older brothers’, but Mikey didn’t say a word about it. Only gave him a sloppy, gross, cheek kiss on both of his stripes. Only hugged him tightly. Only exclaimed a bright, sunny, I love you! and that was it. That was it because if Mikey didn’t like Leo’s gift, he didn’t show it.

Perhaps, that was what made it so much worse. 

“Dude,” Leo says, the curtain falling over his face, because his twin can read him like a book, like Leo can him, and that can’t happen anymore. That can’t be allowed to happen anymore. “You’re forgetting that I am good at some things. Basketball. Beachball.” Donnie visibly shivers. “And being an absolute charmer.” 

A wink flies across their room, slams into Donnie’s cheek, and flutters dead to the ground. 

“Scoff,” Donnie replies. “What charm?” 

“Are your glasses outdated? Maybe your head is too,” Leo quips back, crossing his legs on the bed. From a distance, he watches as Donnie’s tools move throughout the circuit board with a precision not often found in a nine-year-old kid, especially one with six fingers. “Put me in Princess Charm School and watch ‘em fall in line.” 

“That’s only if you won the lottery to be admitted.” 

“You could rig it.” 

“I could rig it.” Donnie pushes up his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “That, however, would only be possible if I first developed a method for interdimensional travel to the fictional franchise that is known as Barbie.” 

Leo curses under his breath. “Bummer.”

“Yes, ‘Nardo. Bummer.” 

It takes Donnie nine minutes to fix the GameBoy. Another three to assemble it. Placing his tools aside, he hands the GameBoy to Leo and says, “Inform me of any issues you come across. Not that there should be any.” 

Leo snags it from his grasp. He lifts the GameBoy against the ceiling light and his expression sparkles. He grins. “Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite twin?” 

Donnie deadpans, “I’m your only twin.” 

“Still my favorite—”

“I meant what I said before.” 

Leo lowers the GameBoy and turns, only to see Donnie staring directly at him, eyes flat, expression a blank slate. 

Donnie continues, “You have nothing to prove to anyone.”

Leo laughs. His heart tightens in his chest, but he makes sure to maintain eye contact. “Dude, I— seriously don’t know where this is coming from. Did you catch me crying in the bathroom or something?” 

“I didn’t have to.” 

Something lurches inside of Leo as if reeling from a blow that never hit its mark, and it takes everything he has to keep his gaze steady. Leo huffs. He toys with GameBoy with one hand and props himself backward with the other. “Dee, worry does not suit you. It’s kinda freaking me out so let’s just dial that down a bit.” 

Donnie frowns.

Leo briefly glances up at him, smiling. “Just leave that stuff to Raph. Can’t have two worry-warts in the family.” 

“‘Nardo—”

A faint electronic whine cuts through the room. 

“Aw, crap.” Leo sits up straight, swinging his legs off the bed. “What’d I do?” Fidgeting with the controls, his eyes narrow down at the GameBoy, whose screen is taken up with incoherent blocks of green. He looks up at Donnie nervously. “Uh. Might need that I.T. support right about now?” 

Donnie stares, half-lidded, tired. He looks like he’s going to find a way to rewire back to the conversation, his mouth hanging partly open, and Leo can see the rapid passing trains of thought in his eyes—in a pair of mismatched red and blue like his own, but after a moment, Donnie lets out a long sigh and Leo knows then and there. Donnie’s not going to push. He’s not going to push and Leo doesn’t know if he wants him to. 

Donnie extends his hand out. There’s a twitch of the corner of his mouth that speaks of his frustration for not fixing everything properly the first time, and so he says—shows his love in one of the only ways he knows how to, “Let me have a look.” 

The first time Dad had to cut their allowance, Leo didn’t really understand what that meant—was and has never been very literate with stuff like finances—but Raph did. Raph understood. He stepped up without anyone having to ask. 

When Raph was eleven, he started working upstairs after he saved up enough for a cloaking brooch. It would’ve been more convenient if he could just work in the Hidden City, without the fear of being discovered, but Dad made them swear they wouldn’t go down there unless absolutely necessary. So Raph made due. Even now, Leo’s not completely sure what his brother does—only knows that he’s responsible for carrying things around and that he comes home with sore muscles and tense shoulders. Leo has picked up a few books on massage therapy since then. 

Donnie was next. When he was a kid, he tried hacking into an ATM once, muttering something about never wanting to work a nine-to-five, but the second the alarms went off, then and there, he developed a phobia of—and Leo quotes—being kidnapped by the government for his amazing, unparalleled intellect. 

It wasn’t long after that Donnie figured out a lot of people would pay big bucks for both his skills and efficiency, and he has been doing freelance work ever since, designing programs and developing tech. It earns him a pretty penny, but it’s not something he enjoys. Leo has lent an ear—lent multiple ears multiple times to Donnie’s rants about rules and regulations and how he has to strictly abide by his commissioners’ requests. All easter eggs are unwanted. All bonus features are prohibited.

It’s a lid on his twin’s creativity, a line in the sand that says do not cross—do not aim for the stars, and as much as he hates it, Donnie takes the requests anyway. He does it for them. The money is for them, so every so often, Leo makes sure to drop a few hints here and there (he can’t ask directly, or else it’ll feel like a Chore) when he needs something and it rarely takes more than a day for Donnie, shiny and sparkly and thriving, to present him with a very purple, custom-designed, very-full-of-easter-eggs something. 

Apparently, the financial literacy in the family decides to skip over Leo entirely, because he’s ten when Mikey bursts into his room and says he wants to make an art portfolio.

“You’ve been drawing stuff for years,” Leo says, eyes pinned to his GameBoy, “You didn’t have one before?” 

Mikey jumps up and stomach-plants next to Leo on his bed. “I didn’t think I needed one, but…” 

Leo’s eyes dark over. He presses pause and pockets the GameBoy. “But…?”

Staring up at the ceiling, Mikey starts, “I think I want to open art comms—”

“Dude!” Leo whirls around and grins. “Yes!” 

Mikey blinks, sitting up. “You think I should?” 

Leo laughs, shoving him lightly. “Dad named all his sons after famous Renaissance artists. Don’t you think at least one of us should follow that path of stardom? Come on. I’ll help you choose what stuff to put in your portfolio.” 

He soon finds out that has always been the plan when Mikey immediately grabs him by the hand and drags him into his room, one with a floor already covered to the last square foot in drawings. 

Leo whistles. Mikey straightens nervously, but anxiety doesn't get a chance to bounce his leg because—

“That one!” Leo points curtly. “Oh, and that one—” he points again before both his hands come up to gesture widely at—“that entire row too.” 

“Leo,” Mikey giggles, “You can’t choose all of them.”

“And who says you can't? God?” 

“Reddit,” Mikey huffs. “The internet strangers say I gotta limit my razzmatazz to only twenty drawings. And you know the internet strangers are always right!” 

“Ha! Tell that to Dee. He'd get a brain aneurysm. But, sure. Listen to the Reddit dudes. Or—hear me out,” Leo loops his arm around Mikey’s shoulder, pulling him close, “you could do what I suggest and just go absolutely ham.” 

Mikey fidgets. “But I feel like I should pick more of my newer ones ‘cause those are better.” 

Leo blows out a breath. “Well, I’m not gonna be any help then ‘cause I literally can’t choose. They’re all amazing, Angelo.” 

Mikey stares at him with wide, round eyes before he half-tucks his head back into his shell, hiding a smile. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not!” Leo exclaims, offended. “The shapes and colors and whatever that makes art art—how do you do it?” He leans down to pick up a drawing. “I can barely draw a stick-man.” 

“‘I can’t tell you how to do it. You just have to know.’” 

Leo raises a brow at him and asks flatly, “Jeremy Clarkson. Really?” 

“That man is a national treasure!” Mikey exclaims. 

“Alright, touché.” Leo goes back to staring at Mikey’s drawings, picking one up and putting it back down to move on to the next. “No, but seriously. How do you… how do you do it? Choosing which colors to use, figuring out how to put everything together, making all the little details… I can’t imagine what your head looks like.” 

“Well,” Mikey kneels next to Leo—mulls over his answer as he looks down at his spread of drawings. “It’s usually just… a vibe? I know what I’m doing, but sometimes, it’s just natural. Instinct, I guess. When I get in the groove, I don’t even have to think about it.” 

Mikey turns to him and asks, “You get what I mean?” 

And Leo—doesn’t. He doesn’t get what Mikey means. He wonders if something has ever come to him as easily as art has to Mikey—if something ever will and if he’ll be okay if nothing ever does. He sits there. Poison pooling in his gut. Hydrochloric acid through his stomach lining. 

There’s a word for this, and it makes Leo want to pry open his ribs and reach into himself to tear that ugly thing out because there is no conceivable world where Leo resents his little brother. 

“Leo?” 

Mikey’s quiet voice yanks him out of the water and Leo blinks awake. There’s concern written in the crease between Mikey’s eyes, his gaze searching, but the faceman must have been called in at the last minute because he doesn’t seem to find anything. 

“You okay?” Mikey asks. 

For a moment, Leo doesn’t respond. Past the haze of memory, the blank spots of time, he thinks of the first time three-year-old Mikey ran up to him, tugging at his arm to show Leo his newest drawing, a scribble of blue and orange crayons. He thinks of the first time he taught five-year-old Mikey how to ride a skateboard. How tiny and unsteady his little brother’s hands were, clenched around his own, as Leo ran alongside him to make sure he didn’t fall, and how Leo swore then and there that he’d hold up the damn world for Mikey if need be. 

Leo looks at his little brother and sees someone he has loved all his life. 

It floods his senses, the all-consuming affection rushing forth to smother the poison in his gut, eroding its sting and pang—and it makes it natural, makes it so easy for Leo to smile and say, with all the truth in the world and then some, “I’m just really proud of you, Mikey.” 

By the time his words sink in, water to soil, Mikey lights up like the sun. 

Leo's ten and a half when he looks up just in time to see Donnie barreling into his room. (It’s important to note that ever since Donnie declared he needed a separate room, he has been barging into Leo’s space like a cigarette addict to nicotine.) There’s a cardboard box hefted under his arm, but Donnie doesn’t say a word—only settles onto the floor, places the box down, and asks, “Fancy a new activity?” 

Leo lowers his comic. “Why do you look like that?” 

The wide smirk on Donnie’s face doesn’t falter. “That’s just my face.” 

Leo blinks. “Okay…” he draws out the syllable before he adds, his eyes narrowing, “Just so we’re on the same page—why do you look weirder?” 

“Nonsense,” Donnie huffs. He begins to unbox and assemble his latest fixation. “One week ago, I discovered the remains of an abandoned chess set.” 

“And that is…?” 

“I’m so glad you asked, my dear brother,” Donnie replies. “Come, come.” 

Leo mutters a quiet, “Oh, boy,” before putting his comic aside and crawling down from his bed to sit opposite to Donnie. He tilts his head curiously. Before him, a black and white tiled board sits flat on the floor, as Donnie arranges strangely-shaped pieces on the two opposing sides. 

Once Donnie finishes, he coughs and begins, spreading his hands in a grandeur gesture, “Dating back a millennium—”

Leo props his arm on his knee. “You got a Sparks Note version?” 

Donnie gives him a look. 

Leo gives him the look back and throws up his hands. “What? I’m at the final battle of my Jupiter Jim comic. The least you can do is spare me the whole squeal.”

“Spiel,” Donnie corrects flatly.

“That’s what I said.” 

After an unnecessarily long, drawn-out sigh, Donnie spares him the mercy of going over the entire history of chess and then some and instead limits his explanation to the necessities. The rules. The pieces and their roles. The cans and cants. 

“Would you like me to repeat anything?” Donnie asks. 

Leo’s gaze remains stuck to the board, his mind a twist and turn of gears. He lifts his head to meet Donnie’s eyes. “Nah,” he smiles. “Let’s run it.” 

A coin flip turns the black pieces to Leo, and when Donnie grabs one of the smaller pieces—a pawn, Leo recites to himself—and slides it two squares forward, his response has Donnie pausing. 

After a moment, Donnie reaches out to take the pawn Leo just advanced. “An Englund Gambit? An interesting choice for a beginner, ‘Nardo.” 

“Moves have names?” Leo asks. 

“Of course, they do,” Donnie gasps, “Chess has style.” 

“Alright, priss.”

The game seems simple at first. Simple enough rules. Simple enough pieces, but with each move, it begins to dawn on Leo—the reality of the learning curve. 

Chess is an eight-by-eight battlefield. Thirty-two pieces. Sixty-four squares, and more possible combinations than stars in the universe. Leo doesn’t have to do the math to know. Attack your opponent’s pieces. Defend your own. Structure. Strategize. Sacrifice. Salvage. Fend for every square. Lick your wounds earned by past mistakes. It’s a war of plastic pieces over a checkered cardboard square and Leo has never felt more alive. 

Donnie’s good. That has always been guaranteed from the get-go. His twin is the smartest person Leo knows and will ever know. That’s definite. That’s a fact, but he’s making that face when he’s trying to recall something, rather than think of something, and that makes Leo incredibly suspicious. Donnie hesitates. He reaches out to pick a piece only to pull back, muttering under his breath, and it’s only when Leo manages to catch the words, “No, that’s not it,” does he realizes why. 

“You memorized it!” Leo shouts, pointing at him in accusation. 

Donnie blinks, eyes wide, mouth pursed—caught like a deer in the headlights. “Me? Memorize all the possible chess combinations up to a rapidly approaching point—no. No, I would never.” 

Leo shoots him a very impressed look. “Uh-huh.” 

“Yes-huh.” Donnie shoots a quick smile that falls just as fast as it went up. 

And that rapidly approaching point, Donnie mentioned? It does rapidly approach. It flies past them in four exchanges and when it does, Leo can see the change in Donnie’s eyes—a puzzle piece falling into place. He takes his time now. He doesn’t reach out to a piece unless he’s absolutely sure. He pins and threatens, defends and retreats when he can, and all Leo can think is, Yeah. This is what I’m talking about. 

Leo’s knight advances.

Donnie’s face sours as he exclaims, “You dare!?” 

“Oh, I dare alright.” Leo’s mouth curls into a smile. 

With a grumble, Donnie stares down at the board, muttering under his breath, “Stupid dum-dum; stupid fork—”

“A what?” 

“A fork,” Donnie repeats. He glances up at Leo and explains, “The move you just made. It’s when a knight threatens the capture of two pieces, simultaneously, and forces the opponent to decide which one is more valuable to them.” 

“Huh.” Leo blinks. “So, are there spoons?” 

Donnie groans. 

“Knives? Spatulas? Why don’t we keep this cutlery trend going?” 

“Oh, ha, ha.” Donnie glares, reaching forward to move his queen out of the line of fire, which prompts Leo to snatch up his undefended rook. 

They continue in silence. That is, if they exclude the seething glares Donnie keeps sending his way, because Leo swears, to the Pizza Supreme in the sky, they practically make hissing sounds. Donnie’s out for blood. He gets a taste of it a few moves down the road when he captures Leo’s bishop. 

At some point, Mikey pokes his head into their room—probably drawn in by the lack of noise, because they’re rarely ever quiet for this long. Now that he thinks about it, Leo has no idea how long they’ve been playing. 

From the doorway, Mikey catches sight of the chessboard and his eyes go wide and bright, joy in a realization, and he bounces over to saddle up against Leo’s side. “Who’s winning?” 

“Me,” they answer simultaneously. 

As the invisible timer goes on, white pieces pile up on the bench and black pieces dominate the remainder of the board. Donnie’s eyes are wild. He jumps between pieces, working his jaw, and the tension seems to teeter up up up to the ceiling before, with a reluctant grumble, Donnie tips over his king. 

“What’s that move called? Lemme guess: Julius Caesar,” Leo grins, hand already reaching out to capture Donnie’s unprotected queen. 

Donnie puts up a hand. “Hold, Leonardo. I forgot to inform you that the move I just made is to signify a draw between—”

“It says here that it means a surrender.” 

Leo and Donnie turn to see Mikey with his face buried in a chess pamphlet, the cardboard box pulled up to his side. Mikey holds up the page and points. “They call it tipping over the king. That’s a rad way to call losing!” 

Without moving their heads, Leo and Donnie’s eyes draw back to each other’s. 

“Oh? Oh?”

“‘Nardo, don’t—”

Leo’s mouth stretches into a smile, one that almost reaches past his eyes, as smugness bleeds into his expression like a tipped-over paint can. “Did the noob just beat the master?” 

“Memorizing all the chess openings does not make me a master—”

Leo stabs an offending finger at Donnie’s chest. “Ah, hah! So, you did memorize it—”

Donnie swipes away his hand. “You cheated!” 

“Dude, how did I cheat? I barely know how to play!”

“That’s exactly my point!” 

“He won fair and square!” 

“Gasp! My dear Angelo, were we not in arms?” 

Leo pouts, holding a hand to his heart in mock sympathy. “Hurts to lose, doesn’t it? It’s okay. You’ll get used to it.” 

Donnie lunges. 

It turns out to be a pleasant (?) surprise to the Hamato Family’s household when Leo claims chess as his thing. When he’s not goofing off or watching gross surgery videos, he’s dragging one of his brothers to the eight-by-eight board, asking for game after game, and they’ll indulge him for either two full matches or twenty blitz rounds before they throw in the towel. 

Mikey’s probably the one who plays with Leo the most. His little brother has no clue what he’s doing, but he makes up for it in brimming confidence and unintentional chaos, because if he doesn’t know what he’s doing, his opponent won’t either. He also has an exceptional poker face. He’ll make a blunder and stare you straight in the face, not an atom out of place, and against anyone else, he’d probably get away with it. Just not with Leo on the other side. 

If Mikey’s playstyle is chaos’ incarnate, Raph’s is a military tank whose brakes are jammed. He shoots first, thinks second. He captures pieces the second the opportunity presents itself, regardless of the position it puts him in, but he’s Leo’s go-to blitz opponent for that exact reason because it always ends up being a comedic mess of taking, taking, taking, and Raph doesn’t have time to worry about blunders then. He’s super obvious about those in normal matches. Gets all stiff. Starts sweating out his I-just-made-a-blunder stink, but it’s the rush of affection that makes Leo turn a blind eye. He gets to play with his older brother longer that way. 

It’s Donnie who makes Leo fight tooth and nail for his victories. His twin is sharp—cunning. He’ll go straight for the jugular if Leo’s even the slightest bit careless, and never once does he allow the win-streak go to his head. If Leo wants to keep it, he has to give it everything he’s got. 

(“Chip in your head?” 

“No.” 

“Cricket on your shoulder?” 

“Can crickets even play chess?” 

“Then, what could be responsible for this? 

“Ohhh. So, you can pick up a screwdriver once, get all Einstein—”

“I would prefer Mileva Maric.” 

“—and no one bats an eye. I beat you in chess a couple of times and suddenly, the world is ending.” 

“That is the gist of it, yes.” 

Leo snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. After a moment, hesitance and thought, he stares far off into the room and says lightheartedly, “Let me have this one at least, Dee.” 

Donnie glances at him. He must see something on his face because soon enough, he turns away, working his jaw. “I suppose it would be incredibly overpowered of me to succeed at everything I do… Very well. You may be allowed to be better than me at something.” 

“Oh, allowed, he says—”) 

Donnie doesn’t play against Leo as often as Mikey and Raph do. He’s got his lab, he’s got his freelance work, and he’s got his personal projects, but every so often, they find the time for a match. Their games always end up being the longest. It’s push or be pushed—the riptide that pulls you under, the fire at your heels—but it’s during those quiet hours when insomnia has a grip over them both, where he sits opposite to his twin across an old rotting chessboard once abandoned in the junkyard, that Leo thrives. 

It’s… almost weird. Off-putting. A fever dream. Being shown he’s got a thing for strategy—being naturally good at something that could be useful for once, because Leo has never been the strongest, the smartest, or the most talented, and living in a household where parental praise is scarce, Leo is starved. 

Leo gets a taste of it—one evening. The television is off when Leo walks into the living room, the worn-out chess set box clutched against his chest, and his Dad’s only just sliding down from his chair, a yawn pulling at his mouth. The second he turns toward him, the question for a game is already out of Leo’s mouth. His Dad blinks at him in surprise. 

Leo shouldn’t even be awake right now—it’s way past his bedtime, but he knows that his dad always stays up past midnight on Wednesdays to catch the airing of one of his telenovelas and Leo has never had a good relationship with sleep anyway. He prepares to be scolded. He prepares for Raph to wake up from his big brother senses and drag him to bed, flailing. Against his anxiety, neither happens. His Dad’s face only softens, and with a hand, he beckons Leo to the carpeted floor, and together, they lay out the pieces. 

His Dad doesn’t hold back. He plays nothing like Leo’s brothers or even the bots on the chess website. He’s patient, takes his losses gracefully, remains humble in his captures, sets up for the end-game, sees far more than he lets on—

When his Dad tips over his king, it’s like a thunderclap across the sky. It’s not a mercy win. He reaches over the board to pat Leo on the head, and he says, so full of love, so full of pride, “That’s my clever little Blue.” 

And for the first time in a long time, Leo’s happy to just be Leo. 

“When are you going to start being careful with your spendings, Leo?” Raph asks, following him to the kitchen. 

Leo turns to walk backward. He waves him off, a relaxed smile on his face. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Raphie. I am careful!” 

“Leo,” Raph says lowly, “You keep throwing away your cash on—on, on random stuff without thinking if you really need it! How much was that magic eight ball that you just bought?” 

“Eh, it wasn’t much.” Leo shrugs. “You should see the other stuff that I—er… never mind. And you’re forgetting that it’s my money.” 

“It’s dad’s allowance.” 

“Yeah.” Leo raises a brow as he opens the fridge to grab a soda. “That dad gave to me. So, it’s mine.” 

Raph frowns, crosses his arms, and replies, “You still have to be responsible with it, Leo! You know dad’s having a hard enough time as it is.” 

Leo hesitates, finger on the tab. With a quiet breath, the curtain falls, and Leo turns to Raph with amusement dancing across his expression. “I know, but what else should I be spending my money on? It’s not like any of us need to save up for school tuition or anything.” 

Raph continues, eyes narrowed, “Everyone else chips in to help with expenses. Donnie has his programming job; Mikey’s doing his art commissions; I’ve got my job. The least you could do is help out around the house, but you don't even do that!”

Leo smiles wryly, “Dee already has that handled with his tech—” 

“Leo, that’s not the point.”

The disappointment in his voice is a hot knife to Leo’s chest. Twisting, twisting—

“Alright!” Leo laughs, throwing up his hands. “I’ll get a job. Can we drop it? Let’s drop it.” 

His words barely make a dent in Raph’s frown, because instead, his older brother shakes his head and says in disbelief, “You still aren’t taking this seriously. You never do, Leo! You're always just talk.”

The faceman falls faster than Leo can catch it. 

The curtains are ripped away, torn fabric and façade, and whatever expression is on Leo's face by the time they fall makes Raph freeze, eyes going wide with a slow-bleeding horror. Raph reaches out. Leo is already stepping back. 

The ōdachi comes down between them. 

“Wait, Leo!” 

The ground gives way beneath Leo’s feet, gravity forcing down on his shoulders, and the last thing he hears is Raph calling his name as the portal takes him far, far away. 

Leo’s fourteen when he finds himself in the middle of a bustling street down in the Hidden City, hands tucked into his pockets, a hood cast over his head, laces untied. Passerbys shove and push at his shoulders as they walk by. Leo can’t find the fire to tell them off. 

The poison drips. It pools in his gut—fills up and continues where it left off last time Leo felt this way. The echo of Raph’s words clings to his shoulders like a vengeful ghost he can’t shove off, and geez: what he would give to learn about some exorcism voodoo right about now. 

Leo didn’t mean to come here—only meant to catch his breath, only asked his ōdachi to take him far from the reality he faced in the kitchen with the flickering light and the spoken shame. He wonders if Raph’s looking for him, having left his phone in his room because he had originally planned on going back. Now, Leo’s not so sure anymore. 

Cast in an afterglow of a sickly purple you would not find in the world far above, small houses pile on houses in the distance, structured and controlled chaos. Faces protrude from the walls and ceilings—carved screams, carved statues. Leo sticks his head in a few shops. Pokes around a stall or two, but the price tags have more zeros than he’s comfortable with, and the whole reason Leo’s even down here is because of a money problem—and just the thought pulls at his guts. 

It’s entirely by coincidence that he happens upon the board. 

Leo slows to a stop. The crowd continues without him. 

There sits an old rustic signboard, stationed just outside some random bar and a pawn shop, with papers plastered all over its surface, a clumsy competition for attention. Each piece of paper shares the same six bold letters. 

WANTED 

The zeros catch his attention faster than light. It’s like being kick-started—hot-wired. Navigating through the crowd, Leo surges forward to stand at the front of the board, eyes pulling it apart with their very line of sight, as a smile begins to pull at his mouth.

Greed pulls him toward the ones with the most zeros—the big Bads. Gravity to mass. Leo can imagine it now, strolling back into the lair with a bag’s worth full of coin and cash, seeing Raph’s face— 

You're always just talk.

Leo, he—he really does want to be the person he says he can be, wants to prove Raph wrong as much as he wants to make him proud, but what stops Leo from letting loose and grabbing the highest number he sees on the bounty board is the soul-gripping fear that wonders if Raph’s right. About Leo being just… There’s a good chance. Great chance, actually, because Raph has always served as a pillar for his brothers—has always led them forward with their best interests put first, his own second, and Leo thinks if the world ever ended, the first thing Leo would do would be to look to Raph. 

It terrifies him.

To realize that, for once, Leo wants Raph to be wrong. 

He should pull away. Forget about this stupid board. Turn on his heel. Go home. Portal if he can or walk if he must, because knowing Raph, he's probably been freaking out with worry and guilt ever since Leo left. 

Leo knows Raph didn’t mean to say those words aloud. That should make it hurt less. So why doesn’t that make it hurt any less? 

The poison pools. It eats away at him from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, splitting him down the middle into two halves, one that wants to go home and the other that never does, and it’s more than tempting to sway to the side that doesn’t involve him having to face the reality of his lack of—

Someone bumps into his shoulder. It jostles him awake—rips him from the vines, pulls him from the water, and he blinks wide-eyed as he realizes the deafening noise he’s been hearing in his ears is only his heartbeat. 

Maybe. Maybe he’s just overthinking this. Blowing things out of proportion. Making everything way more complicated than it needs to be and yeah. He should sleep on it. 

Leo draws in a shaky breath. He lets it out slowly, his thoughts and turmoil falling under the rumble of the flea market. 

Leo steels his gaze. 

He refocuses on a smaller poster, a bounty with way fewer zeros than the Big Bads. The request looks pretty fair. The paper’s also not as dusty and worn-out as the rest. That’s what makes it a winner. He’ll have an easier time with a newer bounty. Fresher tracks. Fresher witnesses. Low risk and low reward. Leo can handle this much. 

The paper’s snatched away before his very eyes. 

“What the—!” Leo steps back, arms flailing in surprise, as a hooded figure zips past him, a green jelly arm retreating under the cover of its cloak. He narrows his eyes after it. “Geez. Does anyone have manners these days—” 

Wait, wait. Back up. Hold that thought. 

Leo blinks and recalls the details fine-printed onto the bounty poster: target accused of malicious destruction of property, slime creature with jelly consistency, and green. 

A green jelly-armed dude just stole Leo’s poster. 

A grin splits straight across Leo’s face, the bounce of his feet picking up with each pound of his heart. “Hoo, boy… What a twist of events!” 

The ōdachi draws out with a hum of metal before he digs his heels into the ground and takes off. 

“S’cuse me! Sorry! Turtle coming through!” 

Humming Jupiter Jim’s opening theme, Leo weaves past and through the crowd, adrenaline pumping from his core to his limbs. He slips between yōkai, a thread through loops of needles, and lets his momentum carry him across the side of a merchant shop when a cart comes barreling toward him. He lets out a bright whoop. 

A decent distance away, Leo spots his hooded target. 

“Pizza money, you’re mine!” Leo trills, singing a smile. Gripping his sword, he slashes and dives into the blue the second it opens. 

He lands face-first in a dumpster a couple of meters from where he originally took off. 

Leo retches. Breathing from his mouth, he leaps to his feet and out of the dumpster, stumbles over a few garbage bags, and is about to continue his chase when he stops to pivot back toward the dumpster. He blinks, tilting his head. 

“Huh.” 

By the time Leo runs out of the alley and into the crowds of the bustling market, bouncing anxiously on his feet, eyes searching through the waves of yōkai, he is fortunate to learn that his dumpster-diving adventure didn’t set him back too far, because he spots a familiar figure just up ahead. The slow push of the crowd’s only going to delay him. Leo’s eyes wander up. 

The creature takes a sharp turn into an alley. The noise of the city falling to the backdrop, it swerves past trash cans and cardboard boxes and a weird-looking dog, and by now, the narrator would have usually started describing how they’re huffing and puffing for pacing purposes, but I’m not entirely sure slimes need to breathe, so I’ll just leave this here. 

Just as the creature rounds a corner, coming face-to-face with a dead-end, a whistle cuts through the air, shrilled. 

The creature whirls up to look at the sky. 

“Get boxed, blowfish!” Leo shouts, leaping down from the rooftop with an open garbage bag held above his head. He scoops the creature in one fell swoop. 

With deft hands, wrestling it closed, he ties up the bag and hauls it over his shoulder, letting out a little whoa, whoa, whoa as he wobbles, adjusting to the weight. Leo grins. Brushing away an imaginary wig of hair, he sings of glee to an imaginary audience, “See? I’m not always just talk— ew!” 

Leo jumps. Bends out of shape like how a cat would dodge a stranger trying to pet it. 

A shiver zipping through him, Leo sends an accusatory glare over his shoulder. “Dude. Did you just poke me?” Leo gasps. “That is so not cool. How much does slime sell for these days? Because I will sell you if it’s even a cent more than your bounty poster.” 

 It pokes him again. 

“Hola, mis hermanos!” Leo trills, striding into the common room with a pile of pizza boxes balancing against his chest. “Your UberEats order has arrived. Please ready your tip. I’m expecting 20% at the very least.” 

Mikey rides up the ramp, performing a kickflip when he hits the open air. He brightens the second he spots him. “Leo, you’re back!” 

Off to the side, Donnie sits in his beanbag chair, typing away at whatever game he’s currently fixating on, but he gives a brief blind nod in greeting. 

Raph, who had been pacing back and forth before Leo entered, whirls around, worry bright and sick in his eyes. Going by Donnie’s and Mikey’s demeanors, Raph didn’t tell them about their little squabble. “Leo, where have you been?! I called you like thirty times, but Donnie said you left your phone behind!” 

Leo salvages what’s left of his stageplay, the curtain falling fast over his expression. He smiles, wobbling on his feet. “Oh, y’know. Just around. Hey, hey, listen—” He places down the tower of the pizzas and props his chin on top. “You would not believe what happened,” he says, voice light with a laugh, “So, I was just walking around the park, minding my own bizz, and this guy—real sketchy too—comes sprinting at me. Full on sprint. And then there was this old lady hollering after him, yelling about a purse! And bingo! Tripped him. Befalled him. Saved the day.” He gives a bow and Mikey rolls by on his skateboard with enthusiastic applause and a bright whoop. 

Raph blinks. He says, as if not knowing where to start, “Oh. Wow, Leo, that was really nice of you.” 

“How totally not suspicious, he said sarcastically,” Donnie drawls, glancing up from his phone. “Did you take that script out of a comic book?” 

That’s enough for Raph to do an immediate one-eighty and Leo swears he could strangle Donnie for less than a piece of gum. “Hey, wait, Donnie’s right! That does sound very suspicious. What’s the catch?” 

“First off,” Leo raises a brow at Donnie, “You know I rarely ever read anything other than Jupiter Jim, and nothing in that franchise is as boring as saving a purse for some old lady. And second?” Leo steps back to wave erratically at the tower of pizzas he was just leaning on. “If I didn’t save that old lady’s purse and said old lady wasn’t so grateful to this very handsome young man for doing so, how would you explain me having enough money to buy all this pizza? Huh? Anyone? Nothing?” 

“Hmm, touché…” Raph hums, a hand to his chin. 

“Pizza toppings?” Donnie prompts. 

Leo waves a hand. “Relax. I didn’t order Hawaiian.” He grabs a slice and frisbees it to Mikey, who rolls down to the ramp to catch it in his mouth. He bends down, gets a hand under the pizza tower, and wobbles his way toward the kitchen. “I’ll leave these on the counter. Grab some when you’re hungry~” 

“You’re not going to eat with us?” Raph asks, taking a step after him. There’s an edge of care in his words, a question of a conversation they need to have, but Leo needs to ride this dopamine high for as long as he can before everything comes crashing down again. 

Leo doesn’t turn to look back as he says, “Nah. Had some on the way here.” 

Raph doesn’t stop him. 

After completing his pizza delivery, Leo escapes behind the curtains of his room. His eyes wander, searching. Jumping onto his desk with an accompanying whine of wood, Leo reaches up to the vent, pulls out the cover, and tucks away half of the bounty money he stashed in his pocket. He hides the rest under his mattress for easy access. 

Leo leans his ōdachi up against the wall and throws his hoodie into the laundry basket before sagging in his bed with a comic in hand. 

He doesn’t get a chance to open up the first page before there’s a knock at his door. 

Leo pushes up from the bed. “Who is it?” 

It’s not really a question he has to ask, because he can see Raph’s large shadow through the blue curtains, but his brother responds anyway, “Hey, uh, Leo… It’s Raph.” A pause. “Can I come in?” 

Leo really isn’t in the mood nor head space to be lectured twice in the same day, dread beginning to build up in his stomach, but it’s Raph and one thing Leo knows about his brother is that he’s persistent. Extremely so. In this moment, Leo can’t help but hate that about him. “Yeah, sure,” he ends up answering. 

Raph pulls the curtains aside and Leo stands, trying to get a headstart on the incoming scolding, and somehow, the words are already spilling out, out, out before he can stop them, “Hey, man. If you’re going to nag me about that stunt I pulled earlier, or… or that thing we talked about—I know, I know. I’m trying and I know I keep saying that but…”

Raph doesn’t say anything and all Leo wants to say is, 

Please, don’t give up on me. 

Raph takes a breath, and Leo prepares for it, chest tightening, bracing for the blow, and—

“I’m not here to nag you.” 

Leo blinks. Once. Twice. “Oh,” he starts. He doesn’t know if he should be relieved to hear that, the tension slipping off his shoulders and through his fingers as fast as falling sand, and he realizes then—that he may have mistaken the look in Raph’s eyes for disappointment. It's something he has gotten too used to seeing. “Then, what are you here for?” 

Raph’s mouth purses nervously as if he’s preparing to be yelled at, and that’s kind of ironic, because that’s how Leo feels right now. “What I said in the kitchen, I didn’t mean it. I just got really frustrated—” 

“At me,” Leo tries. 

“No!” Raph interrupts, eyes widening. “No, no, it’s—well, I guess, in the moment, I… was a little frustrated at you—just a tiny bit! But, then I said that and then you left and I got really scared and you weren’t answering your phone. I just—” His face crumples, as if trying not to cry. “I should have never made it seem like I thought you were selfish or inconsiderate, because I know you. You spend a lot of time learning medical stuff in case any of us get hurt. You help Mikey with making sure we meet our nutrition goals, you give one mean shoulder massage after I have a rough shift, and you, more than anyone, make sure Donnie doesn’t get away with not eating or sleeping, even if you have to snitch.” Raph looks at Leo, baring his heart out to him, his words spilling into the room as tangible as they are sincere. “I’m sorry, Leo,” he says at last. 

And Leo doesn’t—he can’t find anything to say to that, to address the relief that swells in his chest nor the doubt clawing it down, and it must show on his face because Raph doesn’t wait for a reply before he holds something out to him. 

Leo zeros in on the chess set. He looks back up at Raph in surprise. 

“Down for a game?” Raph smiles, nervousness bright on his face and strung across his frame. There’s a flicker of hope in his eyes. 

The ghost of their argument lingers, Raph’s apology hanging alongside, but Leo’s still the one who goes crawling into Raph’s bed during a thunderstorm, and Raph’s still the one who quietly asks for the coveted teddy bear bandaids when Leo’s patching him up. 

They’re brothers before the anger. They always will be. 

“Yeah,” Leo breathes, relaxing like a knot let loose, and the smile that pulls at his mouth is one that comes easy, and Raph must feel the same because relief bleeds into his expression at the sound of his answer. Leo goads, “Feeling confident today, huh?” 

“Got a few tricks up my sleeve,” Raph replies, grinning. “I asked Donnie for some tips.” He settles onto the floor, Leo mirroring him, and the two of them set up the pieces in a comfortable silence they would not have imagined was possible a few hours ago. 

Raph doesn’t win a single game.

He looks like the happiest turtle in the world. 

“Absolutely not,” Hueso says. 

Leo trails after the skeleton man, swerving past a waiter, “Come on, Señor! Just hear me out. It’ll take just a second.” 

Hueso collects a bill from one of his patrons, bidding a quiet farewell before he turns to Leo and stares him down. “And what exactly should I… hear out? From what I’ve heard so far, you have the ridiculous plan of hiding under the cover of working at my fine restaurant while you go off floundering off on… manhunts.” 

“If my brothers find out—” 

“Let me remind you that is not my problem.” 

“—they’d never let me hear the end of it.” 

“Like I, in this moment. See? Not a big deal.” 

“It’s just…” Leo starts, fumbling with his hands. “They’d worry. Or even worse: they’d want to come along. Both which I cannot have.” 

Hueso hums. “May I ask what is in for me? Because I will, in fact, ask. I do not wish for my restaurant to be associated with a bounty hunter, neither one that succeeds nor fails.” 

“I’ll wear a hood!” Leo exclaims. “It’ll be fine. No problem-o. Trust me!” 

“I’ve only known you for very little. There is no trust to be had.” 

“Okay. Fair,” Leo drawls, before turning to Hueso with a fire in his eyes, “How ‘bout this? What do you say we do a little trial run?” 

Hueso raises a brow. “A trial run?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Thirty-day subscription kind of thing. Cancel at any time.” Leo falls back into a seat of an empty table, crossing his legs. “You let me pretend to work here. I put up Run of the Mill advertisements all over the Hidden City when I’m on a job,” he explains, a sharp shine in his gaze to match his smile. “Business has been slowing down, no?” 

Hueso’s eyes narrow. “That’s preposterous.” 

“Oh, I don’t know…” Leo grabs a menu and makes a show of browsing it, fingers trailing along the print. “You marked up the price for the large pizzas just a smidge. You’ve been cutting down on shifts for your staff, and—” He glances up from the menu. “You’ve been dutifully giving customers coupons for bringing a friend…”

Leo swings his legs off as he stands from his seat, a bright grin on his face. “So, what do you say, Señor? Tenemos un trato?” 

Hueso works his jaw, mulling it over, but after a moment, he lets out a resigning breath and Leo knows he’s won. “Very well,” he says. Before Leo can start cheering, he adds hastily, “I, however, have two conditions. One: Do not bring any unsavory guests into my restaurant. Two: I will provide you with the flyers, but you are not to hang them near any law enforcement establishments. Is that clear?” 

And, oh—Leo can hear the quest start-up sound effect echo in his ears. 

There has never been a Lou Jitsu movie centered on bounty-hunting, which is probably why Leo didn’t get into this line of work sooner. It’s literally beating criminals up and getting money for it. Or at least, that’s what Leo hoped it was, because reality is rarely like fiction. Far from it, actually.

Leo learns first-hand that a single bounty asks for days of research and investigation, and even with a lead, he has to come up with a plan to act on said lead. His first catch was just beginner’s luck. 

Leo starts with the shallow end of the sea—easy low-risk low-reward targets—before he decides to jump into the deep end. He develops a routine. Teleport to Hueso’s, gather up the flyers, leave his phone behind (because only the Pizza Supreme knows if Donnie is tracking him twenty-four-seven), and takes off into the Hidden City, a black hood over his head and a red scarf drawn up to his nose. 

As much as he would love to say he has picked up this career like a fish to water, that would be a lie. This isn’t a video game. Leo can’t just get hit, watch his health bar go down, and carry on like nothing ever happened, because not a single one of his targets goes down without a fight and Leo doesn’t expect them to. 

First, it’s a twenty-pound fist to his sternum. Second, a two-inch laceration on his bicep. Third, a heel to his hip. It builds up—the injuries, and Leo doesn’t get all of them from just his bounties. His ōdachi sends him into walls. Down two stories. Into a nest of very, angry, mystic insects, and in one instance, he nearly takes off a leg when he prematurely closes a portal. If he’s going to do this long-term, he can’t keep letting this happen. 

All that doesn't even factor in how Leo has to function on a single limb when he is used to having four. Three brothers who watched his back at all times. Covered his gaps. Supported him when he fell. Leo has no failsafe here. Only he, himself, and a power he can’t even control. 

But he needs to get better. He needs to be able to do at least this much by himself, because if not— 

It takes his brothers two weeks for them to notice something’s up. 

It’s evening when Leo arrives home. A tower of Run of the Mill pizza balances in his hands, and Leo doesn’t even flinch when Raph corners him at dinner with his arms crossed and wow, that is Big Brother mode if he’s ever seen it. 

“Okay. ‘Fess up, Leo,” Raph narrows his eyes, “No way one old lady gave you enough money to buy this much pizza.” 

Leo shrugs. “To be fair, she was a really nice lady.” 

The look that Raph gives Leo next is one even he knows not to trifle with. 

“Well, don’t I have a surprise for you?” Leo asks, a grin sliding smoothly onto his face. “Gents and gents, you are looking at a proud employed waiter of Run of the Mill Pizza.” 

“You work for Hueso?” Mikey exclaims. 

Leo stands to give a grand bow. “The one and only Italian skeleton man. And you know what that means!” 

Mikey throws his hands up into the air, smiling brightly. “Free pizza!” 

Leo sits back down, leaning back in his chair. “Okay, okay. Well, not exactly free pizza. He’s still gotta save up for Junior’s tuition, you know, and considering how much we spend on his pizza, he definitely doesn’t want to lose out on those earnings. But…” Leo draws out, a smug smirk on his mouth. “I do get a discount. Ten percent.”

Who is he kidding? He pulled that number out of his ass. Hueso makes him pay full price. 

Raph replies, “Pretty stingy, I’ll say.” He grabs a slice and a chair by Leo. 

Leo shrugs. “Hey! It’s better than nothing. That’s bound to stack up, right, Dee?” 

Donnie looks up from his device and says. “If we estimate based on our average consumption rate, with a ten percent discount, we would save—” He stops and looks to Raph. “The number will scare you.” 

Raph shakes his head, blinking quickly. “Yeah, don’t say it. Good idea.” 

“So, it’s a big W,” Mikey cuts in with a smile. 

“Ain’t it?” Leo laughs. 

Reaching across and around Leo’s shoulders, Raph gives him a little noogie, wrestling him still. “That’s my little brother! But how’d you even land the job? You? Working customer service?” 

Leo yanks himself out of Raph’s hold and asks, a hand over his heart in mock offense, “Are you kidding? Señor Hueso loves me. That and he knows my looks would pull customers from all around the Hidden City.” 

Mikey giggles. “They better be tipping good. Twenty percent at least!” 

“Sorry, Angelo,” Leo shakes his head with a dramatic sigh, “You can’t put a number on these looks.” 

The family gathering is cut short when Donnie stands, excusing himself with a pizza box clutched in one of his metal hands, and Mikey trails after him, half a slice of pizza in his mouth, as he garbles out, Can we watch the Lost finale? 

That leaves Leo and Raph in the kitchen. 

Leo makes to get up, quite full of cheese and pepperoni himself, when Raph stops him with a hand on his shoulder. 

Leo blinks, owl-eyed at his brother. “What’s up, big guy?” 

Raph looks at him, searching his face, before a warm smile pulls at his mouth. “Just wanted to say I’m proud of you, Leo.” 

It’s—it’s out of nowhere. Kind of. Not really now that Leo thinks about it. He knows his brother well enough to know that he’s undoubtedly still feeling a bit guilty for their argument, but he shouldn’t be! Leo will turn things around. He has already started. 

If Leo had been who he was before, those four words would have made him the happiest turtle in the world for making his brother proud. He can just imagine it. His chest swelling. The smile stretching across his face. The surge of dopamine rushing through his system and Leo waits, but it never comes, because how could it—when Leo is lying straight to his face. Raph’s. His family’s. It takes everything Leo has to withhold a wince, to swallow the confession bubbling up in his throat, to pull back the little kid hiding the hurt under bruises and bandages who wants to jump into Raph’s arms to be carried up to bed. But Leo’s not that kid anymore. 

“...About bringing home pizza?” Leo asks, brows furrowing, even though he knows exactly what Raph means.

“About stepping up,” Raph says, squeezing his shoulder before letting go. “I’m proud of you,” he repeats. 

The guilt hits in a second wave, wringing Leo’s lungs like they’re some kind of washcloth, and Leo smiles, hoping it reaches his eyes. “Thanks, Raph.”

According to the compilation of yoga videos Leo has watched, it’s all about finding a balance. 

Leo still skateboards. Plays basketball. Fools around with his brothers—those are all givens, but when things are quiet, when Raph’s out working, Mikey’s Van-Goghing, and Donnie’s buried in the dark, evil shadows of his lab, it’s side quest time. 

He learns how to stitch wounds. He watches educational surgery videos, and he maps out hidden routes and shortcuts of the Hidden City—New York too, because Leo learns that wanted yōkai often run to the surface to escape their own kind, which is pretty ironic considering what the yōkai had to do years ago to escape humanity. 

When he’s not doing any of those activities—

Instinct rips Leo down to his knees before a flurry of porcupine needles pierce the wall where his head used to be. He pursues. Weaving through the crowd, he slashes his ōdachi down, jumps through the materialized portal, and ends up four roofs off from where he meant to land. 

It’s only because his catch takes a wrong turn that Leo returns home with a tower of pizza.

The next day, he finds another lead on one of his other cases. 

Minotaur. Identified by a burnt sigil running from the sternum to around the nape. Has half a horn. Has more—way more brute strength than he would like, Leo thinks, as he tries blocking the incoming fist with a hasty arm. The pain is first to register. The blunt jolt of force. It shoots through his arm, splitting down the bone like a crackle of lightning, and Leo knows something’s wrong the second he flies back from the impact, heels skidding through the soil. 

It’s through the cost of his blood, sweat, and tears to buy enough time for the tranquilizer to work—the last out of five that Leo managed to get through the minotaur’s skin. He portals his catch to the station. 

Post-cash-in, a quick check of his arm tells Leo it’s a hairline fracture, at least from what he can guess. It’s not that serious. He has walked off worse. He will walk off worse.

Leo goes to Hueso’s. Grabs his leftover gear and phone. Returns home and tends to his wounds and lets a hot warm shower be his only relief—reviews what he did wrong and reviews how he can be better because he’s been lucky. He’s been way too lucky, and Leo can’t rely on luck.

Not for this. 

“What’s the plan?” Donnie asks, stepping forward to lean on his tech-bo. 

Raph’s eyes narrow under the darkness. He slams his fists together and answers with a toothy grin, “Drop in. Drop down. Punch our way out.” 

“Why are you speaking in weird haikus?” 

“Actually, Michael,” Donnie starts, and in the background, Leo adjusts a pair of imaginary glasses and Mikey struggles to stifle a laugh behind his hands. “A haiku has the rhyme scheme of five, seven, five. What Raph composed would be considered more on the side of contemporary poetry, if poetry at all.” Then, he deadpans and deflates. “As for the plan, that’s on me for expecting a different answer.” 

“C’mon!” Leo reaches behind his back, ignoring the pull of his sore muscles, and draws his ōdachi from his back. He walks forward to teeter on the edge of the storage container, dangling a foot over, tilting, tilting. “You heard the boss. Drop in. Drop downnn~” 

Gravity takes hold of Leo, wind flying past as he hurtles to the ground with a loud whoop. A split second later, his brothers follow suit, yelling, “Cowabunga!” 

It’s routine. Observe the bad guys. Crash the party. Take names; kick ass (“Leo!”). Meat Sweats and Repo Mantis’ little alliance, lowercase a because they’re not all that, hardly stands a chance. 

Leo ducks under a pair of green claws. Gets up only to parry a flurry of slashes. He snags Repo by the ankle with the blunt side of his blade, sending the insect tumbling, but not before the mantis lashes out. Leo sees it before it happens. A claw slams into the flat of Leo’s blade, a shrill of metal piercing the air as Leo grits his teeth, pain searing up his arm.

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Give a guy a second to warm up! 

“Donnie!” Leo shouts, leaping away. 

A whirl of machinery hums through the port terminal as a purple dot darts across the night sky. Donnie hovers down, his propellers guiding him to an inch above the ground. “Nine-one-one, how can I help you?” Donnie asks flatly. 

Repo staggers to his feet. He bares his teeth, lunging, but Donnie slides a finger over his tech-bo, and with a hum of power, a barrage of purple light shoots across the width between them, and Repo flails away screaming. 

Leo swallows, tasting the dryness of his throat. His arm throbs with a lingering soreness, but his other hand comes up to anchor on Donnie’s shoulder. For a moment, he leans his weight onto his twin. 

“‘Nardo?” Donnie turns to him, worried. “Have you been injured?” His forehead creasing, his arm reaches up, ready to pull his goggles down to do a body scan, but Leo can’t have that—

“Pawn to C4.” 

Donnie stares at him, owl-eyed. 

Leo smiles, winks, and with a swipe of his sword, a portal rips itself open from beneath his feet, plummeting him into the white-blue. It spits him back into the fray.

For a moment, Donnie hovers there, still, before his expression darkens, fingers tightening around his tech-bo. “Oh, I am going to strangle you,” Donnie hisses. He shoots straight after Leo. “Pawn to E6!” 

Leo makes a show of contemplation, dodging a horizontal slice of Meat Sweats’ cleaver. “Knight to F3.” 

“Is this really the time to be playing chess?!” Raph scolds, throwing Repo Mantis across the junkyard only to lunge after. 

Leo’s laugh bounces off and around the storage containers. “No better time!” 

“Pawn to D5.”

“Pawn to D4! Hey, Dee, we should just skip the opening phase. Dive straight into the middle game.” 

“That would be most logical if we only used a specific opening. I like to vary my options.” 

“Why? You’ll lose anyway.” 

“Leo, I will test my new high-frequency laser on you if you don’t—Gah!” Donnie flies back as Repo’s spike comes sailing down over his head. 

“You think you can fool around right now?” Repo spits.

Donnie whirls through a series of hits, deflecting and dancing past with a spin of his tech-bo. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he sings, an amused glint in his gaze. “A brawl with you hardly requires a significant delegation of our attention span. Knight to F6!” 

Repo huffs, “You’re an asshole, you know that?” 

Donnie preens. “Oh, I try.” 

Repo lunges forward only to be tackled by one very angry red turtle. 

“You tell him, Dee!” Leo laughs from across the yard. He weaves through the brash lashings of Meat Sweats' cleaver. “Knight to C3!” 

“Yeah, you tell him!” Mikey reinforces, swinging down on his chain, leg extended in a kick, but when Meat Sweats rears his cleaver back, Mikey yelps, wide-eyed, bracing for the blow, but before the cleaver can even get into range, a portal swallows Mikey whole and spits him out in Meat Sweats’ blindspot. Still carrying his momentum, he kicks the guy into a storage container and shouts, “Hot Soup!” He smiles at Leo. “Thanks for the save!” 

“Neon Leon at your service!” Leo winks, resting his ōdachi on his shoulder. 

Across the yard, a portal takes Raph away from a swipe of Repo’s claws and chucks him out after a time delay, allowing him to nail Repo in the chin with a punch. With a whirl of purple, Donnie shoots another round of lasers. A portal shutters to existence, drinking up the blasts, and redirects it around Repo in a raining ring of fire. 

Mikey watches the brawl, eyes sparkling, “Your portals have been getting super good, Lee!” 

Leo shrugs, walking backward into a new portal. “I have been practicing—what can I say?” It spits him right into Meat Sweats’ kick and he goes flying. 

“Leo! Nooo!” Mikey grabs at his face. “I shouldn’t have jinxed it! What did his horoscope say?!” 

Donnie cries, “‘Nardo, oh no! Does that mean I win—”

Leo stumbles to his feet, massaging his ribs. He heaves, practically hearing the croak of his own bones with each breath, but he manages to laugh a quick, “Dude, I’m waiting on your move.” 

“Bishop to E7,” comes Donnie’s answer. 

With a cry of war, Meat Sweats lunges at him, but with only five steps away from Leo, he's promptly kicked in the head by a flying flash of familiar orange. Mikey lets the momentum rebound himself off his head, landing in place with a flip. “Whoop, whoop!” he grins. “Sniped, sucker!”

Leo sucks in a breath before he walks over to give Mikey a fist bump. “Nice, Angie!”

The both of them turn just in time to see Raph sending Repo flying into the river. Meat Sweats, on the other hand, wobbles to his feet, shakes off the nausea, lets out the average villainy departing line, and books it out of the port terminal. 

The dust settles, the quiet too, and Raph and Donnie walk up to them. 

Raph massages his wrist, rolling the joint, Leo staring at the motion sharply, as he asks, “That it?” 

“Think so!” Mikey replies, gaze drawn to where Meat Sweats took off from, and he sighs longingly, “I still didn’t get his autograph…” 

With the press of a button, his tech-bo shrinking to its regular, unassuming form, Donnie looks to Leo and says, flat-eyed. “It’s your move.”

Leo opens his mouth to respond when Raph cuts in, “Guys, that’s enough. We gotta get back to the lair. It’s getting late. Come on! You can finish the game later!” Without a pause, Raph leaps his way up to the top of the storage containers, Mikey following. 

The twins stare after them.

Leaning toward Donnie without turning his head, Leo whispers, “Bishop to—” 

“Leo!” 

Leo throws up his hands, turning on his heel. “How does he hear that!?” 

“You should hear what they’re calling you,” one of the Hidden City’s police officers says one day when Leo portals in, carrying a captured witch in tow. 

“I have a name? A bounty hunter name?!” Leo asks, owl-eyed. He pulls his scarf higher in order to hide the smile on his face, but judging by the officer’s expression, he’s not doing a good job at it. 

The officer chuckles. Another two come by to take the witch away, and Leo gives a little wave as she goes. She flips him a very bad finger. “Well, you haven’t told anyone your actual name,” the officer says, fetching Leo’s reward from behind the counter, “That’s just a green light for someone to make one for you.” 

“So, what is it?” Leo asks. He takes the wad of cash from the officer and tucks it into his dimensional coin. “It better be something cool.” 

The officer only smiles at him. 

“Oh, come on,” Leo leans forward across the counter, practically kicking his feet, “You aren’t gonna tell me?” 

Making the motion of zipping his mouth shut, the officer salutes him and walks off with a laugh. “I’ll see you next time, kid. Bring some bigger fish the next time you’re here, huh?”

Leo narrows his eyes, trying to burn holes in the officer’s back. “Oh, I’ll show you bigger fish.”

Raph was onto something when he got a job at eleven. He makes his own money. He gets to do what he wants with it, and Leo wonders why Raph didn’t tell him that sooner. Geez, share the dopamine. 

It’s like rising from sludge when Leo awakens after hearing his name called from a few rooms over. He pulls himself to the edge of his bed. A quick glance under the sleeve of his hoodie tells him that his wound reopened while he was sleeping, going by the blood seeping through the bandages, but he doesn’t get a chance to change them when—

“LEO!” 

—his name comes again. 

Vision swimming, body aching, Leo downs a tablet of ibuprofen dry and drags himself out of his room and past the curtains. 

It takes less than ten steps to realize what is happening. 

Raph’s room is in full view. Well, kind of—if you can count the room-sized teddy bear taking up the entire thing as a full view, and when Raph whirls around, he is sparkling. “Did you get this for my birthday?” 

The calendar on Leo’s wall had been dutifully counting down to one of the four most important days of the year (minus Lair Games because that’s a whole different genre of day), and Leo had spent a couple of weeks saving up for it: a giant mystic teddy bear that both warms up in the winter and cools down in the summer.

“It heats up?!” Raph exclaims. 

“Yep,” Leo grins, “Was a pain in the—rear to sneak it into your room last night, but oh my god.” Leo doubles over with a short-lived laugh. “The look on your face! So worth it.” 

Raph’s face falls, turning to glance back at the teddy bear before returning to Leo’s gaze. “Leo, this must have cost a lot. I know you get tips and all at Hueso’s, but… are you sure?”

Leo’s eyes soften. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he says. 

Leo doesn’t get a second to even brace for it before Raph lunges forward, bundling him up into his arms like they’re kids again, and Leo would probably appreciate it more if his wounds weren’t screaming for Raph to let go.

“I love you so much, Leo!” Raph cries, squeezing. 

The words bloom this unexplainable warmth in his chest, weaving through his lungs and cradling his heart. Leo’s arms come up and around to anchor on Raph too, and somehow, he finds the strength to say, with so much love it drowns out the hum of pain, just for a moment, “Happy birthday, Raph.” 

The second the portal spits him out, Leo is already weaving through the departing customers and striding up to the cashier. “Hola, Señor! Me extrañaste?” 

Standing on the other side of the counter, Hueso shoots him a dead stare before he sighs and says slowly, enunciating each syllable, “Tu pronunciación necesita algo de trabajo, Pepino.” 

“But it’s gotten better?” 

Hueso hums. “It has.” 

“Yes!” Leo grins, pumping his fist, before he says, “I know you’re almost closing but could I—”

“Wait here,” Hueso interrupts. 

Leo watches Hueso retreat to the kitchen without another word. It takes him less than a minute for him to return with a tower’s worth of pizzas, rolled forward on a trolley. 

“Señor Hueso for the win!” Leo exclaims. He reaches into his med-pack for his coin, but Hueso holds up a hand, making him pause.

“No need.”

Leo blinks. “Sorry?” 

Hueso adjusts his tie before gesturing to the breadth of his restaurant and Leo’s eyes jump from occupied booths to occupied tables. “Your… trial run proved effective. I’m only repaying a debt.” 

Leo raises a brow, standing straight. “I mean, it was already a symbiotic relationship—”

Hueso rolls the cart back an inch and snaps, “I will give them to someone else if you do not want them then.”

“No!” Leo shouts, lunging forward to pick up the pizza boxes. “No, I’ll take them! Thanks, Hueso. You’re the best. Really.” 

Hueso studies him quietly, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes dart down to Leo’s arm where his sleeve has slipped down to reveal his bandages. When he looks up at Leo, there is something soft in his gaze. “Hurry home, Pepino. Your brothers are waiting for you.” 

(“Señor, you didn’t tell me you are a wanted man!” 

“Is there a reason you are shouting that at the top of your lungs in my restaurant?”) 

“So, what do you want for your birthday?” 

Mikey hums, staring up at the alley wall. “You don’t have to get me anything. You already get me a lot of stuff. Can I have the yellow?” 

Leo exchanges a yellow spray can for the one Mikey’s holding before he sits back on the plastic storage crate. Mikey reaches up to spray crisscrosses of gold. He’s wearing a mask but Leo can tell he’s doing that thing where he’s sticking out his tongue in concentration and Leo doesn’t fight to keep down the rush of affection swelling up in his chest. 

Leo hums. “What about spray paint of every possible hex code?” 

Mikey only laughs and glances over his shoulder. “Dude. That’d be crazy.” 

“Oh, you think I’m kidding?” 

Mikey’s expression drops. “Wait, what? Two shades of one color is enough. Three is like—the max.” 

Leo shrugs. “If you say so…” 

“That’s—no, seriously,” Mikey turns around fully, taking off his mask. “Leo, I don’t think I need that many. Really. If I think of something I want, I’ll text you, okay?” 

“Okay.” Leo smiles, winking. “But remember what happens if you don’t.” 

The sun begins to rise, taking hold of the sky with a fading blue and a growing orange. Mikey continues on undeterred, walking around and reaching up to add an arc of paint here and a blotch of paint there. He asks for a color and Leo hands it to him. He’s a master at work, and it’s only when dawn’s light spills into the alley, casting a glow over the mural, that he stops and steps back. 

Leo stands, his eyes drinking up the painting before him: four turtles side-by-side, wearing unique bandanas of color, carrying unique weapons of choice, and as a smile pulls at his mouth, he glances at Mikey and says, “You made your big brothers look so damn cool.” 

Mikey smiles up at him. “That’s just how I see you guys.” 

Leo gets a supplier down the road: Threl. Nice gal. A little weird. Leo has no idea what kind of yōkai she is, because she constantly wears a white cloak that covers her entire frame, a hood drawn up to her ears, and the mask on her face makes sure no one knows her identity. Makes sense though. She does sell a bunch of illegal shit. 

Threl sells him a steady supply of auto-locking handcuffs, rope, a compactable first-aid kit, and budget versions of those capture devices that the police force uses. It’s a dent in Leo’s wallet, yeah, but he’s gotta spend money to make money. 

“Mystic metal?” Threl asks, a confused lift to her voice. “And you need that much… May I ask why?” 

Leo answers, leaning an arm onto the counter, “It’s a gift for my brother. I don’t know what he’ll do with it, but he said he wants some, so here I am.” 

Threl stares. It’s more eerie because Leo can’t read her expression with the mask. Leo’s mask came built-in. “It’ll cost you,” she says.

“You want it all upfront?” Leo asks, already taking out his coin from his med-pack. With a quick press of his thumb against the face of it, five wads of cash drop onto the counter. 

Threl whistles. With a hum of magic, the money pulls back and under the counter. “You’ve been busy.” 

“Yeah, well. I’m kind of good at this thing,” Leo smiles. 

“Perhaps, you are getting a bit too good,” Threl says. “You have to be cautious. You’re only targeting the small fish as of now, but if you wish to aim deeper, you have to tread carefully.” 

“Har, har. I know what I’m doing,” Leo says. “So, can you help a friend out?” 

“I wouldn’t have taken your money if I couldn’t. As tempting as it may be,” Threl huffs. “You, also, insult me. I have a very extensive inventory. Of course, I have mystic metal. A great quantity of it.” 

“Fantástico!” 

Threl drifts over a tablet, one with a sigil burned into the flat of its surface. 

As Leo pockets the tablet, Threl says softly, tilting her head in curiosity, “Your brother is very lucky to have you.” 

“Nah.” With a zip of his med-pack, Leo looks up to meet the two holes of Threl’s mask and smiles, chest tightening. “I’m the lucky one.” 

Leo’s scrolling away on his phone, lying on the cold, cool floor of Donnie’s room when Donnie says, “I’m planning to invest most of my assets into long term stocks.” 

Leo cranes his head to look up at Donnie’s chair. He sits up. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

Donnie spins around. He stares. 

Leo stares back. “Dude, I can’t read your mind.” 

“Says the one who claims we are twins.” 

“I can read your mind when it comes to stuff like world domination, not financial jargon.” 

“Good to know,” Donnie says, intertwining his hands. “What I am saying is that I would like to invest my savings into stocks for the long term, but I am consulting with you beforehand because I wanted to ask if you would be comfortable handling my portion of the household expenses in my stead.” 

Leo blinks. “Yeah. Sure.” 

Donnie raises a brow and asks, “That’s it?” 

Shrugging, Leo goes back to lying on the floor. “Yeah. That’s all you were worried about?” 

“I wasn’t worried.” 

“Oh, I forgot to mention that’s one of the things I can read off your mind. You were worried.” 

Donnie huffs, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Anyhow, are you certain?"

“Dee, I got it. It’s not that big of a deal,” Leo replies casually, turning his phone horizontally to watch a Youtube video. 

“We’re growing boys and growing boys need to eat.” 

“Food’s not that expensive—”

“For now! ‘Nardo, have you seen the inflation rates?!” Donnie exclaims, spinning around to slam down a button on his keyboard. His monitors go alight with all sorts of—

“Graphs?” Leo props himself up on an elbow. 

Donnie shakes his head. “They are not simply graphs. They are graphs that display the rising costs of grocery items. They are my predictions of the future. Have you seen the price of Greek Yogurt?! It’s abysmal…” 

Leo stifles a laugh. “Okay, okay. I still got it though. I just need to cover your portion, right?” 

“Yes,” Donnie confirms. His voice takes a lower tone as he starts tentatively, “I know you would like to spend your money on more lavish things, such as—”

“Nah.” Leo jumps to his feet, walks over to Donnie’s desk, and leans back against the edge. He smiles. “I got us now. You got us later?” 

Donnie blinks, wide-eyed, before a smile comes up to match Leo's. “That’s the plan.” 

Leo chokes on a scream as he pops his shoulder back into its socket. He heaves, hunched over. Sweat drops down his forehead as he grits his teeth, pushing up off the ground just to wobble on his feet. His hand presses against the flesh of his shoulder. 

He takes a minute to catch his breath. Blink back the tears. Pull himself together because he can’t be doing this—

“You’re going to get yourself killed, kid.” 

Leo lifts his gaze, a sharp quip ready on his tongue to cut, but when he does not see what he expects to see, it dies before it even gets a chance to be spoken.

His catch sits ten steps away. They’re dragged up against the wall, the net of the capture device holding them still. Blood drips down the side of their face. 

They stare at him not in resentment. Neither bloodlust nor helplessness, but a quiet sympathy that somehow sours his heart more than any of his current wounds. 

It’s true. 

Their words are true, and only a small, smothered part of Leo knows that they are. 

The current has carried him out to sea. 

“One of my employees quit,” Hueso says to him after closing.

Sitting at one of the booths, one end of a string in his mouth and a needle in his hand, Leo looks up from his arm and raises a brow. “Okay?” 

“Yes,” Hueso says stiffly. He works his jaw, eyes dropping to Leo’s wound, before he sighs, making a gesture for Leo to move over. “Allow me.” 

Leo blinks. Glances at the needle and then back to Hueso. “Uh, Señor… No offense, but I don’t think you have a lot of experience with stitching skin—”

“I have a brother,” Hueso says, “and I have the experience of having to deal with the consequences of his ridiculous actions.” 

“You?” Leo gapes. “Have a brother? With skin?!” 

“Are you going to move?” Hueso deadpans. 

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” 

Hueso settles into the booth beside Leo, taking the thread and needle into his fingers. Leo winces as he does a loop. “As I said,” Hueso begins, “One of my employees quit without notice, so I am asking if you would be interested in being a waiter.” 

“Oh,” Leo starts, gaze darting around before he settles on, “I’m kind of employed right now…” 

“I'm aware.” Leo flinches under a sharp glare. “Employed to a very inconsistent, unreliable, and dangerous lifestyle,” Hueso stresses. “Thus, I am offering you a job. You may work part-time. However, if you would like, I could employ you full-time.”

Leo’s mouth moves faster than his heart. “I don’t think you need to go this far—” 

“Once a week, then,” Hueso says. 

“But—”

“This Saturday. I need someone to cover an evening shift,” Hueso says, doing another loop. “Humor me, Pepino.” 

Leo laughs. “What changed? At first, you wanted nothing to do with me. Am I growing on you or something?” 

“Perhaps.”

The answer is so unexpected that it knocks the air out of Leo’s lungs. His eyes go wide. Something warm, gentle, and subdued blooms in the midst of his chest, behind his ribs, behind his sternum. It settles there and does not budge. 

Hueso finishes up the stitches, fetches the antibiotic ointment from Leo’s med-pack on the table, and begins applying it with care. “Besides,” he begins, “Do you think you can continue hiding under this cover as is? Customers need to see that you work here. My word alone will not be enough to satisfy your brothers—especially the purple one.” 

Leo doesn’t reply.

“You do not want to tell them,” Hueso says as a fact, turning to face Leo, “I will not make you, but I am not so cruel to let you continue as is. You can work here any time you wish. Perhaps then, you will see that the path you are on is not the only one.” 

“Where did you get that?” 

Leo turns and grins, lifting the object to eye level, “One of Hueso’s new menu items: the slug supreme—” 

“No.” Donnie reaches out and tugs Leo’s sleeve down. “This.” 

The bandages under his arm are brought under the glow of the kitchen light, and a lie is already spilling out, a train of thought building up, “Oh, this? I totally forgot to tell you.”

Leo pulls away. 

Donnie’s hand drops.

“There was this dog man.” To be fair, it really was a dog man. 

“Uh-huh.”

“And onions are toxic to dogs, but the guy orders a French Onion pizza. Footnote. I didn’t take his order. I would have told him against it. Anyway, lemme tell you: he had a bad time. He started attacking the staff.” Except, said staff was Leo. “Got me by the arm.” 

“The extent of the injury?” 

Leo waves him off, pulling his sleeve back down. Donnie’s eyes follow the moment. “Barely skimmed me.” 

“Due to Draxum’s ooze, we have an accelerated healing factor. If you claim that it,” Donnie air quotes, “‘barely’ skimmed you, that much wrapping would be unnecessary.” 

“Oh, are you the doctor?” 

“If you need me to list off my PhDs—” 

“Medical doctor.” 

“You didn’t specify.” Donnie leans back on a leg, crossing his arms. “How bad was it really?” 

Leo looks away. “I’ve had worse.” When the glare doesn’t lessen, he whistles. “Alright, it… it wasn’t exactly shallow. Cut close to the bone, but it was a lucky spot.” 

“Oh, really?” 

“...It might’ve nicked my radial artery, but that’s all, I swear!” Leo says defensively. 

Donnie studies him for a second before sighing. 

“Please, don’t tell Raph!” Leo latches onto Donnie’s arm and pleads, “You know how he gets.” 

“I know how he gets. Did Hueso see to your injury? He also better have compensated you well for that, and was defending against customers included in the job description?” Donnie perks an eyebrow. He doesn’t pull away from Leo’s grasp. 

Leo grins. “Remember all that pizza I brought home a few days ago? All free. And it’s fine. Getting roughed up here and there isn’t all that bad.”

His words pull at the corner of Donnie’s mouth. “Try not to get yourself killed serving pizza, ‘Nardo.”

“Hey, it’s an inherently dangerous job! Have you seen a pizza cutter?”

Leo needs to tell Hueso he’s got a talent for fortune-telling, because the best possible thing—or in hindsight, the worst possible thing—happens when Leo’s working one of the Saturday shifts that Hueso offered to give him. 

He’s serving tables, dodging and sliding past entering and departing customers. Collects the bills. Scrouges up his tips. In the midst of piling up a table’s dirty dishes—

“Leo?” 

His shoulders go stiff. Tension coils in the place between his heart and ribs as he turns only to stand face-to-face with his three brothers. 

They stare at Leo. 

Leo stares at them.

The curtain falls. Turning to look over his shoulder, he asks Hueso with a brow raised, “Do I need to use my customer service voice on family or…?” 

Hueso makes a shooing motion, busy with a phone call. That basically means Leo has free reign. 

A grin splits across his face. “Ey! Mis hermanos!” He balances a tower of plates on one arm and swipes a damp cloth over the table. “Grab a seat! The usual?” 

Raph blinks out of his daze and smiles. “Yeah, thanks.” 

Leo winks, saluting with his free hand before he carts away the dirty dishes to the kitchen. It’s once he’s behind the door that he draws up the curtain. He takes a shuddering breath.

This is good. This should be very good. This just helps Leo’s case like Señor said. That's what he said, right?

Leo relaxes his shoulders, works his jaw, and steadies his gaze. He lets the curtains fall once more.

As he exits the kitchen, Mikey waves once he spots him, and Leo makes his way over, appetizers and drinks balanced on a single tray, before sliding the dishes and cups onto the table. He snatches up a breadstick for himself. 

“You sure you didn’t bribe Hueso to let you work here?” Donnie asks, drinking his smoothie. 

Leo’s kind of scared at how well Donnie knows him. To be fair, it was originally a trade. Not a bribe. Or maybe, it was just a little. “I wouldn’t sweat the details,” Leo replies. “Facts are I work here and I’m fantastic at my job.”

Donnie gives him a look.

“Leo.”

Oh, no. Worried brother tone. Leo turns to Raph and asks, “What’s up, big guy?” 

Raph says, a crease of worry between his eyes, “Donnie told us that you got pretty hurt by a customer about a week ago. You don’t have to work here if you feel unsafe. You know that, right?” 

Snitch. 

“I know that, Raph,” Leo waves him off, munching on his second breadstick. He catches Hueso side-eyeing him from across the restaurant and Leo discreetly puts the half-eaten breadstick back into the basket. “The customers here sometimes get cranky, but it’s nothing dangerous. Trust me. It was just that one time. Hueso’s more careful about that stuff now. Promise. ” 

Raph doesn’t look entirely convinced, but that’s okay. Leo still has time. 

“Now,” Leo presses his hands together, “I would love to hang out with my favorite brothers in the whole world, but Hueso’s paying me by the clock and any tip you guys tip me literally goes straight back to you. I’ll come by with your mains in a bit. So, toodle-oo~!” 

“Bye, Leo!” Mikey exclaims. 

Raph stresses, “Text me when your shift is over!” 

Leo blows a kiss over his shoulder. 

As he leaves to attend his other tables, Leo wonders if he just dug his grave deeper. 

There was a point in Leo’s life where he didn’t want to grow up. He wanted to stay seven. Stay a little kid. Never grow too big for his father’s hugs. Always remain small enough to be carried up to bed after a game-night gone too long. Live in a home of sewer tunnels and flickering lights and the echo of dripping water to stone from a leak, because that would be all he had to worry about. 

That kid died a long time ago, Leo thinks. 

Leo wears the skin of someone he does not recognize—someone he once did—each time he ventures into the world without his brothers by his side when they should be. 

Each catch is deadlier than the last. Fiercer. Stronger. Smarter. Leo evades the hits when he sees them. Blocks them if he can. Takes them if he must. Hears the huff of his breath. Feels the beat of his pulse. Lets the adrenaline drive his instincts more than his head, because the digits on the bounty posters keep going up, up, up, and Leo climbs. 

He gets better. He gets better at using his portals, at wielding his swords, at keeping himself alive just enough to have the privilege of bleeding warm blood, because this is worth it. 

Because his brothers are worth it. They’re worth it all and so much more, and it's only when they’re approaching one of the four most important days of the year—a day he once soured—that Leo realizes he might never get the chance to tell them that.

hey leo!!! i know u were askin awhile back what i wanted for my bday and i think i found something 

His ōdachi sits abandoned, three small steps away. It’s too far for him to reach. 

its a limited edition oil paint set and i was wondering if that could be my gift? I know its kinda expensive but you said its ok! 

His breath stutters under the dark of the New York skyline. The cold chill of the wind cuts deep. 

ill see u when u get home! love u leo!!! <3 

Leo sits there, dragged up against the cold of the alley wall, cradling the gushing wound on his leg, red spilling past his fingers faster than he can stop, trying to hold back tears that have long since fallen. 

Maybe, Leo could be worth something too.