Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The lair had never been louder.

A collection of different things were scattered across the common room in uneven piles – sketchbooks and half-finished canvases, coiled wires and glowing screens, hastily folded clothes and other bits n bobs. Voices overlapped in a familiar chaos, excitement crackling through the air as plans were repeated, revised, and enthusiastically overshared.

Raphael moved easily through it all, carrying boxes, tightening straps, offering reminders and reassurances in equal measure. He laughed when Mikey bounced off the furniture mid-rant about his acceptance letter, listened patiently as Donnie launched into a technical explanation he’d already heard twice, and pretended not to notice the way Leo kept pacing, rehearsing lines under his breath.

Mikey had been accepted into an art college in the Hidden City, which was better than the youngest going out and vandalising buildings with graffitti. Donnie got into a science program he’d been eyeing for a while. And Leo – well, Leo had a tour, and a stage, and an audience waiting for him somehow.

Everyone was going somewhere.

Raph was just happy to help them get there.

He kept telling himself that this wasn’t anything new by any means, after all, April was starting her second year of journalism in her University so they all knew what to expect. They’d all promised to keep in touch just as April had done, with consistent calls and check-ins throughout the weeks before any of them got to go home for the holidays.

Speaking of holidays, he wondered how Splinter and Draxum were doing on their little getaway together. For a few weeks, the two of them had been insufferable to listen to with their constant bickering and fighting which would then somehow turn into awkward flirting?

Raph had never been more thankful for Leo's odachi than when the blue clad turtle had had enough of their interactions and portaled them away. ‘Somewhere tropical’ he had promised them at the time. He’s also promised them he’d bring them back after the two of them had sorted things out.

And just as easily as he fell into his own thoughts, he was yanked straight out of them by a loud burst of energy.

“Raph!” Mikey skidded to a stop in front of him, nearly colliding with the box balanced in his arms. “Did you SEE this? They’ve got printmaking studios. Like–actual presses. Do you know how COOL that is?”

Raph laughed, steadying the box as Mikey grabbed his arm. “Yeah, yeah. I’m proud of you. Just–try not to break anything….or get expelled in the first week, alright?”

Mikey nodded as he and Raph set the box down, sifting through them and seeing what the younger wanted to take with him and what he wanted to leave behind. Gradually filling up the suitcase with everything he needed before Raph left him to it.

“I’ve set up a shared calendar,” Donnie added from across the room, not looking up from his screen. “Weekly check-ins, scheduled calls, biometric syncing–”

“You’re not tracking us,” Leo cut in, shuffling away to gather up his things. Raph guessed he was all good to go then.

“I am monitoring,” Donnie corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Raph snorted. “Long as it means you’ll actually call, I don’t care what you call it.”

Leo paused mid-pace. “You’re good here, right?”

Raph blinked. “Huh?”

“The lair. Patrol schedules. All that.” Leo smiled, easy and trusting. “You’ve got it covered, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Raph said immediately. “Yeah, ‘course I do.”

And before Raph knew it, Leo had said his goodbyes and waltz out of the main entrance of the lair as if he wasn’t going to be gone for weeks on end. Then Mikey was all packed up and ready to go, leaving the same way Leo had with a bounce in his step, Donnie trailing behind him as they spoke some more, their voices dancing around the lair as an echo as they moved further and further away. Voices growing more and more quiet before eventually silence.

And just like that, he was truly, and utterly alone.

At first, he’s not quite sure what to do. But after a moment of him standing there aimlessly, Raph exhales and rolls his shoulders, as if he's shaking off something stiff.

There’s still work to do. He supposes that helps.

He starts with the obvious things – stacking boxes properly, moving discarded items back where they belong,cleaning up anything the others had left half-unpacked. Muscle memory carries him through it easily. Too easily. His hands know what to do even when his head doesn’t.

Usually, there’s commentary. A joke over his shoulder. Donnie muttering to himself. Mikey humming off-key.

Now there’s just silence and the odd scrape of something against the cold stone of the lair.

He turns on the TV. Lets it run in the background without really watching it. Flips through channels until the noise blurs together and settles on something loud enough to fill the space. It doesn’t help. The sound feels wrong without anyone else there to watch it.

Raph shuts it off again.

He tries training next – push-ups, sit-ups, anything to burn off the restless energy crawling under his scales. He counts automatically, breaths steady, form perfect.

By thirty, his thoughts start drifting.

By fifty, he stops counting altogether.

This is usually the part where someone tells him to take a break.

He doesn’t.

Eventually though, he gives up and sinks onto the couch, forearms braced on his knees. The lair feels bigger without them, stretched thin, hollow in a way he doesn’t have words for.

He checks his phone.

Nothing new.

It’s too soon and they’re all probably busy anyways. That’s fine.

Raph stares at the screen a second longer than necessary, briefly checking the time before locking it again. He still has some time left before he’s meant to go out on patrol.

But that spare time seems more like a punishment than a blessing. What is he supposed to do while he waits? He supposes he could always go out early. Maybe go out for something to eat? He really doesn't know what to do with himself anymore. He thinks the latter was a decent idea anyways.

Just for a bit, he tells himself. Just to get out of his head.

The lair doesn’t protest when he leaves. It never does.

The Hidden City is still awake at this hour he finds. He guesses it always is. There are places there where the noise doesn’t stop, where Yōkai don’t ask questions and don’t expect anything from him beyond what’s right in front of them.

For a while, he wonders aimlessly, passing by brightly lit up stalls with all kinds of flashy lights and interesting things being sold. He hears faint but fun music coming from within buildings further back, he assumes it’s just Yōkai going out for a bit of fun like humans do when it reaches that certain time. He passes by younger Yōkai playing loud games with one another close to buildings he assumes are their homes, the windows lit up with warm tones casting a gentle light on the little ones scampering about outside. He can't help the fond smile that makes its way onto his face.

As he wanders further and further out, stalls thin out and the buildings shorten until he’s ended up in a place avoidant of gentle lighting and cheerful music. Things seemed less welcoming down here, or perhaps less cared for. He was about to turn back and head home to get ready for his patrol when he heard some shouting further down.

He stops for a moment, contemplating whether or not he should keep going and check it out. Cautious as to if it’d be something bad, maybe somebody was in trouble and needed some help… but who would willingly come out this far? Sure, he did, but he was hardly paying attention to where he was going and how far he was wandering until now. Ultimately, he decided to continue onwards in the way of the faint shouting.

It took him some time and confused dawdling but he eventually found the source of the shouting - well, at least where it was coming from.

The entrance was easy to miss if you didn’t know what you were looking for (which he didn’t for the longest time). It was a sloping tunnel tucked between old and unused market stalls, warm light spilling out from beneath its archway.

Raph ducked through the sloping tunnel, muscles tensed, and came out into the wide, bowl-shaped chamber. Light flared in shades of amber and violet all across the sides of the flooring and floating platforms, casting long shadows across the ledges where Yōkai were resting or laughing. The air smelled faintly of chalk, sweat, and something sweet someone had brought for the snacks table. Everything on that table actually looked so good-

He froze. The platforms drifted slowly through the air, each holding two or more fighters trading blows with careful precision. A flurry of movement, yet no one seemed worried about collisions. It was… mesmerizing.

“Hey! Greenie!” A high-pitched shout made him jump. A bright yellow gecko leapt from a nearby ledge, arms wide. “I’m Mondo! Is this your first time here? Of course it is, I never forget a face and I do NOT remember yours. Well come on then, don’t just gape like that–come look closer!”

Raph hesitated, hand on the wall for balance. “Uh… yeah, sure,” he muttered, edging forward. “I’ve never… seen anything like this. What is this place?”

Mondo grinned and skittered closer. “Used to be a show arena! Big performances were held here and drew in BIG crowds. People fought, danced, whatever you wanted. Then the owners left it to rot. We just kinda… took it over for sparring. Fun fights, free food, it’s great!”

Another voice joined the conversation from somewhere off to the side, low and calm. “That’s right,” said a broad alligator leaning against a wall, stretching one massive arm. “I’m Leatherhead. Welcome. You don’t have to jump into a spar right away. You’re obviously welcomed to just watch, ask questions, or hang about. Everyone does at first.”

A sudden laugh and the scrape of claws on stone made Raph glance up. A dark green tortoise looking Yōkai with a spiked shell lunged from one platform to another, smirking. “Leatherhead! Come on, I’m waiting to kick your ass over here!”

With a short huff of a laugh from the alligator Yōkai, he leapt onto the platform Slash was on when it dipped down close enough. Each one of them taking up their position and getting into the correct stance as the same platform began to rise up once more.

Raph blinked. “Uh… okay. So how do the platforms work? They just… float?”

Mondo chuckled brightly, shaking his head dismissively. “Some tech, some magic I don’t really know. But they move up and down on a routine of sorts everyone’s learned to use down here. Keeps things dynamic. You won’t fall unless you’re reckless, and even then–well, it’s padded…mostly, but there’s always someone who knows a bit of healing magic down here so there’s nothing to worry about!”

Slash glanced down at Raph from the floating platform he and Leathhead were on, his arms crossed. “Or you’re dumb enough to misjudge the height. People do it all the time. Just part of the fun.”

“And everyone here… just comes by willingly?” Raph asked, still perched on a side ledge. “Nobody’s forced?”

Mondo flopped onto one of the seats scattered around the side ledges, grinning. “Nah! You don’t have to fight, you don’t have to do anything. It’s just… fun. People like us like a place to hit things and not get in trouble for it. You’ll see. Now, let’s watch Slash and Leatherhead spar!”

Raph’s shoulders relaxed slightly. For the first time since his brothers left home, he felt… relaxed, settled. No one expected him to perform, no one was counting on him. Just… people having fun.

He was sure he could skip patrol tonight.

The night drew on and it was great watching all of the different spars - Slash and Leatherhead’s was especially entertaining. Despite the former's desire to kick the other’s ass, Leatherhead had actually won that spar. His movements appeared to be quicker than what Slash was anticipating and that’s what gave him the advantage.

As the platform came down and Slash hopped off, Leatherhead stayed and gestured for Raph to come up with him.

Raph shifted onto the floating platform, muscles tensing automatically. He glanced at Leatherhead, who gave him a calm, encouraging nod.

“Don’t worry about winning,” the alligator said in that low, reassuring rumble. “Just have fun, and keep aware of the platform.”

“Yeah, yeah… I got it,” Raph muttered, trying to keep his own nerves in check.

Leatherhead lunged forward slowly, giving Raph time to react. The alligator’s movements were deliberate, controlled – a test rather than a challenge. Raph circled, fists raised, studying the way Leatherhead shifted his weight and adjusted his stance.

He went for a light jab, more to test the distance than hit hard. Leatherhead caught it with one massive hand, chuckling softly. “Careful there, that’ll leave a mark.”

Raph grinned, a spark of competitive energy flickering to life. He feinted left, then swung right, keeping his momentum low and tight. Leatherhead dodged easily, but not mockingly, his movements were like a dance, smooth and fluid.

“You’re fast,” Leatherhead said, backing Raph toward the edge of the platform with a gentle nudge. “But remember the platforms move. You’ve got to anticipate.”

Raph’s eyes flicked to the slowly ascending platform beneath him. Timing. He ducked under Leatherhead’s sweeping arm, pivoted, and landed a light palm strike against the gator’s shoulder. Leatherhead grunted in surprise, stepping back.

“Not bad!” he rumbled, giving a small clap with both hands. “That’s how you keep them guessing.”

Raph’s chest heaved, adrenaline buzzing pleasantly under his scales. “I… I haven’t felt this way in forever.”

Leatherhead’s smile was easy. “Good. That’s what this is about. Fun. Training. Not worrying about the rest of the world.”

The two circled again, testing each other’s movements. Leatherhead offered openings; Raph blocked, dodged, and pressed forward with controlled bursts of strength. A swing here, a feint there – each move a conversation of skill rather than aggression.

Finally, Leatherhead let Raph land a solid tap on his chest. “Alright, alright, you’ve got the hang of it. Nice work!”

Raph exhaled, shoulders dropping for the first time in hours. “Heh… thanks. I… yeah, that was fun.”

Leatherhead clapped him on the back gently, nearly sending him stumbling, and laughed. “Good. You can stick around for as long as you want. Oh, what’s your name by the way?”

“Oh! It’s Raph.”

“Well it’s nice to meet ya, would you like a drink?” The Yōkai asked him, offering him an iced water bottle.

Raph took it with a grateful smile, taking a quick drink of the water and appreciating how cold it was. Sitting down with the rest of the small group as conversation flowed easily between them.

As the hours bled together, Raph eventually excused himself and began the walk back to the lair. His steps felt lighter than they had earlier – the echo of laughter, the clang of sparring platforms, Leatherhead’s easy encouragement still clung to him. He’d had a good time. A really good one. Enough that the thought of going back someday settled comfortably in his chest.

That feeling didn’t survive the entrance.

The lair greeted him with an echoing stillness, the kind that pressed in on his ears and made every footstep sound too loud. The warmth that usually lingered in the air was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow quiet that felt almost accusatory. Raph stopped just inside the entrance, frozen there for a long moment, staring out at the empty space that had once been crowded with voices, movement, life.

Now it was just stone and shadows.

He swallowed and forced himself to move.

Raph headed straight for his room, passing the dining table and kitchen without even slowing. He didn’t consider making food – not really. He’d eaten at The Arena, shared plates and stolen bites, flavours still lingering faintly on his tongue. It wasn’t hunger gnawing at him now. It was something else entirely.

Once inside his room, he collapsed onto the bed without ceremony, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling into his bones. He tugged off his mask and wrappings, letting them fall where they may, and reached for his phone.

The screen lit up with notifications.

A small, involuntary smile pulled at his mouth as he scrolled – Mikey’s excited rambling, Donnie’s overly detailed updates, even a few messages from Leo. Proof that they were okay. That they were thriving.

Raph typed back carefully, thumbs lingering over the screen. He made sure each message was warm and encouraging, telling them how proud he was, how happy he was for them, how he hoped that they were enjoying every second of it.

He didn’t call. Didn’t send anything else.

It was late. They were probably exhausted. He didn’t want to be a distraction.

Eventually, he locked the phone and set it on the nightstand, plugging it in out of habit. The room fell quiet again. Raph lay back, staring up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the familiar cracks in the stone.

The silence crept back in.

He exhaled slowly, chest tight, and let the thought settle – how much he missed them already. Every joke. Every argument. Every shared space.

Two years.

The words echoed in his mind, heavy and unyielding.

Could he really do this for two years?

The days begin to blur together after that.

Raph settles into a routine because he always does – because routines are dependable, because they don’t ask questions. He wakes up early, before the lair can feel too empty if he squints just right. Trains until his muscles burn and his thoughts go quiet. Does a sweep of the space out of habit rather than necessity, fixing things that don’t really need fixing, straightening objects no one else will touch.

There’s less to do than there used to be.

That thought creeps in more often than he’d liked.

By mid-day, he heads out. Sometimes it’s for food, sometimes just to move, to exist somewhere that isn’t echoing stone and memories. More often than not, his feet take him down familiar paths into the Hidden City, past the markets, past the noise and colour until the lights dim and the music shifts and the sloping tunnel comes into view.

The Arena doesn’t ask anything of him.

Leatherhead greets him like he’s always been there. Slash heckles him from across the platforms, loud and unapologetic. Mondo talks his ear off, bouncing from subject to subject like the world might end if he pauses too long. Raph sits on the ledges at first, watches the fights, learns the rhythm of the floating platforms. Eventually, he joins in – sparring matches that leave him bruised and grinning, sore in a way that feels earned.

It’s easy there. Easy to laugh. Easy to just be Raphael, not the eldest, not the responsible one, not the constant.

When he finally heads home, the lair greets him the same way it always does – silent, vast, cold.

He sends messages then. Checks in. Replies fast, careful not to double-text. Sometimes he gets responses right away, long and enthusiastic. Sometimes they’re shorter. Sometimes they come hours later. Once or twice, not at all.

That’s fine. They’re busy. He knew that.

Patrol fills the rest of the night. Familiar routes. Familiar shadows. It gives him something solid to hold onto before he returns home and does it all again the next day.

Five days pass like that.

Then six.

The routine settles in deep enough that he doesn’t question it anymore.

By the time he finds himself heading back toward the Arena again with his muscles already aching, phone sitting silent in his pocket, it feels less like a choice and more like gravity.

At least down there, the noise doesn’t fade when he stops talking.

When he slinks into the Arena this time, he wasn’t expecting to find Slash and Leatherhead sat on the side ledges with Mondo, usually one - or both of them - are off sparring by the time he’s able to arrive.

But it seems the fights had slowed to a lull, platforms drifting back down as people filtered off to rest. He supposes people would want to grab something to eat from the table right now. He was feeling pretty hungry himself.

Leatherhead notices him first and beckons him over with a warm and welcoming smile, it’s an easy decision to join them. He takes a seat next to Mondo who then  lets out the most diabolical and dramatic sigh imaginable as he slumped halfway off the bench.

 Raph eyes him quizzically.

“This is a TRAGEDY,” he groaned. “An absolute CRIME against gecko-kind.”

Leatherhead glanced over, amused. “You’ve been staring at the food table for ten minutes, Mondo. Just grab something.”

“I can’t,” Mondo wailed, flopping fully onto his back. “It’s all peanuts! Peanut noodles, peanut brittle, peanut sauce, peanut–” he shuddered. “-energy balls.”

Now that made Raph adamantly decide to steer clear from the table, he hadn’t thought to bring any of his epi-pens today.

Slash snorted from where he was leaning against the wall. “You’re telling me you won’t eat any of it just ‘cause you don’t like peanuts?”

“I don’t like peanuts,” Mondo shot back. “I hate peanuts! They’re smug. And dry. And they stick to your teeth.”

Slash rolled his eyes and jabbed a thumb toward the table. “C’mon, big guy. Help me convince him. He’s being dramatic.”

Raph, who had been quietly scanning the dishes from a safe distance, shook his head.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m with Mondo on this one.”

All three of them paused.

Leatherhead tilted his head. “You don’t like peanuts either?”

Raph gave a short huff of a laugh. “More like peanuts don’t like me.” He lifted a shoulder. “I’m allergic.”

Mondo sat bolt upright. “WAIT–WHAT?”

Slash blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Raph said easily. “Not the ‘I’ll die instantly’ kind, but still bad enough I’m not gonna mess with it.”

Mondo scooted closer immediately, eyes wide. “DUDE. And you were just… sitting there. Near the peanut zone.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Raph said, fondly exasperated. “Relax.”

Leatherhead crossed his arms, expression thoughtful. “That does explain why you don’t seem so keen on grabbing anything.”

Mondo gasped, pointing at Raph. “You were just gonna sit there and starve??”

Raph shrugged. “Eh, I wasn’t that hungry.”

Slash stared at him for a second, then scoffed. “That’s stupid.”

Raph smirked. “Hey, man.”

Slash straightened. “No, I mean–” he gestured vaguely. “That. You shouldn’t have to just… deal with it.”

There was a brief pause before Mondo’s eyes lit up.

“I HAVE AN IDEA,” he announced. “We leave. All of us.”

Leatherhead raised a brow. “Leave?”

“Yeah!” Mondo hopped to his feet. “There’s gotta be a place where we eat like kings. No peanuts obviously. Maybe a pizza place with big slices and grease for days. Oh! What about that Hueso’s place?”

Raph hesitated. “You guys don’t have to–”

Slash cut him off immediately. “I want pizza.”

Leatherhead chuckled. “That settles it, then.”

Mondo grinned at Raph. “See? Democracy.”

“…Alright,” he said. “Pizza sounds good.”

As they started gathering their things, Raph cast one last glance at the Arena – the floating platforms, the lights, the noise – before following them toward the exit.

It took them a bit longer than expected to actually get to Hueso’s since Mondo made a point of gawking at every single stall on the way there, trying to get all of them to buy him something at least once. Nobody caved.

He was quick to forget about those unbought spoils as they approached the pizzeria, food quickly becoming the Yōkai’s first priority, rushing off ahead to find them somewhere to sit. Raph, Slash, and Leatherhead following the gecko at a much slower pace.

The warmth of Hueso’s hit Raph the moment they stepped inside – the smell of dough and sauce, the familiar noise of voices and clattering plates. It tugged at something in his chest before he could stop it. He’d been here countless times before. With his brothers. With laughter spilling over the booths and arguments over toppings that never really mattered.

Mondo had already clambered halfway into a booth by the time they caught up.

“THIS ONE!” he declared, flinging an arm over the backrest like he’d personally claimed the territory. “Plenty of leg room. Good table height. Excellent vibes.”

Slash snorted. “You mean it’s near the kitchen.”

“Exactly,” Mondo said proudly.

Leatherhead chuckled and slid into the booth with a careful ease, the seat creaking slightly under his weight. Slash dropped in across from him, folding his arms as he leaned back, already looking far more at home than he’d admit. Raph hesitated for half a second before taking the spot beside Mondo, the vinyl warm beneath his palms.

For a moment, none of them spoke.

It wasn’t awkward, just full. The kind of silence padded by noise around them, by the clatter of plates and the low hum of conversation from nearby tables. Raph let himself sink into it, shoulders loosening without him really noticing.

Mondo kicked his feet lightly under the table, passing out menus to everyone. “Okay. So. I’m thinking we order enough pizza to be considered medically concerning.”

Slash grinned. “Now you’re talking.”

The menu felt heavier than it should’ve in his hands, but he welcomed the normalcy of it – the simple decision-making, the grounding routine of choosing food. He scanned the options without really reading them, content just to be there.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Hueso rumbled, skull tilting as he looked them over. His gaze landed on Raph and immediately softened. “If it ain’t Raphael.”

Raph looked up, surprised despite himself. Then he smiled. “Hey, Hueso.”

“Been a minute,” Hueso said, arms crossing comfortably. His eyes flicked around the booth, lingering on the unfamiliar faces. “You bringin’ new friends with you now?”

Mondo waved enthusiastically. “HI I’M MONDO.”

Slash gave a curt nod. Leatherhead smiled politely. “Leatherhead. Good to meet you.”

“Huh,” Hueso chuckled. “Good crowd.”

Hueso hummed, amused, then turned his attention back to Raph. “Been a while since I’ve seen you in here. You usually come with the whole shell squad.” He tilted his head slightly. “Where’re your brothers?”

The question landed softer than Raph expected and still, it caught.

He didn’t tense. Didn’t flinch. Just felt that familiar, quiet pull in his chest.

“They’re… busy,” he said at first, then reconsidered. That wasn’t quite right. “They all went off to do their own thing. School. Work. Stuff like that.”

“Oh?” Hueso leaned a hip against the table, genuinely interested. “Good for them.”

Mondo blinked. “Wait–brothers?” He whipped around to stare at Raph. “You have brothers?”

Slash’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You never mentioned that.”

Raph huffed a small laugh, scratching at the edge of his bandana. “Didn’t really come up.”

“How many?” Mondo pressed.

“Three, they’re all younger than me,” Raph replied with something akin to a proud smile.

Leatherhead’s expression softened, something understanding settling behind his eyes. “And they’re… not around right now?”

“Nah,” Raph said simply. “Not for a while.”

There was a brief pause–not awkward, just thoughtful. Hueso straightened, clapping his hands together lightly.

“Well,” he said warmly, “that just means you’re eating for four tonight, yeah?” He grinned at Raph. “First round’s on the house.”

Raph blinked. “…You don’t have to—”

“I insist,” Hueso said, already stepping away. “Now you kids decide what you want before Mondo eats the table.”

“I COULD,” Mondo called after him. “DON’T TEMPT ME.”

It didn’t take long for drinks and food to be ordered, menus returned to their designated spot on the table as conversation began to flow between them.

They’d spent a couple of hours at the Run of The Mill, time bleeding on as the day progressed into night. As they gathered themselves up, getting ready to leave, Raph decided to bid them farewell, fully intending on heading home and getting ready to patrol for the night while the others went back to the Arena. The others reciprocated his goodbyes and they split off.

As soon as he made it to the lair however, he was met with this crushing sense of overwhelming fatigue, dumping his things somewhere randomly without a care in the world. He made his way to his room, falling onto his bed as soon as it came into view, taking a few seconds of just laying there, existing, before checking his phone.

He couldn’t help the deep sense of disappointment that crept up on him when he saw there was nothing new from any of his brothers. He knew they’d be busy, sure, but he’d hoped he’d get at least one message from them. Nevertheless, he sent them each a message wishing them a good night, watching dejectedly as the message was sent through and left unread for a few minutes before shutting his phone off and closing his eyes for a bit.

Maybe he could just stay here for a moment, rest his eyes before patrol.

Raph leans back further into his bed, letting the weight settle into his shoulders. Just for a minute. His phone rests warm and familiar in his palm. The lair hums softly around him – pipes ticking, water dripping somewhere far off. Normal. Safe.

He exhales.

His eyes slide shut.

It doesn’t feel like sleeping.

There’s no drifting, no sinking. No sense of time stretching or compressing. One second he’s there, breathing evenly, listening to the steady thud of his own pulse, and then–

His eyes open.

The lair is darker.

Not night darker – it’s past that. The lights he’d left on are dimmed, some of them flickering faintly, casting long shadows that weren’t there before. The air feels colder, heavier, like it’s been sitting still for too long.

Raph frowns.

He straightens slowly, neck stiff, joints protesting as if he’s been still for far longer than a few minutes. His shell presses against the headboard of his bed, and that’s when the wrongness really sinks in.

“…What?” he mutters.

He glances at the clock on the lockscreen of his phone.

The numbers don’t make sense at first.

He stares at them, waiting for his brain to catch up, for the familiar click of oh, right. But it never comes.

His stomach drops.

No. That’s… that’s not right.

Patrol should’ve started over an hour ago.

He’s lost hours.

Not minutes.

Hours.

His chest tightens, breath catching sharp and shallow before he forces it steady. He pushes himself to his feet, pacing a short line across the stone floor, trying to shake the stiffness out of his limbs, trying to piece it together.

He doesn’t remember lying down.

Doesn’t remember deciding to sleep.

Doesn’t remember anything after closing his eyes.

“…I was just resting,” he says aloud, like the lair might argue with him. “That’s all. Just–resting my eyes.”

The words feel thin. Unconvincing.

There’s a faint ache behind his eyes, a dull pressure that pulses when he moves too fast. His muscles feel heavy, like they’ve been worked and left to cool without him. He rolls his shoulders, checks his hands, his arms – half-expecting to find bruises or scrapes he can’t explain.

There’s nothing.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Raph swallows and forces himself to focus. Patrol. He’s late, but not disastrously so. He can still make the rounds, double back if he needs to. He’s fine. This is fine. People oversleep. People lose track of time.

This doesn’t mean anything.

He grabs his gear on autopilot, movements practiced enough that he doesn’t have to think about them. The routine steadies him a little, gives his hands something solid to do.

Still, as he heads for the exit, a strange thought lingers. Quiet, distant, like it’s coming from behind a thick wall.

You didn’t mean to rest that long.

Raph shakes his head sharply, as if he can dislodge it.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, stepping out into the tunnel. “I’m up now.”

The lair doesn’t answer.

And somewhere, deep beneath the familiar noise of the city above, something inside him stays very, very quiet.

Despite his fretting, patrol had been rather uneventful. No major villains seemed to want to stir up any trouble, leaving the night quiet and incredibly boring. Still, he stayed out longer than he needed to, an attempt at compensating for oversleeping.

When he makes it home again and checks his phone for the last time of the night, there still aren’t any new notifications. Feeling dispirited once more, he did the same as the night before, turned the device off and plugged it in so it’d charge throughout the night. Settling into bed once more.

Staring into the darkness of his room, Raph became acutely aware of the fog creeping in at the edges of his thoughts. Time no longer moved in clean lines – it smeared and folded in on itself, moments slipping past without leaving much of a trace. Ideas drifted through his mind only to vanish just as quickly, some forgotten before he could grasp them, others dismissed without knowing why. When sleep finally claimed him, it did so reluctantly, it was restless, thin, and brought him no relief. His rest was shallow, fractured, and left him feeling no more present than before.

The following day offered no relief. Raph woke slowly, limbs heavy, staring at the ceiling as if waiting for his body to remember how to move. The world felt wrong in a way he couldn’t name, almost as if he was watching the world through fogged up glass – dulled, distant, wrapped in an unshakable haze. Morning slipped into afternoon without ceremony, time passing unnoticed while he lay there, unable to start. The thought of getting up, of facing the tasks ahead, felt overwhelming, not because they were difficult, but because they didn’t seem worth the effort and everything seemed so out of reach.

Raph stayed where he was for the longest time, staring up at the ceiling, jaw tight. The frustration crept in slowly, sharp and sour in his chest. Not the kind that sparked action, not the kind that made him angry enough to move – just the kind that sat there, useless and heavy.

He should be up by now.

He knew the routine. He’d lived by it for ages. Wake up. Train. Check the lair. Patrol. Repeat. It was simple. Dependable. It was who he was.

So why couldn’t he start?

The thought scraped at him, irritating in its persistence. He flexed his hands, then let them fall back against the mattress. His body responded sluggishly, like it belonged to someone else. The effort it would take to force himself upright felt disproportionate, absurd, almost as if standing up required more than he had to give.

There was no one waiting on him.

The realization settled in with a quiet finality.

No brothers to cook for. No one to remind to sleep, to eat, to slow down. No gear to check twice because someone else might forget. No patrol handoff, no teasing complaints, no shared space that needed maintaining for anyone but himself.

For so long, his purpose had been shaped around them, measured in sacrifices that felt natural, necessary. Giving up time. Giving up rest. Giving up choices. It had never felt like loss. It had felt like love.

Now there was nothing to give.

The day stretched out ahead of him, empty and unstructured, and he had no idea what he was meant to fill it with. Training for the sake of training felt hollow. Chores felt pointless when the lair stayed just as quiet no matter how spotless it was. Patrol was an obligation, not a purpose – just motion without direction.

Raph exhaled through his nose, frustration tightening his chest until it almost hurt. He wanted something to need him. Someone to rely on him the way his brothers always had. Without that, everything he did felt like going through the motions of a life that no longer quite fit.

The thought lingered longer than the others, refusing to fade.

Maybe that was the problem.

He wasn’t tired.

He wasn’t lazy.

He was untethered.

And for someone who had built his entire existence around being an anchor, the absence of weight left him feeling adrift.

Raph squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that if he waited long enough, the fog would clear on its own.

It didn’t.

It still hadn’t lifted by the time his usual window to leave for the Arena came and went.

Raph noticed it only because his body reacted out of habit, a faint tightening in his chest, the quiet expectation that he should be moving by now. Grabbing his gear. Checking the time. Heading out before the lair had too long to settle into silence again.

Instead, he stayed where he was.

The thought came distantly, almost without weight: Guess I won’t make it tonight.

~~~

The lights, the noise, the drifting platforms – all of it flickered through his mind like something half-remembered. The communal table stacked with shared food. Mondo’s voice echoing too loudly. Slash’s barked laughter. Leatherhead’s steady presence, always patient, always grounding.

He felt the absence of it like a dull ache rather than a sharp loss.

Maybe tomorrow would be better.

The hope felt thin, fragile, a phrase repeated more out of necessity than belief. He clung to it anyway, because the alternative was admitting how many tomorrows he might be saying that about. How many days that might slip past him in the same haze, each one blurring into the next without distinction.

He swallowed, throat tight.

He didn’t think he could handle many more days like this.

Not like this, not with him being stuck halfway between wanting to move and being unable to, caught in a haze that refused to lift no matter how long he waited it out. The idea of forcing himself up felt overwhelming; the idea of staying still felt worse. Either choice carried its own kind of exhaustion and baggage.

Raph turned his face slightly toward the wall, eyes unfocused.

Tomorrow, he told himself again, quieter this time. Tomorrow, I’ll try.

The Arena would go on without him tonight. The platforms would rise and fall. Laughter would echo off stone. Someone would probably glance toward the tunnel entrance and wonder if he was running late.

He didn’t know why the thought made his chest ache the way it did.

The Arena hummed with its usual energy, platforms rising and falling as Yōkai traded blows and laughter echoed off the high ceilings. Mondo perched on the edge of a ledge, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, eyes scanning for the familiar green blur he usually expected.

“Hey… uh,” Mondo called, voice carrying over the clatter of sparring. “Where’s Raph tonight?”

Slash, lounging against a wall with arms crossed, glanced over lazily. “Maybe he’s running late,” he said, shrugging. “No need to stress.”

Leatherhead, seated beside them with his usual calm, tilted his head slightly. “Still, he does typically arrive around this time,” he murmured. His pale green eyes scanned the platforms for any sign of movement, but nothing.

Mondo groaned dramatically, slumping halfway onto the ledge. “He has to show up! He always shows up!”

Slash snorted. “Relax. Maybe he had… errands? Something to do? We’re not exactly on a strict schedule here.”

Leatherhead nodded thoughtfully. “He’s fine, I’m sure. We’ll see him tomorrow if he doesn’t turn up tonight. For now, let’s just enjoy ourselves like usual.”

The three of them settled back into watching the spars, Mondo muttering occasionally about how Raph was probably just taking a break, Slash rolling his eyes at his theatrics, and Leatherhead keeping a quiet, steady watch over the floor. No one was really worried yet – it was just one night.

But in the back of each of their minds, a small, unspoken thought lingered: it was unusual. And they’d be keeping an eye out tomorrow.

~~~

When tomorrow eventually came, the crushing weight in his bones had eased – only slightly, but enough that it was noticeable. He lingered in bed longer than he should have, staring up at the ceiling and gathering himself, yet the thought of getting up no longer felt insurmountable. Heavy, yes. Slow. But manageable. That alone felt like a small mercy. Anything was better than rotting in that damn bed for another day.

He dragged himself into the kitchen, stepping into what used to be Mikey’s domain. The space felt wrong without him. Far too quiet, too still. Raph opened a cupboard and stared inside, sifting through its contents more out of habit than intent. He knew he should be hungry, knew he should make something proper, but the feeling never quite arrived. The effort required seemed disproportionate, wasteful. Whatever energy he’d managed to scrape together today felt too precious to spend on something so trivial. So he ended up just fishing out a simple granola bar and closed the cupboard, walking away halfheartedly.

If he really needed to eat later, he told himself, he could always go out and grab something. For now, that excuse was enough.

He retreated to his room, greeted by dim lighting and an unmade bed. The sight of it stirred nothing in him – no guilt, no urge to fix it. Changing the sheets, straightening the space, restoring some sense of order… It all felt like a task that would drain him both physically and mentally. So he didn’t. For today, ignoring it was an act of self-preservation.

Instead, he dug out his white hoodie and tugged it on without much care, the fabric settling around him like a familiar weight. His routine was already fractured beyond repair; he saw no reason to pretend otherwise. Screw it. He wasn’t easing into the day, he was just gonna go straight to the Arena.

He needed the noise. The movement. Anything loud enough to drown out the suffocating quiet that had settled into his life since his brothers had left. The silence followed him everywhere now, pressing in on his chest, reminding him of how empty the space around him had become. If he stayed here any longer, he was sure it would swallow him whole.

At the Arena, at least, he wouldn’t be alone.

He only vaguely remembered the walk there. Pieces of it surfaced out of order, impressions rather than moments. He knew he’d passed the brightly lit stalls – They were too bright, too loud, the colours blurring together until they threatened to split his head open. He must’ve sped up then, instinctively fleeing the sensory overload before it could fully sink its claws into him.

The deeper he went, the quieter everything became. The Hidden City thinned out into its more neglected stretches, where footsteps echoed too clearly and the air felt stale, abandoned. Conversations faded into a distant murmur, swallowed by cracked stone and disuse, until even that fell away. For a while, there was nothing but his own breathing and the steady thud of his heart, each step carrying him further from the noise he’d been chasing.

Then there were shouts. Laughter. The sharp, unmistakable rise of excitement cutting through the quiet like a blade. Applause followed soon after, a rolling chorus that vibrated through the stone beneath his feet.

Recognition came slowly. The sound, the rhythm of it, the faint glow bleeding through the darkness ahead. The Arena rose into view at last, all light and movement and life, and only then did he realise his chest had been tight the entire way there. The knot in the pit of his stomach loosened as the noise wrapped around him, familiar and grounding.

He hadn’t noticed the tension until it began to ease. Maybe that was the point.

The light swallowed him the moment he crossed the main entrance.

It washed over his senses in layers as warm golds and flickers of neon magic reflected off stone and steel, shadows cast by moving bodies and floating platforms drifting lazily overhead. The noise hit next, not all at once but in waves: laughter, shouted taunts, the sharp crack of impact from a sparring match somewhere to his left. It should’ve been overwhelming. Somehow, it wasn’t. Not here.

Raph paused just inside the entrance, lingering on the edge of the space like he needed to convince himself he was really present. The air felt different in the Arena–charged, alive, buzzing with shared energy. It seeped into him whether he wanted it to or not, loosening something tight and coiled in his chest.

He exhaled.

His eyes swept over the familiar chaos, searching without quite realising he was doing it. He caught sight of sparring pairs on the central platforms, figures leaping and clashing in flashes of colour and motion. Along the ledges, spectators lounged and shouted encouragement, plates of food balanced precariously on knees or stone railings. It was all so lived in, so unapologetically full.

Then he spotted them.

Mondo was impossible to miss, perched halfway up one of the side seating areas with his tail swinging idly as he laughed far too loud at something Slash had said. Slash himself was leaned back against the stone, arms crossed and posture relaxed in that deceptively dangerous way of his, while Leatherhead sat nearby – solid, grounded, watching the Arena with an easy patience that made him look like he belonged there more than the stone did.

Something in Raph’s shoulders eased before he even realised they’d been tense.

He adjusted his hoodie and started towards them, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. A few familiar faces nodded at him as he passed; someone called out a greeting he didn’t quite register, but he lifted a hand in response anyway. Muscle memory did most of the work. Letting it was easier than thinking.

As he got closer to the others, Mondo was the first to notice him.

“There he is!” the gecko announced, grin splitting his face as he all but sprawled toward Raph. “Dude, we were starting to think you fell off a floating platform or somethin’.”

Slash snorted. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

Leatherhead turned more fully then, a calm gaze settling on Raph in a way that felt a little too observant to be casual. “Good to see you,” he said simply.

Raph huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh as he dropped into an empty seat beside them, the stone cool beneath him and reassuringly solid. “Yeah,” he muttered, leaning back and letting the noise wash over him again. “Good to be here.”

And for the first time all day, it didn’t feel like a lie he was trying to delude himself into believing.

For a fair bit of time, they simply sat together, conversation drifting easily from one topic to the next. No one questioned Raph about his absence the night before, and he was quietly grateful for it. The moment passed without being acknowledged, allowed to dissolve into the noise and warmth of the Arena.

At some point – he couldn’t say when – Slash and Leatherhead had peeled away from the group and made their way for the platforms, joining the rotation of sparring Yōkai below. Cheers rose almost immediately as they entered the fray, voices overlapping in excited encouragement as blows were exchanged and platforms shifted beneath their feet.

Raph watched from the ledge, chin resting in his palm, thoughts wandering. The crowd reminded him faintly of Big Mama’s Battle Nexus and the spectacle of it, the thrill, but it wasn’t the same. Those audiences had been hungry, sharp-edged, eager for blood. This was different. Here, the noise was warm, celebratory. People cheered not for dominance or downfall, but for the joy of the fight itself.

He found that he loved that about this place. How involved everyone was, how connected.

It tugged at something familiar in his chest.

It reminded him of his brothers, but not in a way that ached, not like a wound being prodded, but with a quiet fondness that settled deep and steady. Maybe that was why he kept coming back. Why the Arena felt so easy to exist in.

It felt vaguely like home.

He found himself imagining his brothers here one day, picturing how easily they’d slot into the noise and colour of the Arena. Leo and Mikey would get along with Mondo in seconds, they all have too much shared energy, too much charisma between them for anything else. And Donnie… Donnie would lose his mind over the mechanics of the place, the floating platforms alone would be enough to keep him occupied for hours.

The thought lingered, warm and almost hopeful – and then a flash of yellow snapped into his vision.

“Raph!”

Mondo was suddenly right there, a blur of motion waving a very animated hand far too close to his face, clearly trying to drag him back into the moment.

“Hm?” Raph blinked, focus stuttering. “What’s up?”

“Dude,” Mondo said, squinting at him. “You were just sitting there staring for, like, forever. You alright?”

“What? Oh–yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Raph said quickly, forcing a small smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If you say so,” Mondo replied, already shrugging it off. “C’mon, let’s head down there already. I’m starved.”

He grabbed Raph’s arm in both hands and tugged dramatically, trying – and failing – to drag him toward the lower levels where clusters of Yōkai were starting to gather.

“...Down where?...Why?” Raph asked.

Mondo stopped dead.

Slowly, he turned and stared at him, expression flat and incredulous.

“Bro. The food table?” he said. “Most of the spars wrapped up a bit ago. Everyone’s grabbing something to eat.”

Raph frowned. “What? But we just started.”

Mondo’s brow furrowed. “No? They’ve been going for a few hours now.” He tilted his head, studying him more carefully. “You sure you’re alright?”

“...Yeah,” Raph muttered after a beat, rubbing at the back of his neck, an attempt at grounding himself in the familiar motion. “Yeah. Sorry. Just tired, I guess.”

And despite how hard he tried to stay present, his focus kept drifting – slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tried to hold onto it. Like trying to store sand in a cracked bucket.

One moment he was standing at the communal table, absently picking at the spread and mentally sorting through what he thought he could manage to eat. The next, he was sitting along the ledges instead, his plate still untouched in his lap while everyone else’s sat scraped clean.

Something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.

Everything felt off. Wrong. Disjointed. Like he was constantly a step behind himself, missing pieces he didn’t even realise had gone missing until it was too late. He hated it. Hated how hard it was just to focus on one damn thing.

Was he ignoring people while this was happening? Zoning out mid-conversation, missing questions, responses? The thought made his jaw tighten. Donnie would know the word for this, would probably already be rattling off explanations and grounding techniques if he were here.

He really didn’t want to think about how much of an asshole he must look like right now.

Raph forced himself to refocus – on the noise, the lights, the bodies around him. On where he was, who he was with.

And it worked.

Briefly.

Just long enough for him to realise that he wasn’t holding his plate anymore.

His hands rested empty in his lap. He frowned, glancing around as if it might be nearby, but nothing stood out. Had someone taken it from him? He thought – dimly – that he might be grateful if they had.

The noise around him felt… quieter. Muted. Or maybe it was just being drowned out by something else entirely, something internal, buzzing and indistinct, crowding his thoughts until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

Maybe that was what this was.

That familiar haze. The strange, creeping disconnect that sometimes settled in just before he slipped out of the front seat of his own mind. Before another presence nudged forward and he was left somewhere further back, watching instead of doing.

The thought made his stomach sink.

He shouldn’t be here if that was the case.

What if the alter trying to front was Savage? What if he lost control and hurt someone – hurt anyone here? The thought made his chest tighten painfully. He’d never be able to show his face again. Would they even let him come back if that happened? He highly doubted it.

And then he really would be completely and truly alone.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Raph felt himself stand – at least, he thought he did. The motion was familiar enough that he trusted it, even as his head swam. At this point, he was relying entirely on muscle memory to carry him where his mind couldn’t. He turned away from the group, moving vaguely in the direction of the main entrance, intent on getting home and collapsing somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.

Then the haze thinned once more, not fully, but enough.

A scaled hand settled on his shoulder, firm but gentle.

It took his brain a second longer than it should have to catch up and register that, oh. It was Leatherhead.

Raph lifted his gaze to the alligator Yōkai’s face, registering the quiet concern there, the way his eyes searched Raph’s expression rather than his surroundings. He doubted he could form anything close to a coherent sentence right now, so instead he offered a weak, apologetic smile and gestured toward the exit.

“Home,” he muttered.

Leatherhead’s expression shifted at that. The hand slipped from Raph’s shoulder, but he didn’t step away. They stood in silence for a beat before Leatherhead turned and started off in the same direction Raph had been heading.

Raph blinked, momentarily confused until Leatherhead paused and gestured for him to follow.

…Well. He guessed he had a walking buddy now.

He hoped Leatherhead hadn’t joined him with the expectation of conversation. If that had been the case, then….yeah. He’d definitely dropped the ball. Somewhere along the way his thoughts had drifted again, awareness thinning out until the world felt distant and fuzzy, and he didn’t really come back into focus until they were a fair distance from the Arena.

…Whoops.

He glanced sideways then, bracing himself for it – disappointment, irritation, something. But Leatherhead showed none of it. No tight jaw, no impatience. Just quiet neutrality. Observant. Calm in that steady way people get when they understand that the person beside them can’t quite reach that same footing of stability right now.

And Raph found he appreciated that more than he could put into words.

There was no pressure to explain himself. No expectation to fill the silence. Just the unspoken understanding that this was enough, that walking side by side, saying nothing at all, was perfectly acceptable.

For once, he didn’t feel like he was failing someone just by existing as he was. Even if that was him struggling to exist in the moment.

The fog rolled back in without warning—thick and choking, like smog flooding a once-clear skyline in bustling cities. Time stretched and warped around him, moments slipping through his fingers while as time stretched on and he found himself stuck in a timezone all of his own. He only resurfaced when the haze thinned and the smog cleared long enough to let reality seep through again.

Thankfully, it did so at exactly the right moment.

They were nearing the edge of the Hidden City now. Raph recognised the subtle shift in atmosphere immediately – the lights thinning out, the air growing colder, heavier. He would’ve been mortified to miss it entirely.

Leatherhead, on the other hand, noticed right away.

Raph caught the brief flicker of shock on the alligator Yōkai’s face as they crossed fully out of the Hidden City and into the quiet sprawl of New York above. His steps slowed, gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar concrete and steel.

…Yeah. Okay. An explanation was probably owed.

“Uh,” Raph muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Me ‘n my brothers don’t… live in the Hidden City.”

Leatherhead blinked, glancing down at him. “You don’t?”

“We’re mutants,” Raph added after a beat. “Live up here.”

That earned him a deeper frown. “I was under the impression humans weren’t particularly accepting of… well. Things they don’t understand.” His tone stayed gentle, curious rather than judgemental. “How do you live among them?”

Raph huffed softly. “We don’t, really. Sewer. Old subway station, after that.”

Leatherhead stopped walking.

“…What?”

“Our old lair was destroyed,” Raph said, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t still sting. “We had to move after that.”

There was a long pause.

Leatherhead stared at him, then at the city around them, then back again, his jaw tight, expression unreadable in a way that suggested he was trying very hard not to say whatever was running through his mind.

“…I see,” he finally said.

And for once, Raph couldn’t tell whether that was disbelief, concern, or something heavier settling in behind Leatherhead’s eyes.

When they finally reached the lair’s entrance, Raph and Leatherhead exchanged a brief goodbye before parting ways. Raph was grateful for it, grateful that Leatherhead hadn’t insisted on coming inside, because right now all he wanted was to collapse into bed and sleep for the next decade.

He barely made it to his room before doing just that.

He didn’t bother pulling off his hoodie, too exhausted to care if his carapace tore another seam into the fabric overnight. All he wanted was for the noise – the thoughts, the static, the endless hum in his head – to fade into something quieter. Something manageable. Even if only for a moment, he’d take it.

Habit took over where energy failed.

He checked his phone.

Nothing new.

Still, he sent his brothers a message anyway. A quick one. Something normal. Then he set the device aside and turned onto his side, facing the wall.

As sleep finally crept in, a familiar, nagging thought lingered at the back of his mind – that maybe he was being overbearing. That maybe he was pushing too hard. That maybe, without meaning to, he was already pushing them away.

The darkness took him before he could decide which was worse.

~~~

As Leatherhead made his way back toward the Arena to rejoin the others, he found his thoughts circling back to the turtle’s behaviour.

Raph had been distant the entire night. Sure, he was there, but he wasn’t really present. His attention drifted in and out without warning, eyes unfocused as Yōkai spoke around him and sometimes to him, words passing by without leaving a mark. It wasn’t rudeness. It wasn’t disinterest. It was something else, something harder to place.

No one else seemed particularly bothered by it. The assumption came easily: he was tired, overwhelmed, in need of a break. It made sense. But still, Leatherhead couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that this went beyond simple fatigue.

By the time he reached the Arena again, Slash and Mondo were still seated where he’d left them. They fell quiet as he joined them, Leatherhead lowering himself beside Slash with a soft exhale.

“So,” Slash said eventually, glancing over, “how’s Greenie doing?”

Leatherhead hesitated. “Still… out of it.”

Mondo shrugged. “I’m sure the dude’s just tired. Maybe he needs a few days to himself–get back into the groove, y’know?”

Leatherhead hummed in thought. It was a reasonable explanation. A comforting one. He wanted to believe it.

So he didn’t voice the unease curling in his chest. He nodded instead, quietly agreeing, and let the subject drop.

They didn’t linger much longer after that, eventually calling it a night and heading off to their respective homes.

And though Leatherhead told himself he’d done the right thing, the feeling that something had been missed followed him all the way home.

Eventually, he realises the days have stopped feeling separate.

Raph wakes up and it’s dim, the lair lit only by the low hum of lights he’d left on out of habit. His body aches in places he doesn’t remember straining, muscles sore in a way that suggests time has passed without his permission. He tells himself he’ll get up in a minute.

He doesn’t know how long that minute lasts.

Sometimes he wakes up already exhausted, like he never slept at all. Other times he blinks and the light has shifted, gone from pale and distant to deep and artificial, the kind that means night. That part confuses him. He doesn’t remember the day in between.

He checks his phone.
There are messages he’s sent.
He doesn’t remember typing them.

They’re brief. Reassuring. Exactly the sort of thing he’d send if he were fine.

That thought should worry him. It doesn’t.

Hunger comes and goes in waves he keeps missing. He’ll stand in the kitchen with a cupboard open, staring at shelves he knows hold food, and feel… nothing. No drive. No urgency. Just a vague awareness that eating would require effort he doesn’t have.

He tells himself he’ll do it later.

Later never seems to arrive.

The bed becomes a constant. He doesn’t remember deciding to stay in it. He just keeps ending up there, hoodie still on, sheets twisted and unfamiliar beneath him. At some point he notices the room smells stale. At some point after that, he stops noticing at all.

There should be a voice by now.

Not the loud ones. Not the angry one, or the sharp one that snaps at the world when it gets too close. The other one. The steady one. The one that usually steps in and says this is a problem, Raphael.

He waits for it.

Nothing answers.

The realization hits him sideways, dull and aching: he hasn’t argued with himself in days. No internal lists. No plans. No irritation at his own inaction. Just a blank stretch where thoughts slide off instead of catching.

He doesn’t know when that started.

The absence feels wrong in the same way a missing limb does, like something he keeps reaching for out of instinct, only to find empty air.

His focus is snatched away momentarily but a sound he thinks he hears.

He doubts there’s anything actually there, just a trick of the mind to try get him up.

He doesn’t.

~~~

The days had slipped by faster than any of them had meant them to.

Leatherhead only realised how long it had been while preparing to head back to the Arena, the thought coming to him absentmindedly – Maybe Raph’ll be there tonight – before the weight of it settled in.

It had been days.

Guilt curled tight in his chest, uncomfortable and immediate. With it came the quiet realisation that maybe waiting had been a mistake.

He changed course, deciding against the Arena entirely. If Raph hadn’t shown up by now, then checking in felt… necessary.

Finding the entrance to the turtle’s…lair, he supposed, took longer than he cared to admit. His memory of the route was vague at best, and he made one or two wrong turns along the way. He was thankful that Slash and Mondo weren’t with him; they’d never let him hear the end of it.

When he finally made his way inside and into what he assumed was the main living space, Leatherhead paused.

The place felt… off.

Not abandoned, but neglected. Dust had gathered where it shouldn’t have, clutter left undisturbed for too long. It didn’t look like the kind of space someone actively lived in – certainly not someone who struck him as responsible or capable.

A prickle of unease crept up his spine. Had Raph really been here the entire time?

Was he sick? Injured?

Leatherhead moved further inside, accidentally brushing against a precarious stack of miscellaneous objects. They toppled with a sharp, echoing clatter, and he winced instinctively as he scrambled to set them right again.

The noise faded.

The silence that followed was worse.

No footsteps. No voice calling out. No sign that anyone had heard a thing. If Raph was here, surely he would’ve come to investigate.

Trying to quell his growing concern, Leatherhead made another sweep of the space. When that turned up nothing, he turned toward the exit, only to stop short when his gaze landed on the train carts resting idle on the tracks.

Rooms?

He hadn’t seen anything resembling sleeping quarters yet. Surely they weren’t–

Against his better judgement, he approached one of the carts. The door slid open with a sharp hiss that felt far too loud in the quiet.

It was empty.

Still, the layout told him enough. This wasn’t storage. These were living spaces. He closed the door again, uneasy at the thought of intruding, and moved on.

The next cart was just as dark. He was about to shut it as well when he heard a faint shuffle, fabric shifting against fabric.

Leatherhead stilled.

He leaned in, eyes adjusting, searching the darkness until a shape finally emerged. A silhouette, motionless against the bed.

“Raph?”

Nothing.

No movement. No reaction.

A knot formed in his chest as he stepped inside, spotting a small lamp tucked into the corner of the cart. He switched it on.

Still nothing.

The room came into view in muted reds, a phone lying unplugged and dark on the nightstand, untouched. And on the bed lay Raph, still dressed in the same white hoodie they’d last seen him in.

It looked worse now.

And so did he.