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On Tuesday, not only the world, but the entire multiverse nearly ended thanks to a very angry slug. Early Wednesday, they crashed hard when they got back to the lair; Leonardo dragged himself out of bed at noon to practice katas, not bothering to try persuading the other turtles to join him. By Thursday, all had settled back into its familiar routine.
It was too early in the morning for Shredder and Krang to be up to their usual tricks (they were busy nefariously drinking a box of joe together while Bebop and Rocksteady inhaled donuts the next table over) so the guys were scattered about the lair. Raphael was sprawled over the sofa watching TV, snarking at the anchor on the morning news. The distinct sound of Donatello clanging away on something in his lab echoed through the tunnels. Michelangelo was balanced on his skateboard, trying to master a new trick that the other him had shared during a brief interlude in their adventure across spacetime.
Leonardo was still struggling to wrap his mind around their counterparts. So alike, and yet so dissimilar. There were the obvious similarities. The two Donatellos put their heads together to invent a way out of their problems; the Raphaels always had a sarcastic quip in the chamber; the Michelangeos found pockets of humor and fun amidst the insanity of the day; the other Leonardo led his team well, patient and focused.
Tiny discrepancies rippled out into larger differences. The other world was sharper, harsher, a level of danger to it unmatched in Leonardo’s own. The other turtles carried scars on their skin and chipped shells on their backs, testaments to many narrow victories. (Most glaring of all had been the vicious gouge in the other Leonardo’s shell. He’d burned with morbid curiosity, but it would’ve been impolite to ask.) Their Shredder, angry slug he that he was, still made Leonardo’s look like a Saturday morning cartoon villain, toothless and buffoonish. Leonardo’s Shredder tried and failed daily to take over the world; the other Shredder nearly wiped out all existence in the multiverse, even himself, only stopped by a fluke.
But the greatest difference, the one he kept turning about in his mind like a marble in his palm, were two words: father, brother. The other Leonardo had called Master Splinter father; all of them had referred to each other as brothers. And as they’d walked up the Technodrome’s ramp to head home, the other Leonardo had given them a warm parting look and said: “Take care of yourselves, my brothers.”
The simple well wish was stuck in his mind. Brothers. It unlocked a yearning inside him, something he had always wanted, but never realized he desired it until it was dangled before him.
Why weren’t they brothers? They were almost identical, even the same shade of green; the other turtles had been varying hues. Take away their belts and bandanas, and it’d be nigh-impossible to tell Leonardo apart from his friends. When they first met April, it took her days to get their names straight.
It should’ve been so obvious, and yet they’d never thought of it. To Leonardo, the others were just the guys. The turtles. His friends. Nothing less, but nothing more.
“Trying to catch flies, Leonardo?” Raphael called from the couch.
Leonardo snapped back to the present, realizing he’d stalled in the entrance to the living room for a long moment. He shook his head.
“I’m going to train.”
Raphael groaned theatrically. “Like a skipping record, this one. I say we’re allowed a little R&R after saving the entire multiverse.”
He shifted on the sofa, moving his legs off the cushion in a clear invitation.
Leonardo hesitated, but ultimately resumed his walk over to the practice room.
“Maybe later.”
It was quieter in the practice room, away from the rest of the lair. He could no longer hear the clanging of Donatello at work, or the low drone of the TV, or Michelangelo’s enthusiastic yells. The air was cooler, too, the room untouched for several days.
Leonardo picked up a pair of bokken and started practicing, pretending the training dummy before him was in fact one of the souped-up Foot ninja the slug-like Shredder had designed.
He knew he had to say something. He couldn’t sit with this thought weighing him down forever, he just couldn’t. But who to turn to?
He shied away immediately from the thought of going to Raphael. The red-banded turtle would make a big joke out of it, and Leonardo knew he’d be too embarrassed to ever bring it up again. Donatello…Donatello was a turtle of logic. He’d probably take blood samples from the four of them and run their DNA through one of his machines. He’d deduce that no, they weren’t biologically related, just four sliders shipped to the same pet shop, brought together by chance. There would be no need to collect a sample from Master Splinter; there was obviously no blood relation between turtles and rats. Technically, none of them were related. And Donatello operated on technicalities.
The training dummy swayed on its line as Leonardo delivered a particularly heavy blow. He’d been training hard enough to work up a sweat. His body was still sore from their adventure to the other dimension, but he pushed through it.
Michelangelo was easygoing. Of the three of them, he’d likely be the most willing to go along with Leonardo’s request. But would he take it seriously? Or would he just be humoring Leonardo? Thinking this was just a whim, and not something he wanted—he needed.
“Leonardo.”
He startled, uncharacteristically surprised by another presence in the room.
“Master Splinter!”
He lowered the bokken and bowed to his master. He hadn’t sensed Splinter entering the practice room, so utterly preoccupied with his thoughts.
The rat’s fuzzy face wrinkled with concern. “Your mind is distracted, my student.”
Student and sensei. Was that all they were? Not that Leonardo considered it a flimsy bond. But Master Splinter had saved them, raised them. Surely he had to consider himself at least a father figure?
Unless it was their fault. His fault. Somehow, they were lacking, unworthy of the Hamato name.
The anxious turn of his thoughts must’ve shown on his face, as Master Splinter’s frown deepened.
“Is something wrong?”
Leonardo shook his head.
Splinter watched him a moment, but he didn’t crack. “Breakfast is ready. Come join us.”
“Just a minute.”
Leonardo wiped himself down from his workout, and by the time he stepped into the kitchen the rest of his—friends—were settled around the table. Master Splinter held a mug of green tea between his paws, a small bowl of rice set before him. Someone had ordered pizza for the rest of them, and additional toppings had been added—scrambled eggs, sausage, oatmeal, and jalapenos—to make it worthy of the title “breakfast pie”.
Leonardo sat in his usual chair and took a slice for himself. He nibbled at the end of it, barely tasting the greasy cheese. Donatello talked between bites of going topside tomorrow to hunt for supplies for a new blimp—the original had been left behind in the other world—and Leonardo gave his approval with a nod. Raphael attempted to bait him with a few leading barbs, but rather than bicker back, Leonardo just gave him a small smile and said nothing.
He knew he was acting a little off, a tad melancholy (a little blue, Raphael might’ve said) and the others were aware of it. But aside from Raphael’s unsuccessful teasing, no one said anything about it. Some allowance for strange behavior had to be permitted considering the week they’d had already.
“Where are you going, Michelangelo?” he asked, after the last crust was polished off and the pizza boxes tossed. The question was almost rhetorical, a skateboard tucked under the orange-banded turtle’s arm.
Michelangelo gestured to the tunnel that led deeper into the sewers.
“Gonna shred up the sewer with my new moves.”
“I’ll join you,” Leonardo said quickly.
Michelangelo goggled at him, but beneath the surprise, he was pleased.
“Heck yeah, dude!”
Leonardo fetched his own skateboard and they left the lair together. There was a decent stretch of sewer, not too far from home, full of old railings and slopes, perfect for skateboarding and sewer surfing.
“Cowabunga!” Michelangelo bellowed gleefully, grinding along the railing, then doing an airwalk before he landed on the ground once again.
Leonardo copied him, but added in a few additional twists and flourishes along the rail. Michelangelo lit up at the challenge, and the pair of them spent the better part of an hour trying to outdo each other with flips and tricks. At last, Leonardo gained the lead with a quadruple midair flip. He grinned back at the other turtle.
“Admit defeat, Michelangelo!”
“I don’t think so! Watch this!”
Michelangelo started hand standing on his board as he rolled downhill.
Leonardo spotted the instant the wheel of his skateboard snagged on something, and Michelangelo was thrown off balance. He reached out and snagged him by the belt, sparing Michelangelo a nasty bruise on the head.
Michelangelo dusted himself off.
“Whoa. Thanks, dude.”
Before he could overthink and talk himself out of it, words spilled from Leonardo’s mouth.
“What are big brothers for?”
For extra measure, he rubbed Michelangelo’s head fondly before stepping back to observe his reaction. Hoping nervously it wasn’t too much, too fast.
A kaleidoscope of emotion flashed across Michelangelo’s face—confusion, realization, and finally, unmitigated joy.
He caught Leonardo around the middle in a shell-busting hug.
“Thanks, bro.” Michelangelo revised, voice thick with emotion.
Bro. The title settled warmly in his chest.
~*~
Michelangelo seemingly had a rare flash of intuition, because when they returned to the lair, he made no mention of their shift in dynamic to the others. However, when the four of them squished together on the couch for movie night, Michelangelo made a point of wiggling his way between Donatello and Leonardo so he could cozy up closer to the latter. Leonardo’s heart felt so full it could burst.
Their newfound closeness did not go unnoticed by the other two turtles.
“What’re you girls gossiping about over there?” Raphael asked as they whispered their commentary on the movie back and forth. The red-banded turtle was practically pouting at being left out at the other end of the couch.
“Cool dude stuff,” Michelangelo said, slinging his arm around Leonardo’s shoulders. He waved dismissively at Raphael. “You like, wouldn’t get it.”
Raphael emitted an affronted squawk.
Donatello hummed thoughtfully. “If it were Raphael and Michelangelo, I would’ve suspected a prank war was on the horizon. But that’s never been Leonardo’s thing.”
“We were just talking about the movie!” Leonardo protested. They all ignored him.
“I bet Leonardo would be a mondo prankster. It’s just like making a battle plan, but instead of kicking Foot butt it’s pelting Raphael with a banana crème pie.”
“If you start a prank war I’ll be forced to finish it.”
~*~
Humans were wasteful creatures, always tossing out perfectly serviceable equipment to replace it with the next best thing. But one man’s trash was another turtle’s treasure; they’d only been at the dump for about half an hour, and Donatello had already loaded up half the van with various odds and ends for the blimp and his endless array of other side projects.
Donatello had given the three of them lists of things to grab, and then the four of them had fanned out across the dump in search of their quarry. Michelangelo’s list only had two items, as after finding one or two things for Donatello, he lost focus amidst the assortment of clutter. Donatello had also drawn pictures of the objects they were looking for in the event that they didn’t recognize the names. He had the best penmanship of the group, having developed a steady hand from hours of sketching out machine designs.
Leonardo picked his way around piles of refuse, careful not to nick himself on any sharp, rusted corners. He found a couple items on Donatello’s list, and a few not. He stuffed a water-stained but readable book of puns for Raphael and a practically new yo-yo for Michelangelo into his bag. He knew the small treat would help make up for the dullness of effectively machine grocery shopping for Donatello.
He was nearly finished gathering all the items on his list when a loud yelp echoed through the dump. A distinctly turtle-ish yelp.
“Hold on guys!” Leonardo called back, and charged towards the source of the scream.
He reached the front of the dump, and was greeted with a strange sight. Shredder was sitting in the driver’s seat of a dump truck, the Foot logo stamped onto the sides of it. His br—the guys were clustered before the front grill, weapons drawn. Leonardo’s stomach flipped. If Shredder floored it, the turtles would be flattened.
He chucked his heavy bag at Shredder. The ninja, not expecting a blow from the side, fell over with an indignant squawk.
While he was recovering, Leonardo reclaimed the bag and took the keys from the truck, killing the engine. He hopped back from the garbage truck to rejoin the others.
Shredder slapped his palm angrily on the dashboard and shook his fist.
“Stupid turtles! I’m not here to fight. I’m here to recycle.”
Leonardo drew his katana. “Try a more convincing lie next time, tin breath!”
“Actually, Leonardo, it looks like he’s telling the truth.” Donatello had jumped onto the side of the garbage truck to inspect its contents. He lifted out the upper half of Footbot to show the group, holding it by its arm. It was one of the advanced models that the other Shredder had designed. Days ago it had been imposing, lethal. But now it looked rusted out and fragile.
“It appears the technology of the other dimension has started to break down in ours. Perhaps it has something to do with the minute differences in our atmosphere. Or maybe our dimension somehow realized these Footbots don’t belong here, so it has started to corrode them to restore the world’s natural order.” As if to emphasize his point, the arm Donatello was holding weakened at the joint and the torso fell to the ground, collapsing in a pile of bolts and scrap metal.
“Or maybe the writers didn’t think that hard about it,” Raphael cracked.
Michelangelo scratched his temple. “But man, isn’t taking out the trash like, henchmen work? Why’s Shredhead doing it?”
Shredder crossed his arms and mumbled something under his breath about being in the doghouse with Krang.
Leonardo deliberated, studying their old enemy. He sheathed his blades, then tossed the truck keys back to Shredder. The turtles goggled at him. Shredder, also not expecting this, got smacked in the face by the keys.
“Ow!”
“Uh, Leonardo?” Raphael voiced their confusion. “You didn’t hit your head when we weren’t looking, did you?”
“If he’s just trying to recycle, what’s wrong with that? We should encourage him to do good. Maybe he’s turning over a new leaf!”
“If only that includes leafing us alone,” joked Raphael.
“Foolish turtles! I am merely disposing of this worthless trash to make room for my new army of Footbots! And once they’re ready, you’re the ones who will be dropped off at the dump!”
Shredder laughed maniacally as he dumped the load of scrap Footbots and then peeled out of the junkyard. As the dust and exhaust dissipated in Shredder’s wake, Donatello began to eye the pile of futuristic Footbots with a familiar eagerness.
Leonardo headed him off. “You may take only as much home as will fit in the back of the van.”
“I can fit more if you three would walk home. It’s not that far—”
“Donatello.”
The genius huffed, but acquiesced.
“I don’t know about you dudes, but I’ve worked up a mondo appetite.” Michelangelo declared, patting his stomach for emphasis.
“Breathing works up an appetite for you,” said Raphael. “That said, I could go for a bite myself.”
“Hold on, we still don’t have everything we need to rebuild the blimp.”
Leonardo retrieved his own bag of scrounged items and hefted it up.
“I got almost everything on my list. Oh, and these.”
Leonardo handed the joke book to Raphael.
“Are you implying my material is stale?” His tone was indignant, but his beak turned up at the ends in a smile.
“And for you, Michelangelo—”
Leonardo gave him the yo-yo. As if he’d been born with one already in his three-fingered hand, Michelangelo immediately did a couple tricks with it.
“Awesome. Thanks, bro!”
Leonardo and Michelangelo froze.
“Bro?” said Raphael and Donatello simultaneously.
Leonardo sighed. They hadn’t even made it a whole day before blowing it.
Michelangelo let out an unconvincing laugh. “Yeah, it’s like. My new lingo I’m trying out. You like it?”
Raphael pointed accusingly at the pair of them. “So that’s what you two were being all coy about last night. You think those lunkheads from the other dimension were onto something with their family schtick. You saps!” He chuckled. “Oh, I’m never letting you live this down.”
Hurt twinged in his chest. Of course Raphael wouldn’t want to be brothers, not with someone like Leonardo. Of course it was all just a big joke to him.
Michelangelo flashed him a regretful look.
Leonardo placed his fist over his heart. “Maybe I am a sap, or a cheeseball, or whatever else you want to call me. But when those other turtles called each other brother, I realized that’s how I feel about you guys. That time Master Splinter sent us away from each other, I was a mess. It was like losing my katanas, or my limbs. You’re my family, even if you don’t feel that way about me. I don’t want to go anywhere without you.”
There was a ringing silence. Leonardo squeezed his eyes shut. It was too sentimental. He’d made them all uncomfortable. They weren’t ever supposed to be serious and talk about stuff like this.
He was a second from pretending none of it had ever happened and retreating to the van when a pair of arms wrapped around him. He opened his eyes, and to his astonishment found Raphael hugging him.
With uncharacteristic softness, he said, “Don’t get your katanas in a twist, fearless. I didn’t say no.”
Leonardo hugged him back, putting all his affection into it. Raphael tolerated him for a moment before he started wriggling to escape his hold.
“Okay, okay! You’ll squeeze the stuffing out of me.”
“I can run some tests back at my lab to determine our level of biological match.” Three glares were leveled Donatello’s way, and he hastily amended: “But the red-eared slider typically lays clutches of ten to thirty eggs at once, so odds are we all came from the same clutch and testing is totally optional!”
“I’m glad we’re all agreed, bros,” said Michelangelo. “But like, what about Master Splinter?”
Raphael smirked. “Well, little brother, I might just have an idea.”
“Hold on! Why am I the youngest?”
“Leonardo has oldest brother written all over him. Donatello is obviously a middle child.”
“Fair,” Donatello said, as he dragged a few of the trans-dimensional Footbots over to the Turtle Van.
“And I’m certainly not the youngest, so that just leaves you.”
“I don’t know, Raphael,” Leonardo teased. “You are the shortest.”
Michelangelo laughed.
“That’s not how it works! Tell him, Donatello.”
But Donatello smirked. “What was that? I wasn’t listening, baby bro.”
Raphael sputtered. “That’s not fair!”
Michelangelo gave him a conciliatory pat on the back.
“Not fair? That sounds like a mondo immature argument, bro.”
“I’ve got your immaturity right here,” Raphael barked, and hooked a sai between his fingers to mimic a particularly rude gesture.
It was something Leonardo would’ve typically scolded him for, but he let it go this time with a smile. The four of them together like this, as not just friends and allies, but brothers. It felt right, like the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place. This was how it should always be.
~*~
“Was it a successful mission, my turtles?” asked Master Splinter upon their return to the lair a few hours later.
“Sure was, Pops. Got you something.”
Raphael handed their sensei a white mug, the thing he’d picked up at the thrift store and hadn’t let any of them see on the way home. The rat turned the mug around to its front. In bulky black lettering, it said: #1 Dad.
Leonardo’s jaw dropped. “That was your brilliant plan?”
“I didn’t say it was brilliant. Just a plan.”
Even as Raphael joked, there was an undercurrent of nervousness to him. The four of them stared anxiously up at their sensei as he considered the coffee mug in his claws.
Finally, Splinter cleared his throat. There was a slight sheen to his eyes.
“Thank you for the thoughtful gift, my sons.”