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singminibang · 7 years

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A Push in the Right Direction

Author: Andrea O’Down (tumblr: @andrea-odown)

Artist: Arte (tumblr: @arteinthemachine)

Summary: Sometimes, all you need is a push in the right direction. Sometimes, this push can be something unexpected, something like a yellow publicity flyer. For five animals who love to sing this flyer is what is going to change their life forever.

Ash

Ash loves to sing. She loves it so much, she forgets everything else around her. She gets carried away, and then nothing else matters except for her and the music. And that’s bad because it’s not just about her. It’s about Lance, too.

Lance, her bandmate. Lance, the lead singer. Lance, her boyfriend.

She shouldn’t do this. She’s doing the backup vocals, and she’s always been fine with it. She doesn’t know what happened, but the more she sang, the more it took her over until she just couldn’t stop herself anymore. And next thing she knew, she was trying to push Lance away from his microphone. And she has absolutely no idea how that happened.

Lance is tense as he puts his guitar into its case. Ash tries to think of what to say, but no words come to her. And so it’s Lance who speaks up.

“Ash, babe,” he says, as he lets the case snap shut and gets to his feet. “I’m the lead singer, okay? Just stick to the backing vocals.”

He doesn’t even look at her as he sets into motion, and it makes Ash’s heart ache. When Lance doesn’t look at her, it means he must be really, really angry. She just has enough time to grab her own guitar case and run after him.

“Sorry!” she says, deciding to stick to the truth. “I… I get carried away.”

“Yeah, I know, right?” he says. “It just kind of ruins my song, you know?”

Ash lowers her eyes. Yes, she knows. And even more importantly, she understands. Lance is the lead singer, this is his band, his song, and who wouldn’t get annoyed when they get pushed out of the way by someone who’s supposed to support them?

Ash bites down on her lower lip as she does her best to keep up with Lance. It’s always been her role to support Lance, starting the day they met. Because she wanted to do this.

She remembers as if it happened yesterday, the moment Lance took the makeshift stage in the diner of their small hometown. And the moment he started singing, it was all about him. Ash can’t remember that a song has ever touched her as much as Lance’s song did back then. The lyrics, the melody... it appeared like it was written for her and her alone. And nothing else mattered at that moment besides her and this song and the porcupine who singing it.

When Lance was done with his song, time and space set back into place and Ash found herself staring at him with wide eyes and her mouth agape.

She waited for the audience to burst into applause, and she almost jumped when they didn’t. Instead, there were boos and calls for Lance to leave the stage right now. Ash looked around her, her eyes widening even more. Didn’t they get it? The song, the music, Lance? Her eyes shot back to the porcupine on the stage, and she was expecting to find him sad and disappointed. But what happened next made Ash speechless with adoration. Lance just shrugged, looking totally unimpressed, and left the stage.

He didn’t care what others thought of him. He was doing his thing. He was an artist.

A few seconds more and Ash slid down from her seat and ran after him. She has never been one to do the first step, but this time she couldn’t help herself. She called out to him, and the other porcupine stopped, turning around and looking her over with something that Ash hoped at that time - and knows now for sure - was interest. And then she started talking, the words simply bubbling out of her mouth. She told him how much she loved his song and how much she loved music and that she played the guitar herself as a hobby and that she’d love to learn it properly, and that sometimes, she even sang and she liked it, and when she was done with her little speech that turned out waaaaaaaay longer than she had planned, Lance looked at her with a little frown.

“I can tell you have a passion for music,” he said then. “And it turns out I am looking for a background singer. Interested?”

And how she was interested! Okay, it was a bit of a challenge because Lance was asking a lot of her and she spent hours every day to improve her guitar skills, but she got better, and her singing improved, too.

And something else happened. Ash can’t tell how it happened and if it was because they spent so much time together, but at some point they started dating. And it felt so right, so perfect!

And now everything feels so wrong. She made a terrible mistake today by stealing Lance’s spotlight, and what’s even worse is that this happened the second time in a row. She reminded herself that it was about Lance, she even watched him at first, concentrated on him, letting her admiration for him show. And then it happened again and she got carried away, and now Lance is mad at her. And she has absolutely no idea how to fix this.

Ash lets out a long sigh and when she raises her gaze again, planning on checking how much ahead of her Lance is now, she finds Lance standing a few steps away from her, his hand outstretched into her direction. He doesn’t look at her, but Ash knows him well enough to see that this is his peace offering and that’s he’s forgiving her. She smiles before she runs up to him and takes his hand. Then they set into motion again, their steps in perfect sync.

It makes the last of the tension melt away from Ash and she gives Lance’s hand a little squeeze. Her smile widens when he squeezes her hand in reply.

Waiting for their train, they are still holding hands, and Ash is still smiling. Lance is still not looking at her, but that’s fine. By the time they are home, he’ll have forgiven her and Ash can live with that.

Their train comes in, but it brings something else with it. Something rustling and orange, and Ash only realizes that it’s a bunch of flyers when she finds one sticking on Lance’s quills. She’s so excited when she reads what’s written on that flyer that it doesn’t even bother her that Lance has let go of her hand when he moved to enter the train.

One-hundred thousand dollars as the grand prize of a singing competition!?

“Hey, Lance, look at this!” she calls out. She is still checking the flyer when she hears Lance call her name, his voice somehow muffled, and when she looks up she realizes that’s because he’s already inside the train and the train is already taking off, but she can’t care less.

She’s smiling like an idiot as she runs after the train on the platform, waving the flyer like a flag.

This is going to be so great! Lance is for sure to win the money because he’s an amazing artist. And she’s going to do her best to support him!

Johnny

Johnny loves to sing. He sings whenever he gets the chance. This means, he sings whenever his dad is not around. His dad wouldn’t understand. Singing is something someone does in the shower, music is something you listen to when there’s nothing else to do or when you need ambient noise to cover what you’re really doing. And in his dad’s case that is when you do something illegal.

But for Johnny, music is so much more. It is what keeps him going. Whenever he is alone, he starts singing. And that’s not always good. Especially not when he’s keeping a lookout and starts singing because there’s no one else around. But he just can’t help himself. Whenever his dad isn’t around, whenever he’s alone, he starts singing. He loves singing just so very much!

He takes after his mom when it comes to music, he had that one figured out rather quickly. Not that he can really remember his mom. He was too young when she died. But there are some things he does remember. A lovely voice singing, a warm hand on his forehead or gentle fingers stroking his cheek. He remembers her singing voice the best, though. It somehow stuck with him. Sometimes, when Johnny wakes up in the morning, when he’s not awake enough to actually think, when he’s in this pleasant state between sleeping and waking where anything is possible, he can sometimes hear her voice. Part of him knows that it’s only there in his head, but it sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen. Like every morning when he was little. His mom always was singing when making breakfast. It feels like he could get up and her voice would become louder when he enters the kitchen; she’d be there, singing and smiling. It’s so nice. Until he wakes up and remembers that his mom died many years ago. It always makes his heart ache a little, even after all this time.

He always hums a melody when he gets dressed, but falls silent the moment he enters the kitchen. Because his dad is there. And his dad doesn’t understand why Johnny loves music so much. He even scolded Johnny when he said he wanted to be a singer when he was younger. Because, really, making money with music? How ridiculous is that! No, according to his dad, Johnny needs to do something more concrete. Like his dad does with his gang.

So Johnny does what his dad asks him to. He keeps a lookout or helps the gang check out possible targets. And that’s okay.

But sometimes, Johnny thinks that the low chance of actually making a living out of his singing is not the only reason why his dad is so against it. Sometimes, he thinks it’s because his mom loved singing so much. He got this idea soon after his mom died and he entered the kitchen in the morning. Eating his breakfast, he just couldn’t stand the silence anymore and started singing. And his dad turned his head and looked at him, his face so hurt, before he said angrily that Johnny shouldn’t sing because he wanted to eat his breakfast in silence for once. Back then, Johnny didn’t understand. He just stopped singing when his dad was around because it would make him angry. Over the years he remembered the wounded look on his dad’s face, realizing that there might be more behind it. His dad would never admit it, though, and Johnny would never ask. So it is just an idea that his dad doesn’t want him to sing because it’s hurting him too much.

What Johnny knows for sure is that his dad doesn’t want him to sing because it’s useless. It doesn’t bring any money. The gang and their jobs, they bring money, not singing.

But still, Johnny can’t help it. Whenever he’s keeping a lookout and is all alone, he starts singing.

It happened again today and it almost got him, his dad, and his gang caught. His dad was angry and disappointed, but it turned out well, mostly thanks to Barry’s amazing driving skills. They managed to shake off the cops, but for a long time, it was close, really, really close.

Whenever Johnny felt his dad’s eyes on him during the pursuit, he flinched a little. There was so much disappointment in them. But as soon as they reached the garage, Johnny was quick to help unload the loot. His dad seemed to be pleased. Only when his dad left the room to change into his regular clothes did Johnny allow himself to take a deep breath.

His dad has still not returned, but Johnny is telling himself for the hundredth time now that he needs to be more careful. Heck, he can even hear the sirens in the distance. Okay, they are not so distant - they are actually really close.

Johnny’s eyes widen when he realizes that he forgot to pull down the shutter of the garage. So much for being careful! He quickly runs to the front of the garage and catches up on that. The shutters are almost down completely when something gets blown inside by a breeze. Johnny pulls down the shutter all the way, but his eyes are on the yellow piece of paper. He grabs it and reads what’s written on it.

His eyes widen and a big smile spreads on his face when his brain processes the words.

A hundred-thousand dollars for a singing competition? That’s great! That’s money, actual money!

He can hear his dad’s voice behind him and Johnny quickly hides the flyer in his jacket. Yes, he might be able to win some money with his singing, but he can’t tell his dad about that yet. He needs to win the money first. Then his dad would understand, and would see that Johnny can make a living out of his singing.

And maybe, just maybe hearing Johnny sing wouldn’t hurt his dad so much. He can only hope.

Meena

Meena loves to sing. She loves it so much that she forgets everything around her. She just needs to close her eyes and then it doesn’t matter if someone is watching her and hearing her. She just sings. And she knows she has a great voice. She has known that for quite a while now, even without her grandpa reminding her on a daily basis that she should make something of her talent. The thing is, she just can’t. And she tried. A lot. She tried a choir, she tried a band, and it never worked.

Because while she can forget everything around her when she’s singing, there’s so much that keeps her from getting there - her nervousness, her shyness, her agoraphobia. And that’s too much to deal with.

She just never makes to the part where she actually starts singing. Her nervousness has often kept her from actually entering a stage. She managed to deal with her shyness a bit, though. She was able to ask if she can join the band and the choir, but it seemed her short-lived boldness was used up after that. So her shyness made it impossible for her to actually start singing on the few occasions she made it on the stage. As did her agoraphobia. Whenever she feels all their eyes on her, she freezes, she forgets what she wants to do. She just panics. Even worse, she actually forgets how singing works.

And that’s just bad because singing is her life. It comes so easily when she’s alone or when she’s surrounded by people she’s comfortable with. But even then she has to close her eyes to be able to sing. But that’s no problem. She closes her eyes often enough when singing anyway.

It happened again today when singing Happy Birthday! to her grandpa. She just started singing, making a mental note to sing with her family and not get carried away. But then she closed her eyes and singing took over, and her voice was doing all these amazing things. And when she opened her eyes again, her grandpa, her grandma, and her mom looked at her, appreciation in their eyes.

Immediately, her ears flapped over her face, hiding herself from their looks as much as she could. That’s something she picked up at a young age - hiding behind her ears. It had been easier when she’d been younger, when her ears had been bigger and her face smaller. But she still does it. It gives her a hint of feeling safe, but unfortunately, it’s not enough to overcome her fears.

And of course her grandpa had to make a comment on what a superstar he would be if he had Meena’s voice. Meena tried to play it down, saying that sure, he would, hoping it didn’t show that it hurt her a bit. Because her grandpa is right. He would be a superstar if he had Meena’s voice. But Meena won’t. She’ll never be a superstar. She’s too shy for that. Too nervous. She just can’t do it. And she hates it.

If only she would be more like her grandpa, if only she’d be more confident, if only… No, she isn’t. Period.

She’d never be a superstar. Period.

Later that day, it’s time for Meena to carry out her domestic chores. And she does that like she always does it - with her headphones on, listening to her favorite music and humming along. Work is always easier with a little music. That’s probably because she loves music so much. Or maybe it’s a general thing. Meena doesn’t know. And she couldn’t care less.

Of course, she starts thinking about her singing problem again - which is more a problem of not singing. Or not being able to sing.

She thinks of ways to overcome her fears. She could try keeping her eyes closed when she enters a stage. But then she remembers that she’s already tried this. And she almost fell off the stage back then.

She could ask her grandpa to lead her out on the stage, but no, that would look ridiculous. People might laugh about it and then she wouldn’t be able to sing because she’d be too ashamed.

Meena sighs. Why is this so complicated? She loves singing, so why on earth can’t she sing when it comes to the point!? She wants to scream!

She doesn’t, though, just lets out another sigh.

And then she realizes something else. Maybe that’s the problem - that she thinks that she can’t sing when it comes to the point, but maybe it doesn’t come to the point. Maybe she just isn’t supposed to sing in front of an audience. Maybe she’s supposed to sing when no one is around. Maybe she’s supposed to sing when she’s alone.

Meena nods her head in agreement. Yes, maybe that’s it.

She waits for her heart to do a little jump, for a pleasant feeling to settle in because she has finally figured it out.

Instead, she has this bitter taste in her mouth.

She sighs again and continues her work.

She’s just started watering the flowers, humming to herself like she always does, and as surprising as that is, the longer she was humming or singing silently to herself, the more the bitter taste in her mouth disappeared, and now she’s actually in a good mood. And that’s great. Yes, that’s the good thing about singing. It always cheers her up, no matter what.

Suddenly, she feels a gentle push on her shoulder and looks up. Her mom and her grandpa are standing in front of her, and her grandpa is holding up a yellow publicity flyer while her mom nods approvingly. Meena reads what’s written on the flyer, and her eyes widen.

A hundred-thousand dollars for a singing competition? That’s a lot of money! Gosh, she could help her family with all that money, she could go to college, oh, she could do so much with that money!

Okay, she still has no idea if she’ll be able to sing in front of an audience when she has to, but for that amount of money, it’s worth a try!

And maybe that’s all she needed - a goal, a real goal. Not just being able to sing on a stage or join a band or a choir - no, something concrete like prize money. Okay, she isn’t totally sure about that yet, but heck, she’s going to try!

Mike

Mike loves to sing. He loves music in general, but singing is something special. Singing is something he does for himself mostly. And this means something. Because he’s making a living out of his music. Not a good living, that’s for sure, but it’s enough to bring a meal into his tummy almost every day and keep a roof over his head. Okay, an old and leaky roof, but a roof nonetheless. But he’s sure that one day, his music will bring him enough money to live a good life, a comfortable life with all the luxury he appreciates so much.

And if it’s not with his music, well, he has a bunch of other talents. Not all of them that legal - or legal at all - but hey, if it brings him enough money, that’s totally fine, isn’t it? There’s nothing wrong with money. Or enough money to make it to another day. And one day enough money to live a good, a really good life. Yes, that sounds about right.

But singing, that’s something he doesn’t do for money. He plays his saxophone because he’s good, very good, and animals enjoy it enough to give him a bit of money for it. And as long as it’s not just a penny like that obnoxious monkey gave him today. Ugh, the nerve of it! A penny! For his amazing saxophone-playing! No, that’s something he just can’t let pass. He’s worked too hard to be that good with the saxophone, not to mention that he’s studied at the Lincoln School of Music. Okay, he didn’t graduate and he didn’t spend that much time studying, and the Lincoln School of Music probably isn’t that much of an institution, but hey, it still is something! And no one, least of all this monkey, is going to take this from him!

But singing, that’s just something he doesn’t want to do for money. It’s special. He learned the saxophone because he liked the sound of it, but singing was something he used to do at home with his parents. That was such a long time ago, but he still remembers everything. The evening they were sitting together in the living room, his father playing the piano and he and and his mother singing, and it was … perfect. He never felt so safe again in his life. And then everything changed, and Mike found himself having to take care of himself way too early. To have to fight for his life each and every day. He managed. Somehow. He still manages.

Yes, sometimes, after a day of playing his saxophone on the streets and waiting for animals to toss some spare coins into his saxophone case or maybe, when he’s lucky, some dollar bills, he comes home, tired and hungry, preparing himself a small meal when he’s made enough money to buy one, and out of instinct, he starts singing. It starts as humming a melody, and then singing a few notes, a few more, until he ends up singing a whole song. And as surprising as that is, he always feels better when he’s done. Heck, sometimes he even sings so loudly, his neighbor starts banging his fists against the wall and shouts for him to shut up. But Mike couldn’t care less. Well, he probably should care, because his neighbor is a rhino and the walls are very thin, but he doesn’t.

Singing is what keeps him going. Keeping singing as something special is what keeps him going. It reminds him of that safe feeling, those little moments of perfectness, and sometimes, he even feels safe again. Just for as long as he’s singing, but still. It makes the darkest times just not so dark and it helps him make it to another day.

Mike puts his saxophone back into its case. The place at the train station didn’t bring much money, well, except for the bundle of dollar bills he managed to get from that monkey. But still, he better looks for a new place. He closes the case and sets out for the park. That’s a usually a good place at this time of the day.

He reaches his destination a while later, setting down his saxophone case, opening it and taking his beloved saxophone out. He lets his eyes wander over the park. There are some animals hanging around here. So he was right. This is a good place for earning some money with his music.

With a determined nod he lifts the saxophone to his mouth and starts playing.

Time passes, but Mike can’t say how much time exactly. He’s too busy playing the saxophone and checking if any other animals have the nerve of tossing just a penny into his saxophone case like this obnoxious monkey did. So far, no one did, and Mike is pleased.

There’s something in the sky above him, a rustling sound, but Mike doesn’t even care to look up. He’s playing his music. He’s earning money. He’s making it to another day.

But then something hits him. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just a piece of paper, but still.

“Hey, hey, hey!” he protests, struggling free from the paper. “What do you think you…”

He breaks off when his eyes fall on the piece of paper and he reads what’s written there.

A hundred-thousand dollars? For a singing competition!? Heck, think of the life he could afford with that amount of money! All these nice things! It wouldn’t be about making it another day anymore, he’d actually be living!

A big smile spreads across his face. It doesn’t even falter the tiniest bit when he realizes that it’s a singing competition which means he’ll have to sing.

That’s fine, Mike decides. Singing to win a hundred-thousand dollars, that’s something special, right? Maybe not as special as the safe feeling singing for himself brings to him, but still close enough so he can overlook this.

It’s about a hundred-thousand dollars, for Pete’s sake! If that’s not special enough to sing in front of an audience, to sing to win, to sing to earn this life he’s always wanted, then Mike has no idea what is.

Rosita

Rosita loves to sing. She sings in the shower, she sings while working, she sings whenever she can. Singing makes everything better, easier.

And she’s good. Everyone knows. Everyone in her family, that is. Even though her piglets and especially Casper make fun of her sometimes. But that’s okay. They don’t mean it in a bad way. They are young, and sometimes, they just don’t know what to do with their energy. It makes them say and do stupid things. Like climbing on the table and making fun of her. It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt much.

Norman knows that she’s a good singer. Or so she thought.

Oh, yeah, you were great, honey.

Were. Past tense.

As in, back at college, she was great. When she and Norman spent every weekend at the Karaoke bar close to campus and Rosita was singing for hours until she just couldn’t go anymore. They always cleared the stage for her as soon as she entered the bar. And then she started singing and kept singing until her mouth was dry and she needed a drink and little break. It was amazing.

And then she and Norman graduated and got married. Finding a great job was next on her list, but she got pregnant before that. She remembers the joy and the fear she felt at the same time when she found out. And then it turned into more fear than joy when she found out she was going to have thirteen babies. Thirteen! At least, she isn’t superstitious or something, because thirteen-lets! Or whatever the right name is. She never checked. She managed to keep the fear at bay, and it was singing that helped her. She sang whenever panic threatened to take over. The doctors told her that having so many babies wasn’t unusual for a pig. It was for her, though. But she managed. And so did Norman. He looked for a job, a job he didn’t like and still doesn’t like, but a job nonetheless. And a job that brought enough money. He was taking responsibility, and so did she.

And she did it again when soon after the thirteen-lets were born she got pregnant again. Twelve babies this time. Or twelve-lets or whatever. Again, she managed, somehow. But it was harder than before. Much harder. Norman’s boss felt sympathetic, though, and let Norman take annual holiday at once. It was okay. With twenty-five babies, they didn’t have time for vacation anyway. It was easier when Norman was around, but even this very long holiday way over at some point and Rosita was alone with twenty-five babies. What made it even harder was that to show his boss that he was entitled - and because they needed the money - Norman took every chance to work overtime. And so Rosita found herself alone a lot with the babies. Sometimes, she thought she was losing her mind. And when this happened she started singing. Sometimes, it was more like humming to herself. But it helped. Singing always helped. It still does.

But when Norman reminded her that her singing days were over, it made her sad. Really sad. That was when she took over her post at the window and turned on the music a little louder. She only managed to move when it was time to say goodbye to her piglets when they left for school. And then she moved back to the window and turned the music on even louder.

And she’s still here. She just can’t get herself to move. And for a long time in ages, she doesn’t feel like singing. She just feels like standing there, her arms folded on the windowsill, her chin resting on her arms, looking into the distance, and listening to the radio. She can feel the tears prickle in her eyes, but she doesn’t care.

She never wanted to be a professional singer, she just wants to sing. And all she’s asking for is a little appreciation for it from her family. That’s not much to ask for, right? That her family enjoys to hear her sing as much as she enjoys singing. That’s the only little thing she’s asking for herself. And that’s okay, right? She’s allowed to ask for something just for herself, right?

Rosita lets out a long sigh. It doesn’t matter now. She’s trifled away enough time already. She’ll have to work way past midnight anyway if she wants to get all the housework done. She’d better get started now or it would take even longer.

She forcefully wipes over her eyes with the back of her hand, brushing away the tears that never managed to fall.

The piglets are already fast asleep for at least half an hour, but she hasn’t even made it halfway through the pile of dirty dishes. And the fact that Catherine called ten minutes ago doesn’t help to make her work any faster. She isn’t really listening, though. Catherine is just telling one of her stories again, and all of Catherine’s stories are just about Catherine talking. She doesn’t want replies, she just wants someone to listen and mumble approvingly, so that’s what Rosita does with her phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder while doing the dishes. She mumbles and Catherine talks.

And then, suddenly, there’s something at the window, something yellow, and it’s hard to miss. So Rosita looks at it. It’s a flyer, and there’s something written on it. Rosita has to tilt her head a little to be able to read all the words.

One-hundred thousand dollars for a singing competition? So much money, it would be enough that they could move into a bigger apartment, and that she could send all her piglets to college. And making all that money with her singing? That’s amazing! She can do something she loves and get money for it! Money for her family!

It all clicks together in her brain, and she straightens herself, her eyes wide with joy and a big smile on her face.

She barely notices the splashing sound when her phone falls into the sink.

#sing 2016 #sing movie #sing fanfiction #sing fanart #sing mini bang 2017 #andrea-odown #arteinthemachine

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taizi · 7 years

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I'm always down for any TMNT from you. I'd love to read more of your Ghost AU.

currently my fave tmnt au, how did u know?

give up the ghost

“We got a ton of good stuff,” Woody says happily from the backseat, panning through images on his complicated-looking camera. He looks up, grinning through a fine layer of hundred-year-old grime, and says, “We had permission to go in that house, right? From the owner?”

“Sure,” Leo says, glancing at him from the passenger side seat. They’re idling at a stop sign, because it’s twelve a.m. on a Wednesday and traffic won’t exist for another six hours; they can pretty much take all the time they want. “We always get permission first. Why?”

“‘Cause I’m thinkin’ we could upload some of this. Maybe make a Youtube channel, or a blog site. You want people to be able to find you, and an online presence is probably the best way to make that happen.”

“We have a Facebook page,” Mikey points out reasonably, eyes on the road as he pulls forward. In the reflection of the rearview mirror, Woody’s grin warms into something fond.

“For someone with a tech genius for a brother you’re a little clueless, Mikester. Trust me on this one?”

And that was never really the question; Woody has been with the club for nearly half a year now, and he hasn’t balked once at any of the things he’s seen. He goes in behind Leo and Mikey with that bulky camcorder on his shoulder, eyes focused forward and hands steady, and Mikey has come to count on his calm presence the same way he counts on Leo.

So it’s easy for Mikey to shrug and say, “‘Course, dude. I give you full creative license.”

“For that, amigo, marry me.”

And butterflies find a home in Mikey’s stomach after that. They live there happily for a handful of minutes, and Mikey is smiling like a dork at the parking lot as he turns into it, until Leo says, “Isn’t that Raph’s car?” and everything immediately sucks.

“Oh, no,” he says, spotting the station wagon. “No, no, no. Leo – “

“We can hide out at my house,” Leo says immediately. His voice is soft with sympathy, even as he adds, “But I think it’s a little too late for that.”

He’s right. Raph is leaning against the hood of his car, arms folded. It’s midnight, and he’s staking out Mikey’s apartment like a verifiable weirdo, and Mikey would rather be anywhere else right now.

Woody sighs with feeling, packing up his camera bag with unnecessary force. “This dude needs a hobby,” he mutters, one of three people in the world who are unequivocally on Mikey’s side. Mikey appreciates the show of solidarity, even though it’s hard to appreciate anything in face of the confrontation he’s in for.

He shifts glumly into park, pulls the keys out of the starter. Dusts himself off half-heartedly because that’s a lost cause, trades a long-suffering look with Leo, and then pops open the driver’s side door.

“Hi, Raph,” he says. “Didn’t expect to see you here. At my house, in the middle of the night.”

Raph gives him a once-over and his mouth tightens. “You got a minute?”

“I have lots of minutes,” Mikey says with forced good cheer. Unfortunately, he doesn’t add. To his friends he says, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Neither of them move. “It’s already late,” Leo says, meeting Raph’s heated look with a cool one. “Mind if I sleep over?”

“Same,” Woody pipes up. “Since we all got class in the morning, makes sense to carpool, don’t it?”

Mikey is hopelessly grateful to have them both in his life. On one hand, Raph isn’t someone he needs protecting from – Raph is a good person, and loyal to a fault, and he only comes around like this because he’s worried about Mikey, and trying to do good by the memory of his best friend by taking care of his best friend’s wayward little brother.

On the other hand, every conversation with him after Donnie died has been strained and uncomfortable, and it’s to the point now that just seeing him puts an anxious knot in the pit of Mikey’s stomach.

“Okay,” Mikey says, to all three of them. “Let’s go upstairs, I guess.”

Leo is texting someone on the quiet elevator ride up to Mikey’s floor. Since Mikey knows for a fact that Usagi isn’t awake right now and Karai is visiting her mother for the week, he has a good idea who Leo’s texting, and he’s proven right when he pushes the front door open and Donnie is nowhere to be seen.

Thanks, Leo, he thinks fervently. It’s brutally unfair to bring one of Donnie’s friends into the house without warning him first. The first time Casey dropped by unannounced, Donnie accidentally shorted out the power on the whole floor, and he was sad for days after.

Woody casually sets his bag on the table, right over Donnie’s phone. Mikey’s friends are actual ninjas and he loves them.

Leo shrugs out of his jacket, pretends not to notice the hearty rain of dust that follows the action, and folds it over the back of a kitchen chair. Raph looks equal parts exasperated and incredulous.

“I get it,” he says, “you’re his guard dogs. If I promise I’m not gonna throw a punch, will you let me talk to the kid?”

Mikey’s friends look pointedly at him. Mikey says, “Yeah, that’s. Cool. Leo, Woody, you guys can grab a shower if you want. The half-bath is off Donnie’s room, there’s a shower in there, too. Raphie and me’ll make us all somethin’ to eat real quick.”

For a second, it doesn’t look like they’re gonna move. After an obvious pause they both extract themselves from the room and head down the hall. It’s soft, Mikey only catches it because he’s listening, but they both murmur a greeting as they pass Don’s room and despite everything else that small kindness makes Mikey smile.

“Grilled cheese,” he decides aloud, and Raph dutifully heads to the fridge.

Maybe he’s making a point to be less barbed, but the silence between the two of them is closer to companionable than it has been in a long time. They butter half a loaf of bread, peel open a handful of Provolone cheese slices, and the first sandwich is assembled on the skillet, browned on one side, when Raph finally says, “Your friends don’t like me much.”

Mikey looks at him sideways. “I haven’t said anything to them to make them think – “

“Mikey, c’mon. I know that.” Raph runs a hand through his short hair, weary. “I wouldn’t like me much, either, if I was them. I don’t mean to be an asshole, kid, I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t been,” Mikey says immediately, heart bleeding for him. It’s so complicated between them anymore, but they were close, once. Close enough that Raph cares for him this much, even after everything. It makes Mikey feel small sometimes. “You’re going through something really painful, Raphie, and it’s hard. I get it.” He hesitates, and looks down at the plastic spatula in his hand, and adds, “I know I don’t make it any easier. Is Casey still mad at me?”

“Mikey,” he says it like it hurts. “He’s not mad at you. He never should’ve said what he did back then. He regrets it, he just doesn’t know how to apologize.”

“‘Sorry’ is a good place to start,” Mikey murmurs, getting a new sandwich started. It easier to look at the food than it is to look at Raph when he adds, “It’s okay if he’s mad at me, though.”

“Just stop,” Raph thunders suddenly, slamming a fist on the counter.

The only reason Mikey doesn’t flinch is because of the company he’s been keeping lately, in a handful of haunted houses and churches across the state. Poltergeists are far more volatile than even Raphael, and with tempers much trickier. Mikey has seen far worse these days.

Raph looks sorry for his outburst anyway, floundering for a moment before steeling himself and soldiering on.

“You’re so – understanding. You shouldn’t be. You should be – all messed up, like the rest of us are. You should be grieving. But instead you’re actin’ like nothin’ happened. Like he ain’t gone, and you don’t miss him.”

Mikey’s heart is a solid lump in his chest. The sandwich on the stove is burning, filling the air with an acrid smell.

“I know it ain’t true,” Raph goes on, softer. “I know that. I just don’t know why you’re actin’ like it, Mikey. It don’t make any sense to me.”

Movement in the corner of his eye makes Mikey look up. Donnie is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, and his brown eyes are miserable behind his big glasses, and Mikey wishes with his whole heart that he could give his gift away by the hour, lend it to all the people missing people they can’t see anymore.

“There isn’t really a textbook way to mourn somebody,” Mikey says carefully. “There isn’t a right or wrong way to hurt.”

Raph doesn’t have an answer for that. The smoke alarm saves them both in the end, filling the strained silence with shrill beeps, and Raph leaves not long after that.

Woody comes down the hall in a pair of borrowed pajama pants and one of their official club T-shirts, still toweling his hair dry. He gives the scorched grilled cheese a long, knowing look.

“Raph is still grieving,” Mikey says firmly before Woody has a chance to make his remark. “He’s allowed to be difficult.”

“He’s grieving your brother,” comes the unflinching reply. “He’s not allowed to be difficult at you.”

But that’s not how grief works. It can come up from nothing, the same way love can, and it can be every bit as senseless and impossible and staggering as love can be, too.

No one gets to point at someone else and say “my grief is worse than yours, because my love was different.” No one can be the judge of that. It’s impossible to measure, impossible to make sense of. Mikey wouldn’t even want to try.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead he slides an un-burnt grilled cheese onto a styrofoam plate and hands it over, with an absent, “Your shirt’s on backwards.”

Woody scoffs but an involuntary flush rises in his cheeks – and despite everything else, Mikey can’t help but smile crookedly at the sight Woody makes, as he tries to turn the shirt around without taking it off.

A few of those butterflies from earlier must have survived. And they must show on his face or give him away somehow, because Leo takes one look at him as he joins them in the kitchen and rolls his eyes.

“I’m putting you both up for adoption,” he tells them dryly.

“Empty threat,” Woody says from somewhere beneath his shirt. “You’d miss us too much.”

“I hate how sure you are of that,” Leo mutters, then reaches over to nudge Mikey’s arm. “Your turn. Shower. And then bed.”

“Okay, mom,” Mikey says agreeably, and neatly sidesteps the punch Leo aims at his shoulder. Woody snickers, and an animated argument picks up behind Mikey as he heads down the hall. He pauses in the door of Donnie’s room, and says, “Bro?”

Donnie lifts his head to look at him, the only reply Mikey will get without his phone to serve as a communication bridge.

“Are you okay?” Mikey asks him, feeling small.

His brother stands and moves at a human pace across the room, and touches Mikey’s shoulder with unsubstantial fingers. His lips move, forming words Mikey can’t hear.

But at the end of it, Donnie smiles. Relieved, leaning into the hand that isn’t really there, Mikey smiles back.

#tmnt idw #give up the ghost #my writing #prompt #arteinthemachine #tmnt fic

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