TMNT ONESHOTS.

" On nights like these, with our bruised youth and busted heaters. "

2012 Tmnt / no ship
—
On nights where they were small, where they had a busted heater that kept their smaller bodies warm, but not as warm as their fathers auburn fur, where they huddled and cooed.

Where they spoke in chirps and churrs and squeaks, where they babbled out slurred words, on nights where they had no fate clear, on nights where the day would be warmer than the chills.

On nights like these, they cuddled closely and shared the body heat of five, nestled and slumped on one another.

But it was different tonight, for a bunch of hell-bound children, where they were smothered in the fire of vengeance, where they had busted limps and permanently scars.

Where they had a working heater, not busted and newish looking, although it was that same heater, just fixed and loved with the youth of four and the elder of one.

But it wasn't the changes that unsettled the four youths of flames, of unrelenting force, of mistakes they hadn't been born for.

It was the losses, brought with the smithering. They once could fall back on a maroon kimono, their skin patchy and spotty with speckles, and where they could fit in the palms of his claws.

But now, they fell back on the blue ribbons that are the brother, the eldest and the one with scars on his neck and legs, with a brace on his ankle to his foot, with a cane just inches away.

The silence of tonight was suffrage in a way they couldn't explain, with dryness on their lips and bile on their tongues. With stains on their cheeks. (which are rough, but if you pinch them gently enough, you can break through busted down skin and find the youth.)

The silence of tonight was not the memories they had when they were small and huddled close, their shells clanked against another and not a worry in the world of their fathers care.

The silence of tonight was of a man's fury, of a fathers blood still spilled and drying on a roof—despite the fact he had been buried months ago. The silence of tonight was a question, a reconciliation.

The silence of tonight made them stiff in the limbs, but alive in the heart and vein.

It was the heart that took control, his orange-mask stained in splotches from mourn and grief. "I..miss him." Is all he whispers out, not in his usual enthusiastic tone of innocence that clinged onto his voice and blood.

Those words cause an explosion of sobs, not from the heart, but from the brash. The red-masked child has only cried once since his father lay deceased, but now, it has moved twice.

(There have been more, but this is the second it was visual and visible to anyone else.)

"I'm so—sorry, I'm sorry-" is all he whispered out, and the guilt hangs high on his broad shoulders for someone so young. And maybe somebody who didn't know him would swoop in and try too hush and comfort.

But his brothers do know him, despite how they fussed and argued before. They stay silent and let him sob and quietly shriek. The brain takes control of the situation, his eyes red and similar too the deceased father.

"I'm angry." He whispered, and it's matter-of-fact. The brash is still crying, the heart is sniffling, and the leader is quiet. The brain has found himself dulled, but not in the bad way.

In the way where he expresses how he feels without ounces of shame.

And so he repeats it,

"I'm angry." He whispered, and despite the killer of there father and the killer of there youths thag haven't ended is dead as well, he's still angry. Because so much had been stolen.

The leader only nods, grabbing his brothers closely and making small gaspy breathes, he dry-heaves because crying is not possible, not for shame, but for he has cried himself dry.

And then the heaters stifles, and the four look at it. It breaks, a bent wing behind its gates.

And for some reason, they are reminded of smallness, and they can't help but smiled, even if they are saliva filled and drained. The leader pulls his brothers closer, as they watch the heater puff out it's last moments of heat.

When it dies, something else warms them. It's themselves, but it's also the air around them. They can feel his prescene, his love that was difficult too see unless you squinted, unless you begged for it.

But they knew that love was there, and for the four youths, that was what they needed. The knowledge it was there, sometimes felt better then the show of it being there.

The feel his kimono, his auburn fur, his claws thag could one hold them. His arms that had learned too strech around there shells, too rub them on particular spots thst were comfortable.

The heart did a double take, and for a moment, he thought his father was there in the room. And he was, he just didn't show his physical form, but even beyond death he tried to hold them close when it mattered the most.

Another cry escapes the brash, but this time, he has a smile, and his eyes are scrunched up, his hands tightly on the leader's wrist as he follows the heart's gaze.

The brain smiled, nestling his head on the brash's shoulder, his eyes following as well. He softly hummed, and maybe, in another scene, you'd think he was pleased.

But the brain found that he had no clue how to show his grief, because he had always fallen back on his father when it came to being upset. He was sure his father already knew how he had felt, even though they never spoke, they knew he was scared and sad.

Their small dry-heave from the leader shows tiredness, but he was making a small smile, and that was sometimes the best you could ask for after the fights they've battled.

"Remember..when we were tots?" The heart whispers, and the silence is a 'yes' to him, because he grabs the brain's hand. "Remember, when we used to sit right here for hours—and we'd get that heater out, and—" he whispered, pausing himself, grip tight around the brain's hand.

"And we'd wait for him, because we knew he'd come home." He finished, looking at his brothers in the eyes and it's a small realization in the brain's eyes that makes him smile too.

"Yeah, I do.." he whispered, his purple ribbons falling flat on his shoulders, as he looked at the entrance of their little home they had been living in since they were small.

The words aren't said, but they know what is being thinked. They know their father is coming home, just particularly late and slow this day. But finally, he has come home and is huddling close to them since the heater finally cracked.

Similar, but not the same too when they were small, and that comforts them to know it was not those small faces that were bruised, but it hurts to know that they were once those small faces.

That they still are,

Just a little taller.

The warmth wrapped around them once more, like one big hug from the fuzziest yeti. They slumped against each other, shells clicking and clunking once they did.

Not very long after, their eyes fell short and glazed, and they found themselves sleeping and dozing off, small snores erupting from them, enjoying the night.

On nights like these, they fall back on each other.