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Chapter Text

Raph held his breath, his heartbeat pounding anxiously in his ears as his muscles themselves tensed in uneasy anticipation— and, without further hesitation, the snapping turtle charily peeked his eyes open to view the digital numbers below him that would serve as the ultimate measurement for the wearisome week's success….

…And immediately, what little expedient hope that Raph had gathered shattered.

In the span of one week— one torturous week of staying within a strictly low caloric range, ignoring his stomach's insistent demands, lying to his family (and somehow doing so successfully), purging any accidental extra calories, and exercising for at least two hours per day— Raph had only lost three point one pounds.

Thus failing the first week of his fifteen-pound-elimination-per-week plan, regardless of its level of achievability.

And thus leaving seventy-four point one more pounds to banish.

Raph inhaled shudderingly and forced back the torpid tears of terror and shame beginning to flood his oculars—

How was he ever going to reach his goal weight if he could only lose three pounds maximum per week? 

At this rate, he was never going to— to not look like—

Leo's lighthearted voice replayed tauntingly. "Raph is the most hippo-like," he had once teased.

The familiar chorus of Leo's, Mikey's, and Donnie's snickering laughter followed the quote as always— and, almost as if on cue, the wave of overwhelming anxiety, shame, and hopelessness crashed against Raph's chest.

Raph swallowed forcibly, willing away the familiar surplus of tears threatening to cascade down his pallid green visage.

  …Why did he have to be trapped inside that abhorrent, ludicrously large body?

Why did his status as the "biggest brother" have to be so painfully literal?

Raph was so dreadfully, achingly tired of breaking the objects in his immediate vicinity, tired of playing the laughingstock who always somehow found himself risibly stuck— the most recent display of this exhibit had occurred a week prior, when he had accidentally wedged himself in the Turtle Tank's floor hatch that had once been designed to fit Raph's specifications— tired of frightening any young humans who caught sight of his monstrous shadow, and tired of the miserable reflection who couldn't even fit in the mirror.

Why couldn't he simply be thinner, like his brothers? They managed to maintain both svelteness and muscle— so why couldn't Raph?

Why did he have to resemble a hippo?

The familiar laugh track of his brothers instantaneously replayed itself at the notion.

Couldn't he simply be weightless?

Invisible?

Feeling heavier than ever, Raph miserably disembarked the light gray scale and began to sink again into the heartless sea of chilly bathroom flooring.

The titanic number that had been on the scale seemed to follow, pitilessly haunting the empty bathroom and the snapping turtle's tempest of thoughts. 

How hadn't Raph lost more weight? He had done all that he was supposed to….

Raph despondently stared at his increasingly blurry hands, desperately wishing that he could grasp and destroy the number that had been taunting him for so long. "What am I doin' wrong?" he whispered aloud despondently, his throat strained.

Torrid tears began to drip down his cheeks. "Why can't I do this?" Raph choked.

He had thought he had come so far this week— again, adding and subtracting calories, exercising obsessively, purging in secret, improvising guilty excuses, and inconspicuously escaping family meals, all while pretending that nothing could possibly be wrong— 

And yet so far, he had only lost three point one pounds— eleven point nine pounds short of his weekly target.

Raph sank defeatedly to the bathroom floor, despondent tears streaming down his visage, as the suffocating world seemed to swallow him whole.

—                     —                     —                     —                     

Donnie inhaled sharply in deep, serene satisfaction, his purple-masked oculars closed as he held out his arms and drank in the verdant, palacious, and susurrous world around him: his latest grandiose achievement.

A long, satisfied exhale departed his lips.

"You've outdone yourself again, Donatello."

Donnie blinked open his bright eyes, basking in the otherwordly wonders of his surroundings and planting his tech-bō into the soft grass below.

"A botanist's paradise: the Symbiodome."

The scattered kaleidoscopic hues and patterns around the solitary turtle— from tangles and twists of poisonous deep purple, diaphanous yellow, radiation-like green, ominous blood red, and to the ethereally glowing white— remained silent.

A faint programmed breeze, seemingly the only congratulatory response, softly brushed itself against a spiraling, pine-green fern frond adjacent to the softshell's head.

Donnie sank his quondam-proud shoulders as a prick of hollowness like a burr clung itself to his chest cavity.

"...So why don't you feel anything?" he murmured aloud, gazing mirthlessly at the suddenly mundane world around him.

…Suppose the Symbiodome wasn't impressive enough? 

…Or perhaps it wasn't quite exceeding expectations enough?

Donnie had created an organized assortment of wondrous, exotic plants and realistic land formations from arches to plateaus to waterfalls— each plant genetically modified to enlarge its brilliance and magnify his own— all in one admirably, efficiently controlled, and symbiotic micro-climate.

…But as the lone softshell turtle gazed absently upon his latest creation, he sensed something uncomfortably prodding his insides.

Something… lacking.

A soft whirring noise approached the softshell turtle. 

"Maybe because you haven't shown it to anybody yet," a casual voice suggested.

Donnie turned curiously to grin once more at the hovering, dark purple conversation newcomer. "Ah! S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.," the softshell turtle blurted pleasedly. 

Relieved, Donnie thoughtfully turned again toward his lush, verdurous creation. "Yes, yes, you're right," he agreed in expedient satisfaction. "Until the coming grand opening, I don't have anyone to gloat to just yet…."

Donnie grinned complacently, straightening heartenedly— what had he been thinking? Of course the Symbiodome was perfect; Donnie didn't make anything that was lackluster as, after all, he himself was flawless.

A twinge of apprehension suddenly squirmed in his stomach, fertilizing the discountenancing seed of doubt.

Donnie was flawless.

…Right?

—                     —                     —                     —                    

The four turtle brothers lounged about on the cool floor adjacent to the skating ramps, three-fourths of the turtles again arguing incessantly around the colored cardboard game board.

Raph, meanwhile, fiddled absently with an ivory one-dollar bill, hugging his knees and attempting to distance himself from the painful awareness of how much space he was occupying around the light green square.

"Uh, okay, go back," Leo commanded embitteredly. "You rolled a four. You landed on green."

"I beg to differ, dear brother," Donnie retorted dignifiedly. "And I am now going to collect my Community Chest card because I, in fact, rolled a five."

Raph silently folded the tip of the ivory dollar bill, wishing he were anywhere— truly anywhere— but here.

"What?" Mikey blurted indignantly. "No, you didn't—!"

Raph distractedly studied the printed black-and-white pattern upon the bill as his dreary thoughts again began to drift.

Why did I agree to this, again? Raph wondered lethargically.

"Wait," Mikey said, his distant voice seeming to echo in Raph's empty mind. "...Where'd the dice go?"

Oh. Right, Raph answered himself testily. So nobody suspects nothin'.

A droplet of panic plinked upon his pale green visage at the thought that he'd been trying to distance himself from— how would his brothers react if they discovered that something wasn't right?

That Raph was resorting to such drastic methods of weight loss?

That Raph was plagued by headaches day after day?

That Raph couldn't sleep well, if at all, at night?

That Raph constantly felt as though his aching, empty stomach was consuming itself?

That Raph's body was so unbelievably sore from neverending overexertion due to obsessive exercising? 

That Raph's scratchy throat ached from repeatedly gagging himself and sending forth burning, acidulous vomit?

That Raph broke down into sobs each dawn at the mere notion of getting himself out of bed?

Raph swallowed uneasily; while it was true that the sewer-sequestered Hamatos often tried fad diets on and off as a family bonding activity, there was no possibility they would appreciate this one for one simple reason: 

This diet's goal, unlike the harmless others', wasn't achieving healthiness; no, this diet's goal was losing weight.

Much, much weight.

As quickly as possible.

And by any means necessary.

…So if anyone discovered that Raph was inflicting this upon himself—

"Oh, look, there the dice are!" Donnie blurted theatrically.

Disoriented, Raph jolted and glanced upward to watch, his cramping stomach churning restively, as the dice fortuitously fumbled from Donnie's fingers and clattered, spinning, onto the cardboard.

"Oh, whoops!" Donnie exclaimed monotonously. "Silly me," he said airily. "Guess we'll never know what I rolled…."

Mikey scowled at the smug softshell turtle. "So roll again," the box turtle commanded impatiently.

Raph miserably returned his gaze to the strewn collection of multicolored bills below him, longing to collapse into his aching head into his comforter and into the unconscious blissfulness of sleep….

Realistically thinking, however, Raph figured that that evening would be yet another sleepless night— and yet, even so, if he could escape to his bedroom now, he still could at least retire from this evening's charade.

Donnie shook his head sagely. "You can't roll again if no one sees the first roll," he countered wisely.

"What?" Mikey blurted incredulously. "Yes, you can!" he insisted.

Leo groaned dramatically. "Donnie, stop making stuff up and just roll again," he commanded irritably. "You're making this take forever."

Raph watched joylessly, his head throbbing, as a silver mechanic arm sprouted forth from Donnie's spider shell and dug determinedly through the nearby Monopoly box— to dramatically brandish the familiar paper rulebook, splayed open. 

"Page seventy-six, article two, and clause three," Donnie informed pleasantly.

Raph forlornly studied the lustrous metal arm, wishing with a sickly stomach twist that his own could be half as thin.

Leo frowned suspiciously. "Lemme see that," he snapped, snatching the rulebook hotly— within moments, however, he bitterly tossed the booklet aside.

"...Whatever," Leo muttered, chagrined. "That wasn't there before."

Donnie grinned deviously. "Oh, right," he said with a derisive scoff, waving away Leo's acrimonious utterance. "Like I just magically typed and printed an identical rulebook, furtively incinerated the old one, and snuck the new one into the lower right corner of the Monopoly box during my very limited free time just so I could again clandestinely adjust the rules and simultaneously gaslight you like in Animal Farm to increase my chances of winning and thus boost my incredibly low self-esteem," he said sarcastically.

Mikey narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "...Why did you say that so specifically?" he asked distrustfully.

Raph readjusted his weary gaze onto the floor, wondering how much more of this he could endure… but then again, no one was paying attention to the snapping turtle— and no one had been for quite some time, thanks to the softshell turtle's familiar cheating antics….

Raph furtively glanced between his brothers— perhaps if they truly were too busy arguing, he could discreetly sneak into his room…? 

Raph slowly, cautiously leaned backward— until Leo disgruntledly slid the dice over to the snapping turtle.

Immediately, Raph froze in rueful panic— before shifting his gaze to the dice before him and forcing a relieved, sheepish smile. "Oh. My turn," he mumbled. "Uh. Right."

Agonizingly aware that the others' gazes were now on him, Raph hastily picked up the dice, hurriedly shook them together, and tossed them toppling and sliding across the cardboard.

The others' inspecting gazes fell upon the two dice— one die reading three, and one die reading four.

"Seven," Donnie narrated. 

Raph began hurriedly hopping the metal Scottish Terrier across the board.

"I think he knows how to count," Leo said sardonically.

Donnie merely shrugged off Leo's comment. "Just proving my point," the softshell said innocently. "I do not make miscalculations when adding the sum of dots of two dice," he added indignantly. "Or ever, in fact."

Raph halted his piece on a dark blue property marker— a dark blue property marker decorated clutteringly with several bright red hotels (a rule that Donnie frequently insisted existed) that Donnie currently owned.

A rushing wave of relief washed over the snapping turtle— Raph hadn't the necessary ten thousand dollars to pay for rent, and therefore, he had gone bankrupt, thus excluding him from the competition and ultimately giving him an excuse to escape to his room at long, excruciating last.

"Oh… man!" Raph said awkwardly, feigning disappointment. "I, uh… don't have enough! …That's sure a shame, huh?"

Donnie began laughing maniacally at this statement— and unfortunately for Raph, before the snapping turtle could again attempt to force himself unsteadily to his feet and mumble some sort of incoherent excuse, Leo abruptly rose to his feet.

"Okay!" Leo exclaimed impetuously. "That's it," he blurted frustratedly. "I'm out."

Mikey, too, relievedly jumped to his feet. "Me too," he agreed wholeheartedly. "You win, Donnie. I'm goin' to bed."

Seizing his chance to escape, Raph hastily forced his dizzy self upward, grimacing from the nauseating effort—

Donnie suddenly fell silent, his devilish grin faltering. "...What?" he blurted incredulously. "Oh, come on," the softshell turtle pleaded playfully. "You guys are done already?"

Leo and Mikey disappeared wordlessly into their respective rooms.

"...Guys?" Donnie called uneasily.

Raph held his breath as he silently headed toward his own sleeping chamber of rest at long, long last—

"...Wait— Raph!" Donnie blurted hastily.

Donnie, grinning obsequiously, scrambled hastily in front of the baggy-eyed turtle. "Hey, uh— I'll let you re-roll," the softshell offered ramblingly, proffering the dice brightly, "and you can try again, and then—"

"...Sorry, Donnie," Raph interrupted quietly, guiltily avoiding his brother's gaze. "Maybe some other time."

Miserably, and head still pulsating, Raph trudged past the frozen softshell turtle, disappearing into the welcoming darkness of his room and collapsing onto the bed of rose-red blankets at last.

"...Oh," Donnie mumbled, his distant voice suddenly small. "...Yeah. Okay," he said awkwardly. "Uh, yeah. I guess later… then."

A few hesitant moments lingered before the softshell's footsteps reluctantly padded away; at Donnie's final departure, Raph exhaled in weary relief into a pillow.

Well, Raph thought sullenly, maybe if my brothers argue all the time… at least hiding this'll be a lot more easy than I thought.

Raph nearly chuckled morosely. …It's almost like I really am invisible, he added silently.

Yet somehow… this notion didn't seem to be eliciting the relief that Raph had previously thought it would.

With another long sigh, the snapping turtle rolled over, threw a pillow over his head, and disconsolately closed his aching oculars, regardless of the fact that he would most likely not be falling asleep any time soon and that his restless ruminations would only intensify hour after hour until the dreadful dawn.

Donnie listlessly packed away the board game pieces and slid the cardboard covering over the box.

The softshell picked up the rectangular box and paused, glancing around the deserted evening atrium again in hopes that a familiar face might appear— perhaps April's, which was poring over a mountain of homework, and perhaps even Splinter's, which was currently binging "Scorpion Treadmill."

…But no familiar faces appeared, only a charcoal cloud of solicitude beginning to loom above the empty atrium.

Donnie exhaled softly and traipsed down the hallway, distractedly returning the Monopoly box to its rightful place upon its dusty shelf.

The softshell turtle had thought that spending time with his family would've temporarily satiated his need for validation enough and weeded out the seed of doubt taking root— yet instead, spending time with his family seemed to have only fertilized the gut-twisting fern seed.

Donnie reluctantly returned to his own tenebrific room, numbly removed his spider shell, and sluggishly climbed up and into his indigo comforter and complementary purple weighted blanket.

The softshell turtle traced the ceiling, feeling hollow.

…Why couldn't he shake himself of the nagging feeling that he wasn't achieving all that he was supposed to? Usually, the feeling of commingled invisibility and worthlessness had departed by now, as it came and went depending entirely on the external validation the softshell turtle received— but then again, Donnie hadn't received any validation today.

Almost as though he was invisible.

Donnie hadn't anyone to reveal the Symbiodome to yet, hadn't won at Monopoly— and perhaps worst of all, hadn't been amusing enough to maintain the attention of his siblings for longer than an hour.

And if Donnie couldn't maintain the attention or earn the admiration of his siblings… what was he around for?

Donnie expeditiously climbed down his ladder, retrieved his cat-ear headphones, and wriggled back beneath his purple weighted blanket; the softshell turtle then placed the headphones upon his ears, carelessly removing his goggles, resumed whatever he had been last listening to, and sank his head back into his pillow—

—Do I have your attention? Yes or no? 

Donnie sighed softly, allowing the music to exacerbate the dread beginning to boil inside. 

I bet I'd guess the answer, but I don't wanna know…. Am I on in the background? Are you on your phone?

After all, if the squirming feelings like a papercut— too weak to throb and yet too strong not to burn— wouldn't leave, why not multiply them exponentially to at least experience a sense of catharsis?

I'd ask you what you're watching, but I don't wanna know…. Is there anyone out there? Or am I all alone? It wouldn't make a difference; still, I don't wanna know….

Donnie wearily closed his oculars, soaking himself in the pool of misery and again lulling himself into another agonizing, cryogenic-like shutdown.

I thought it'd be over by now, but I've got a while to go.… 

I'd give away the ending, but you don't wanna kn—

Chapter Text

Splash! Splash! Splash!

Racing step after step— followed by frantic flashlight flickers— thundered in the rumbling, dripping sewer tunnels, drowning out the sickly gasping breath. 

Splash! Splash! Splash!

Approximately an hour had passed since Raph had begun running in the tenebrous tunnels— and much earlier than usual; since Raph again hadn't been able to sleep due to hours of agonizing rumination and bodily dysphoria, he had decided to complete his morning cardio instead.

Splash! Splash! Splash!

And although his legs were burning, his chest was tightening, his head was throbbing, his throat was pleading for hydration, and his surroundings were slowly spinning, Raph desperately forced himself onward, onward, and onward.

The remaining issue, however, was that regardless of how far or fast the snapping turtle ran, he could not outrun the spiraling vortex of implacable anxiety— and furthermore, Raph's energy-and-nutrient-depleted body could only accomplish so much.

Splash! Splash! Spl—!

The suffocating world suddenly blackened.

Within moments, Raph frantically blinked open his eyes to discover a murky, shadow-adorned ceiling above him— and with a woozy glance to the side, himself supine and panting disorientedly on the grimy, mucky floor.  

Oh, Raph thought blankly.

He had fainted.

Raph wearily closed his burning eyes, allowing himself to catch his fleeting breath and soak in the flowing brook of feculent misery.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Raph exhaled exhaustedly, his racing heartbeat beginning to slow, and reopened his subfusc, lifeless oculars.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The familiar burning sensation again gripped the snapping turtle's pale visage, stinging his tear-welling eyes— and within mere moments, Raph again broke into hot, despairing tears.

Soft gasping, choking sobs echoed faintly in the darkness. 

Why couldn't he do this?

Raph needed to do this, to— to appear the way his brothers did, to be thin, to fit into the Turtle Tank floor hatch the way his brothers did with such ease, to not occupy three-quarters of any given room's space—

But he couldn't; no— instead, he was choking on wailing, despondent tears and lying pathetically in nauseating, murky sewage water at three-something in the morning.

Raph wept harder, scrunching his aching face, as hot tears cascaded down the sewage-water-tainted sides of his emaciated visage— and as he lay there, sobbing softly in the dim-flashlight-illumined gloom, the snapping turtle began to feel as though he was slowly dissolving, his soul ebbing away and trickling along with his tears into the gurgling pool of the pungent murky water below.

—                     —                     —                     —                    

Hazy violet and magenta glows glumly illumined the caliginous laboratory— and there, in the depths of the dark and loyally near the resplendent silver throne, hovered S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N., his glowing cerise eyes casting subdued light upon the hunched-over form of the sleepless, goggles-askew, muttering softshell turtle.

"Symbiodome… but how…? Flawless… have to…."

Dark mauve circles clung to Donnie's bloodshot oculars compulsively retracing the disorderly scrap-paper list before him.

"...Uh… Donnie?" S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. prompted disconcertedly. "Are you almost done yet?" he asked awkwardly. "...It's almost six in the morning."

Donnie didn't seem to have heard and instead hysterically muttered something unintelligible, frenzily flicking his pencil against the indigo desk.

"...Donnie?" S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. tried awkwardly.

Donnie, seemingly deaf to whatever noise S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. had uttered, frustratedly craned his emerald-green neck. "Flawless grand opening… flawless…."

"Donnie," S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N repeated impatiently.

Donnie guffawed abruptly and began to hyperventilate. "Disgrace… has to be perfect," he whispered in a sing-song tone, pulling frantically at his face and flexing his feet. "Donnie's always perfect!"

Recognizing where this capricious thought-spiraling was to inevitably lead, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. groaned exaggeratedly and hovered away. "Aaaand here we go again," he muttered indolently.

Despite how often S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. complained about serving as Donnie's assistant, however, the purple robot carried a begrudgingly fond respect for his creator; therefore, whenever Donnie was feeling particularly insecure, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. would offer to play the recorded loop of reinforcing self-affirmations until the softshell turtle regained a false sense of Donnie-trademark supercilious confidence.

"PERFECT!"

The feverish softshell turtle laughed frenzily, his maniacal laugh echoing eerily in the semi-silent laboratory, as he tore in rising panic at his emerald-green countenance. 

"HAS TO BE PERFECT!" Donnie repeated hysterically, tremblingly rocking himself back and forth in his silver seat as his shallow breath quickened frantically. "Why— why can't I be…?"

It was then that S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. returned to Donnie's side stultifiedly, the cat-ear headphones in the purple robot's grip, and robotically replaced the askew silver goggles with the comfortable lavender headphones—

—You are the bravest turtle, Donatello. And strongest. And hunkiest. You are a real dreamboat.

A wave of disorienting relief flooded the fried senses of the soporific, sleep-deprived softshell turtle. "...Perfect," Donnie mumbled drowsily.

You are the smartest turtle, Donatello. And strongest. And hunkiest. You are a real dreamboat.

Donnie's frenetic self-soothing rocking slowed to a sleepy halt as he slumped defeatedly in his chair, as his panicked breathing began to slow, and as his bleary, bloodshot oculars began to droop to a close.

"...Have to… be…" Donnie mumbled slurredly, sinking further into his resplendent silver chair.

You are the greatest turtle, Donatello. And strongest. And hunkiest. You are a real dreamboat.

"...Perfect…."

The dismal, drooping world shifted to obsidian.

—                     —                     —                     —                     

Raph wretchedly set his pale-pink-bristled toothbrush back into its place and returned his miserable gaze down into the gloomy bathroom sink, the begrimed drain gagging in the shallow pool of frothy cyan-toothpaste-and-crimson-blood tainted water.

The snapping turtle had almost managed to escape dinner— he had even survived most of the sleepless day without hunger, thanks to several diet sodas and watermelon-flavored chewing gum— until a suspicious inquiry from Mikey had forced Raph to evade said suspicion… by eating.

Raph, heavy bags beneath his oculars, distractedly watched the choking pool of water slowly drain itself as the acrid, acidic flavor of vomit clung pestiferously to his teeth and as his sore, scratchy throat smoldered as per repugnant routine.

…I hate throwing up, Raph thought vehemently, a fresh swarm of dreadful tears watering his wilting eyes.

Clandestinely throwing up meals, Raph had discovered, was far from a pleasant experience; in fact, there was absolutely nothing about purging undigested and semi-digested food that was in any way soothing or enjoyable or relieving— 

Nothing, from the numerous, impatient gagging attempts to choking up thick, slimy, burning boluses of undigested food; nothing, from the sour scent of vomit tainting his nostrils to the rogue gooey strings of saliva webbing down his arm and front….

But purging was less agonizing than soaking in the searing shame and anxiety of knowing he'd eaten more than he was supposed to.

Raph lethargically glanced upward into the mirror to blink at the miserable, dizzy, near-mint pale green reflection before him.

…Why did losing weight have to be so laborious?

Eight excruciating days had passed since Raph had begun his new diet— and yet, the only thing that Raph felt he was effectively losing was his sanity.

And his physical wellbeing.

And his sleeping routine.

And the motivation to escape his bed.

Raph's exhausted expression crumpled further at the notion of returning to his bed; in little time, he would again be staring at his ceiling, tossing and turning restlessly, and drowning in the dreary doldrums of despondency only to again restart the same strenuous, sickening cycle of torment.

Raph groaned internally at the dreadful prospect— how was he going to bear tonight? 

Melatonin gummies (approximately twelve point five calories each) would no longer prove somewhat useful, since the snapping turtle had eaten the last two remaining gummies ereyesterday night, and those would thus now prove unequivocally useless.

Even drinking warm milk as he had once used to when younger was irrefutably out of the question, considering that milk contained far more calories than did the melatonin gummies….

If only there was some sort of drink without calories that would put me to sleep, Raph thought wistfully. Somethin' like… I dunno, like….

Raph's dull oculars suddenly brightened.

"Tea," Raph thought aloud.

A frond of hope hesitantly grew in Raph's chest— yes, tea could possibly work… and Raph had seen Splinter make tea many times before; therefore, making tea couldn't be too difficult… could it?

Raph glanced furtively around the lair, hoping desperately that he wouldn't meet any inquisitive faces, lest they possibly notice anything odd about his behavior, as he silently snuck toward the kitchen.

…Just gotta make some tea, Raph thought in an attempt to reassure his tensing self. And if anyone asks… there's nothin' weird about that, he continued. Well… 'cept for the fact that I don't really like tea that much—

"HEY!"

Raph froze in utter heart-wrenching panic, his heart seizing and his sore body aching with such a halting jolt—

"Did you just hit my sheep?"

Blinking in perplexity, Raph cautiously peered toward the source of Mikey's indignant inquiry— to view a glowing two-player-split Minecraft screen illumining the nearby evening arcade room.

"Oh, c'mon, Mikey," Leo groaned impatiently. "I need food— and your sheep's just gonna despawn anyway!"

Raph sighed in tremulous relief and held a weary hand to his head. "It's just Minecraft," he mumbled soothingly. "Just Minecraft, Raph…."

Shaking himself resolutely, Raph continued cautiously down the hallway, hoping anxiously that his father was watching television and that Donnie had again sequestered himself in the laboratory; if Raph could successfully evade his family members, he could thus successfully evade their suspicion and—

"Oh, hey, Raph."

Raph again halted in horror and glanced disorientedly upward— to discover himself in the kitchen and Donnie, leaning indolently against a nearby cupboard, sleepily holding before himself his violet-cased phone, and curiously blinking bleary eyes at the snapping turtle.

"...Donnie!" Raph spluttered anxiously, his irritated throat burning at the utterance. The snapping turtle instantly tremulously fumbled his fingers and glanced inconspicuously around the room— would Donnie notice how sleepless Raph appeared? Donnie seemed to recognize intuitively when something was malapropos; therefore, would Donnie now suspect something was wrong? 

A flutter of feverish fear beat against Raph's churning stomach—

Had Donnie already suspected that something was wrong? 

Had Donnie been waiting to confront Raph?

Did Donnie already know about—?

It was then that Raph espied the ornate silver-and-indigo tea kettle adjacent to Donnie.

"...You're makin' tea," Raph realized aloud.

To something of Raph's relief, Donnie seemed not to realize that anything was amiss with the snapping turtle's behavior and instead yawned lengthily.

"Yeah," Donnie affirmed in a drowsy mumble, nodding toward the tea kettle atop a ring of miniscule, flickering blue flames. "Lavender."

"...Oh," Raph said awkwardly, fumbling his fingers nervously as venomous, rambling anxiety again seized his brain— had Donnie known that Raph couldn't sleep? 

…Was that why Donnie was making tea?

Had Donnie suspected something after all? 

…Then again… Donnie's eyes now appeared without their usual keen, sharp glitter.

Raph shook himself from the derailing, spiraling thoughts. "Uh, me too," he mumbled.

Donnie blinked and furrowed his brow curiously. "I thought you didn't like tea?" he said, confused.

Raph stiffened, arctic panic instantly congealing his blood— if Donnie realized Raph (who was well known for not being fond of tea) was resorting to the bitter lavender drink solely in order to sleep, the softshell turtle would've certainly deduced that something was generally wrong, and if Donnie deduced that something was generally wrong, it wouldn't be long until his brothers banded together to determine whatever Raph was hiding, which meant that the others would soon attempt to stop him from starving upon their discovery— and almost worse, worry about him— which Raph, as the Strongest and Most Responsible Eldest Brother, simply could not allow.

"Oh— uh, I don't!" Raph blurted, forcing a bright, hopefully-natural grin. "I just, um, wanted to— uh," he continued, anxiously glancing around the room as he grasped for the correct, inconspicuous dialogue, "to…."

A sudden wandering thought sprouted forth, fortuitously rescuing Raph from his fruitless satisfactory sentence search.

"...Wait," Raph said, confusedly furrowing his own aching brow, "I thought you didn't like tea?"

Donnie suddenly stiffened, almost as though he, too, was hiding insurmountable exhaustion— and thus the root of said exhaustion— by simply not admitting to it.

"What?" Donnie uttered disorientedly. "Oh— no, no, of course I don't," he said hastily, quickly returning his widening gaze to the expression-concealing safety of his purple device. "I'm just, uh, making… some for… for, uh…. S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.. Yeah."

Before Raph could conjure any reply or thought to this statement, however, both brothers flinched skittishly as a bloodcurdling shriek screeched eerily in the quasi-empty place of eating— 

AaaaaaaAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—

Hastily, Donnie cursorily removed the tea kettle from the stove— and Raph watched distractedly, as though watching a mildly interesting documentary, as the softshell turtle then lethargically opened a creaking cupboard and procured the nearest mug.

Raph watched blankly as Donnie reached sluggishly for the nearby small, pastel purple box of lavender tea, adorned with kitsch, fluffy lavender-colored sheep, and propped open the flimsy cardboard lid—

Donnie halted, curiously peering over at the absentmindedly standing Raph. "...So… are you gonna have some tea, or…?" 

"Oh— uh, yeah!" Raph blurted, hastily shaking himself of his dissociation. "Uh, thanks," he added quietly as he awkwardly walked toward a cupboard.

Donnie nodded in abstracted acknowledgement and returned his gaze toward the lavender box as the vertiginous, wobbling Raph anxiously procured a plain white mug.

Desperate to busy himself and copy his brother's tea-making steps so as to avoid further conversation, Raph then glanced hurriedly at the softshell turtle and back at the plain white mug; glancing furtively at the softshell turtle's actions, Raph hastily and fumblingly retrieved a light and delicate tea bag, nearly dropping the tiny pouch in his large and graceless fingers in the process, tossed the tiny tea bag into the mug, cursorily filled the mug with scalding water, anxiously returned the tea kettle to its place, flinched as a splash of steaming water landed upon his clumsy fingers, and scurried toward the kitchen's exit—

Raph exhaled softly as he stared stiffly into the trembling mug of earthy, lavender-scented liquid.

The flood of deafening, stiffening anxiety began to drain itself as the snapping turtle released his squeezing grip from the cup and shifted his bleary-eyed focus to the miserable, faint oculars rippling like waning moonlight shrouded in dreary fog.

A flood of misery replaced the crashing anxiety.

"...Hey, uh… good night."

Raph glanced upward distractedly to discover the somnolent softshell turtle, lingering awkwardly nearby with a lavender-colored cup of tea.

A weak, wavering smile had stretched itself like an over-flexed rubber band upon Donnie's bleary countenance.

Raph returned the feeble smile. "Night," he echoed quietly, his aching throat strained.

Donnie swallowed, dipped his head, and quickly departed down the hallway, leaving Raph watching forlornly in the funereal kitchen lighting.

The kitchen silence seemed deafening.

…Well… at least that's… over, Raph thought halfheartedly.

The snapping turtle distraitly returned his gaze onto the trembling caramel-colored liquid before him— and yet despite the humid cloud of delicately spiraling, lavender-scented steam embracing his visage, no sensation of soothing, blissful warmth cavorted into his desolate, despondent heart; instead, the piercing thicket of indefatigable despair crept further into his rumbling stomach.

Raph's weary, water-rippling expression fell further in the kitchen lighting's gloomy glow— and for the first time in his existence, he could sense the inoffensive, innocent prickle of fantastical escapism tugging at his blood-dripping heartstrings.

For the first time in his existence, Raph understood the desperation of longing to die.

—                     —                     —                     —

Donnie abstractedly trudged into his laboratory, a trail of fleeting steam coiling behind him and the mentally programmed pathway. Hardly aware of his surroundings, the softshell turtle miserably seated himself in his silver chair and sluggishly placed his mug onto the desk— and Donnie stultifiedly returned his gaze onto his computer screen, the eye-straining screen before him reflecting faintly in his puffy oculars. 

The preparations for the imminent Symbiodome grand opening— taking place as soon as possible (i.e. the following day) due to Donnie's currently severely low level of external validation— were so very nearly complete; all that remained on the softshell's to-do list was the tenth check-through of all required festivity elements and back-up plans, a task he was currently finalizing while sitting miserably before his computer screen….

Donnie's foggy mind began to wander as he attempted distractedly to re-read the first element of the checklist.

Imperfection equaled disappointment, and disappointment equaled disdain, and disdain equaled his status as the bothersome, boring burden he had always believed himself to be….

…But once Donnie had completed the aforementioned check-through, surely nothing about the grand opening could possibly go awry, his nagging feelings of worthlessness and self-hatred would evanesce, and he'd soon see how foolish he had been to worry that he could ever fall short of expectations or be anything less than perfect….

A nauseous pang of fear suddenly gripped the softshell turtle's heart as Donnie swallowed, his bleary oculars abstractedly blinking apprehensively at the same taunting, floating letters of the checklist's first item—

The Symbiodome and its grand reveal… would be perfect….

…Right?

Chapter Text

Raph blinked open his eyes blearily, groggily allowing in the dismally dim lighting of the confining coffin of his crepuscular-illumined room— and almost immediately, a throbbing pain gripped his cranium, a tempestuous sensation of nausea swept over him mercilessly, and an infirmity like energy-ingurgitating leeches clung to his bones.

The ceiling slowly fell into focus as Raph again uncomfortably unstuck his dry tongue from the roof of his sweet-metallic-flavored mouth—

…Wait….

Raph suddenly furrowed his soporific brow— if he was awake, why wasn't his programmed alarm beeping?

A pang of fear suddenly shot through Raph's drowsy mind— had he missed his alarm?

Raph frantically glanced around for his phone, his head pulsating and neck achingly sore— and upon spotting the outline of his phone, he quickly reached an aching arm toward the phone and checked the time—

1:03 AM.

Far before his dawn alarm.

Raph stared drearily at the blinding numbers, his misery deepening at the prospect of soon waking once more to restart the dreary, repetitive routine— if he could return to sleep, that is.

Raph's doleful oculars shifted, sluggishly sliding his gaze below to a handful of apparent missed text message notifications.

Instinctively, Raph reluctantly tapped on the notification and transported himself to the blindingly bright Hamato family group chat; squinting and wincing, Raph attempted to discern the myriad swimming letters before him that appeared to be from Donnie:

Greetings, esteemed family

members whom I tolerate

In case you somehow did 

not receive a gold-studded envelope,

this is a friendly announcement/

reminder that my latest project's 

exclusive grand opening/project 

reveal is TOMORROW, 

FROM 4 TO 6 PM, IN MY LAB

Ergo, please prepare 

yourselves for this incredibly 

astounding, one-of-a-kind opportunity:

a tour of my latest creation: THE 

SYMBIODOME

Flash photography and 

recordings are not only permitted but

encouraged as we traverse up the 

Symbidome's grandiose garden path

You're welcome, and

thank you

This has been a PSA

A sinking sensation of dread suddenly snatched the snapping turtle's heart— a grand opening?

Usually, Raph rather enjoyed attending Donnie's project reveals, since 1) Raph cheerfully endeavored to support each of his brothers and since 2) Donnie always had something intriguing to eagerly display—

…But now?

Raph hadn't a drop of physical or mental energy, and exerting himself in any manner— showering, exercising, removing himself from his bed, even and spending time with his family— warranted every last drop of non-existent energy.

Raph wearily shifted his oculars to the last remaining message from the softshell turtle:

There will also 

be ice cream cake

Immediately, the torrential riptide of paralyzing hopelessness again swept the snapping turtle away.

If Raph didn't attend Donnie's grand opening, the snapping turtle would irrefutably arouse the others' suspicion, considering that he virtually always attended Donnie's project reveals… and in addition, the gnawing guilt would swallow the snapping turtle whole— yet if the energy-devoid Raph did attend Donnie's grand opening, how was Raph to avoid eating ice cream cake without arousing the others' suspicion?  

Feeling as though the walls were crumbling around him, crashing against him, and crumpling his frangible, hollow-soda-can-like frame, Raph languorously buried his face into his nearby chocolate-brown bear plush.

Regardless of his current physical and emotional agony— Raph hadn't a choice. 

Forgoing Donnie's project reveal would result in curious questioning, which would result in Raph's excuse-stumbling, which would result in the others' fomenting suspicion, which would ultimately result in the inevitable discovery of Raph's current mental and physical state… when Raph had only lost a total of three point four pounds since his draining diet's beginning.

Raph inhaled forcibly and curled his fists determinedly— he had to attend Donnie's project reveal, however much the snapping turtle dreaded doing so.

…As for the ice cream cake aversion….

The flickering burst of steely determination extinguished itself almost as quickly as it had ignited.

…How was Raph going to avoid consuming ice cream cake? If anyone directly prompted him, Raph would need to formulate some sort of sensible excuse….

…But he hadn't any; his mind was as empty and as frustrated as his gurgling, cramped stomach.

Raph exhaled wearily, removing the quasi-comforting bear plush from his face and returning his miserable gaze toward the gloomy ceiling above.

A thin glaze of tears blurred his vision as he began to drift away in the smoggy, sleepy misery of his mental confinement… and as he embraced the tenebrosity and closed his dolorous oculars at last, Raph soon began to wander innocently toward the shadow-barbed fence of catharsis… and visions of himself meandering in the tranquil dread of the Asphodel Meadows soon began to mollify his miserable mind.

—                     —                     —                     —

Easeful, contentedly swaying purple and black balloons, seeming to welcome the invisible newcomers, adorned the lustrous laboratory; jovial violet streamers contentedly festooned the walls; a glistening violet patch ice sculpture glowed serenely in the hazy laboratory; several bouquets of assorted purple primrose stood in contented placidity— and there, pacing back and forth anxiously, squeezing his tightly crossed arms against his upper plastron, and tremulously gnawing his lip, was Donnie.

The jittery softshell turtle halted impatiently and hurriedly withdrew his phone to again glance anxiously at the current time: 

Three fifty-nine post meridiem.

Approximately one minute until the Symbiodome's grand opening officially began.

Disconcerted, the softshell uneasily pocketed his phone and glanced wistfully at the room's entrance, a tentative hope precariously climbing in the desolate mountain range of his tightening chest….

His family… would arrive at this event, right?

Donnie swallowed determinedly, forcibly removing the nagging uncertainty from his mind— of course his family would arrive; Donnie was the greatest, strongest, smartest, and most estimable turtle of the team.

Donnie stiffly straightened and inhaled deeply— yes, this situation certainly was but another instance of his silly, misplaced, and deep-rooted existential anxiety that would again evanesce with another instance of recurring confirmation that his beloved family adored his work and thus loved him, too, which ultimately meant that his burdensome existence at least served some sort of purpose.

Donnie again exhaled tremulously and glanced at the laboratory's entrance again, fearful apprehension reflecting in his eyes and tugging at his twisting gut….

Yet despite his half-hearted self-reassurance, Donnie could not ignore the paresthetic prickle of apprehension.

If he was truly as magnificently deserving of praise and love as he hoped he was….

Why was he still alone?

—                     —                     —                     —

Raph languidly fiddled with his fingers as he lay supine on the comforting isolation of his crimson-red bed sheets.

Innumerable, agonizing hours had again dragged by… at least without any suspicion; lunch and dinner hadn't proved an issue, since Splinter's current whereabouts were of an unknown status and since Leo and Mikey, too, had vanished earlier, presumably to mischievously engage in the juvenile, non-discreet discord that Raph— as the responsible eldest— had always strived to guard them from.

Three or four cans of diet soda along with a handful of painkillers had again carried the emotional-crutch-ambulatory Raph through the day, allowing him to momentarily distance himself from the awareness that his sore and weary limbs remained as tremulous as gelatin, that his pulsating headache continued to drill itself into his skull like a jackhammer on pavement, that the world slowly spun like a kaleidoscope lens on a carousel, and that Raph would soon need to inconspicuously endure Donnie's imminent project reveal—

…Wait.

A pang of unease suddenly gripped Raph's stomach.

…What time was it?

Hurriedly, the snapping turtle dizzily reached for his nearby phone and checked the current time—

No.

A commingled jolt of fear and dismay shot through Raph's body, stupefying the vertiginous, heavyheaded turtle—

No, no, no—

The current time was seven o'clock PM; Donnie's project reveal, meanwhile, had ended at six.

Raph was beyond late.

Tremulously, Raph cursorily forced his nauseated and weak form upward— he needed to immediately rectify this—

The effete snapping turtle hastily clambered out of bed, rushed unsteadily to the doorway, and found that the wobbling world was beginning to darken— and, hardly aware of his surroundings, the snapping turtle hazily clutched and steadied himself against a chilly bedroom wall—

Gathering his ebbing strength and determination, Raph dizzily disembarked the wall and marched resolutely through the lair's dim corridors.

Raph was going to repair this potential bullet hole in his surreptitious rapid weight loss plan.

Another wave of nauseous dizziness crashed against the snapping turtle.

…Somehow.

—                     —                     —                     —                

Donnie forlornly trudged about the umbra-illumined laboratory, the softly scuffling pair of footsteps and intermittent rips of protesting tape echoing desolately in the violeaceous vacuity.

Donnie lethargically divested a wriggling purple streamer from the wall, the softshell's oculars as vapid and as vacant as his misery-infested mind.

The streamers were the last decoration to dismantle; the ice cream cake had melted into a saddening soup, the magnificent ice sculpture had reduced itself to a pitiable puddle, the purple and black balloons had somehow deflated, and even the floral decorations seemed to droop their violet heads in shame.

Another string of sepulchral streamers spiraled to the floor with a frenzied flutter.

The softshell had spent nearly a month fastidiously crafting and perfecting every minute detail on both the Symbiodome and its grandiose reveal— and yet, three excruciatingly impatient hours had passed by and away in the laboratory's funereal silence, seeming to drag on for decades.

Not one of the five invitees had arrived.

Perhaps they purposefully hadn't arrived, finally recognizing that the softshell turtle's validation-seeking efforts would only fall short of their standards and ultimately waste their time?

A stone of fear sank into Donnie's stomach—

Or worse, perhaps his family already banded together to vote the purple-bandana-clad impostor out of the great Hamato family?

If the softshell turtle failed to consistently impress his family members and simultaneously rectify his burdensome, useless existence, how could he ever be—

"Donnie!"

Startled, the softshell instinctively flinched and spun toward the noise's source— at the laboratory's entrance huffed none other than Raph, panting desperately and shuddering violently as he leaned against a supportive wall.

"Donnie!" Raph repeated hoarsely, struggling for breath, "I'm… so sorry I'm— late, I… lost track of… time—"

…Lost track of time? Donnie thought blankly, his startled expression slowly morphing to one of hazy, uneasy confusion— of course, Mikey and Leo were often late to meeting times, but Raph— perhaps the most punctual of the turtle brothers— rarely ever lost track of time.

A torpid wave of humiliation, self-frustration, and shame suddenly crashed against the softshell turtle's chest as he leaped to the most likely conclusion and landed with a torpedoing splash in the one-placid pond of pondrance:

Raph— who had always believed wholeheartedly in his brothers and who had always been proud, honest, and supportive of them—was now lying.

Out of pity.

And if Raph, of all people, no longer believed in him but instead pitied him—

Donnie truly had lost his family's respect and admiration, hadn't he?

The softshell turtle miserably returned his dismal gaze to the floor and sluggishly kicked away a stray streamer string. "...Oh," Donnie mumbled, swallowing back the crashing waves of emotion, "it's fine, don't— don't worry about it."

A heavy, searing silence gripped the laboratory as the softshell turtle curled his fists tighter in an attempt to fight against the tormenting tidal waves of despair and self-hatred thrashing mercilessly against his chest. 

The thrashing, pounding waves nearly drowned out Raph's distant, unconcerned reply.

"...Oh. …Okay."

Donnie stiffened himself further as the waves tossed him to and fro, threatening to capsize him as he began to tremble with overwhelming emotion—

"...So, um," Raph continued awkwardly, seeming to grasp for words, "what'd I, uh— what'd I miss…?" 

Another pang of shame and despair pierced the softshell turtle's chest; Raph hadn't missed anything worth enduring.

"...Oh," Donnie uttered, his face and tone forcing a twitching, cheerful smile. "Just— y'know. …Just a tour. Nothin' much," he replied nonchalantly, his voice quivering.

"...And what's, uh, what's this tour… of?" Raph asked impassively after a beat.

At Raph's vaguely interested words, a gentle burr of hope tentatively caught itself on the softshell turtle's bramble-pierced heart.

"...Oh? Oh, um—" Donnie choked out, briefly shaking his dumbfounded self, "the, uh— the Symbiodome." The softshell turtle hesitated uneasily, squeezing his thumbs and anxiously awaiting the tacit confirmation to continue— did Raph… somehow care for the project after all?

…Somehow care for Donnie after all?

"Cool, cool," Raph responded hurriedly, "so are you still doin' tours and stuff?" 

Donnie merely blinked, utter, blank surprise enveloping his wearied countenance and fluttering hope ascending his chest. "...Now?" he said quizzically.

Was this perhaps some sort of joke? Surely Raph wasn't that eager to view the project he'd avoided earlier— or… no, surely Raph wasn't eager at all—

"Yeah! Why, uh— why not?" Raph replied quickly, his tone certainly seeming cheerful and genuine.

Perplexed and strangely heartened, Donnie finally willed himself to slowly turn around and face the snapping turtle. "...Oh— um— yeah, yeah, okay!" Donnie stammered, glancing about the room as his anxious heart beat quicker in his chest. 

Relievedly abandoning the pathetic pile of purple streamers, Donnie awkwardly gestured toward the set of sealed steel doors before him.

"...Well," Donnie said tremulously, holding his breath, twitching nervously, and swallowing in apprehension, "this is it."

Like a swarm of furious buzzing wasps, nagging anxiety again began to besiege his mind— what if the Symbiodome failed to travel beyond Raph's expectations? What if Raph would be disappointed? What if Raph would be embarrassed? What if— what if—?

Raph caught Donnie's gaze, a brazen determination suddenly alight in the snapping turtle's oculars.

"Show me everythin'."

For a moment, Donnie froze dumbfoundedly, his anxious heart soaring in joy— and slowly, the smug, clever grin marked its glorious return upon his countenance. "Well… if you insist," he answered airily, the tone of supercilious modesty echoing eerily in the laboratory's silence.

And, with a hurried complex passcode, Donnie finally opened the bolted doors, spilling bright, ethereal lighting like limelight over the two forms lurking in the shrouding darkness.

"So this is probably one of the least perilous sections," Donnie narrated, confidently leading the way as his and his brother's footsteps padded softly through the verdant grass. 

Donnie continued brightly onward, neglecting to even glance over to his trailing-behind brother, past towering plants of assorted hues and a nearby small babbling brook.

"Over there, however," the softshell continued jovially, flexing his tech-bō staff and pointing its tip pompously toward the distance, "is the off-limits section due to the poisonous, venomous, and also notably murderous plants that I keep there."

Donnie paused to plant his tech-bō into the soft grass matter-of-factly. "A word of advice: should you ever enter the forbidden zone— which no one shall— do not go near the genetically modified giant venus flytrap," he advised. "And under no circumstances should you eat the fruit of the Cerbera odollam tree. …That would be… not good, to be euphemistic."

Donnie glanced toward Raph cheerfully— only to discover that Raph was, in fact, not there. "...Raph?" Donnie frowned, glancing backward and catching a glimpse of the snapping turtle who now appeared particularly pale as he heaved for breath.

A trickle of disconcertment ran down the softshell turtle's spine. "Uh— Raph…?"

Alarmed, Raph glanced upward, straightened himself, and smiled brightly. "Y-yeah?" he stammered.

Donnie narrowed his eyes scrutinizingly at the snapping turtle and suddenly realized how pale his sibling had become. "...You… uh, good…?" he asked awkwardly.

"Wh-what?" Raph laughed nervously. "Whaddya mean? Of— of course everything's good, you're good, I'm good, and everybody's good!" he added, laughing boisterously as his legs trembled and as a bead of sweat trickled down his visage. "Let's— let's keep goin', yeah?"

Before Donnie could formulate a response to this suggestion, however, Raph suddenly marched onward animatedly, leaving the softshell turtle to stare in perplexity and worry.

Donnie quickly shook himself and hurried uneasily after his unsteady sibling.

"So— so what's this flower?" Raph asked eagerly, pointing hastily toward a towering cluster of flowers before them.

Donnie slowly followed his gaze and suddenly brightened. "Oh— I'm glad you asked! That is a candytuft, or the Iberis sempervirens—" Donnie suddenly halted, peering at Raph's Donnie-avoiding countenance, and furrowed his brow. 

"Hey, wait a minute," Donnie realized accusingly, simultaneously dubious and disappointed. "I see what's going on here— you're just trying to change the subject!"

Raph laughed nervously, avoiding the softshell's steely gaze. "...What? 'Course I'm not— I'm not— I'm not—"

Whatever Raph was not, however, the softshell turtle would never know— for at that very instant, Raph's anxious expression grew horrifyingly vacant, his wobbling knees buckled, and his face collided painfully into the dirt.

"Raph!"

Instinctively, Donnie tremulously dropped to his knees and fearfully searched his brother's vacant countenance.

"...Raph? Raph!" Donnie shouted in panic, desperately nudging his unconscious brother. "You— you okay, buddy? …Raph?"

For a few horrible, gut-wrenching moments, Raph's etiolated form was as still as a corpse in the bright artificial sunshine.

Raph's eyelids slowly fluttered open, revealing his squinting eyes and wincing countenance.

Donnie leaned backward slightly, a shuddering wave of cleansing relief washing over him.

"...You okay?" Donnie demanded worriedly, his eyes alight with flickering fear.

Wincing, Raph weakly forced himself to a sitting position. "Oh," he mumbled, grimacing, glancing away, and rubbing his head sheepishly, "yeah, yeah, fine, totally."

Wordlessly, Donnie proffered an assisting hand to his brother— but Raph immediately leaned away, tacitly declining the offer, and tremulously forced himself to a wobbling standing position.

After an awkward, tense pause interrupted only by the softly babbling brook, Raph spoke again.

"Well, um… thanks for the tour, and, um, see you, and good night—" the snapping turtle blurted, smiling sheepishly, and hurriedly turning around to retreat.

Donnie blinked, hurriedly shaking himself from his stupefaction. "Wh-what?" he stuttered incredulously. "No—" he started, stunned, as Raph only hurried onward. "Raph— what—?" the softshell stammered.

Yet before Donnie could formulate a coherent sentence, Raph had already vanished from view. 

The cheery, artificial sunlight suddenly seemed sinister as a gentle breeze flitted by, ominously rustling the leaves of whispering plants.

The brook babbled faintly as the softshell slowly recovered his wits.

Donnie swallowed anxiously. "...Y-yeah," he mumbled, his distant gaze lingering anxiously on the Symbiodome's exit. "Good night," he bid weakly, his voice trembling in worriment.

Donnie remained in place and tightened his grip on his tech-bō, his oculars absently tracing the bright green grass below.

Something was seriously wrong with Raph— something dangerous, as evidenced by the snapping turtle's loss of consciousness, and—

…Why hadn't Donnie noticed earlier?

Donnie squeezed his eyes shut and gripped his tech-bō tighter in jaw-clenching resolution, stiffening resolutely against the intoxicating gale of guilt, self-hatred, and shame instead of allowing it to sweep him into the wallows of despair— and, gathering himself, the softshell exhaled wearily and quickly reopened his eyes, his dull oculars suddenly alight with fervent flames of determination.

Something was wrong with Raph, and Donnie would not rest until he weeded that something away.

After then— and only after then, Donnie resolved silently, would the softshell quarantine himself in his room until his burdensome existence was no more.

Chapter Text

Beneath the training room’s dizzying lighting, Raph watched distractedly, his head throbbing, his muscles sore, his throat aching, and his stomach churning, as the four turtle brothers stood stiffly side by side with the silent murine mutant before them captivating their curious gazes.

Unfortunately, training— and thus another rendition of charades— had begun.

Donnie subtly craned his neck backward, his eyes indubitably locked on the snapping turtle as Splinter gingerly placed a violet into an ornate metal box— and Raph stiffened, a twinge of anxiety tugging at his chest, and willed himself not to glance over as the softshell's searching gaze scanned him suspiciously once more.

Throughout the morning and afternoon, Donnie had been endeavoring to gain an audience alone with Raph— most likely to interrogate him about the fainting incident the night before— and thus far, Raph had been able to evade him… but Donnie would not remain evitable forever, and a simple untruth would not placate the fastidious gears spinning in the softshell’s perspicuous mind.

How am I gonna convince Donnie nothin’s wrong? Raph wondered despondently, his cramping stomach wailing in faint agreement.

Splinter glanced upward again solemnly, regaining Raph's attention, and began pensively pacing before the four brothers— and a lasting, taut silence flooded the training room before Splinter spoke solemnly at last.

"Iwanuga hana."

Raph's indifferent gaze grew distant with hazy thought. Wait… how many calories can I have today, again? he wondered despairingly. One hundred? Or… no, one hundred and fifty?

"Literally, it means 'the flower is not speaking,'" Splinter began stultifiedly, "but it also means 'silence is golden,' 'some things are better left unsaid,' yada, yada, yada."

…I’ll have to look at the chart again, Raph resolved mentally. 

"Today, however," Splinter continued dignifiedly, "it means that you boys will be briefly practicing one of the most important skills of being a ninja: silence."

Raph exhaled morosely. Just… gotta get through trainin’ first, he thought bracingly, refraining from closing his dizzy oculars. …Somehow.

Donnie covertly nodded at the snapping turtle once more; yet, resolutely disregarding this, Raph stiffened irritably. 

If only Donnie would stop tryin’ to get my attention.

"If we wish to stop Draxum from stealing the Kuroi Yoroi and dooming mankind," Splinter continued, his serious voice seeming distant, "you four must become a master of silence.

"You boys will work together— in complete silence— to retrieve this violet," Splinter added, gesturing illustratively toward the locked container beside him. "You will have two minutes to steal this key from me.”

From the snapping turtle’s glazed oculars, Splinter brandished a golden key with the adroit assistance of his salmon-colored tail. 

Raph, Donnie mouthed furiously.

Raph frustratedly curled his fists.

“Okay, okay, okay— lemme get this straight,” Leo’s distant voice began slowly, “when you say ‘complete silence,’ you mean—?”

“Complete silence,” Splinter repeated seriously. “None of you may speak.”

Raph clenched his jaw as he uncomfortably discerned Donnie's searching gaze upon him once more.

Mikey politely raised an arm. “What if we think of something really cool…?” he asked hopefully.

A wave of buzzing nausea descended upon Raph once more as Donnie furtively stepped on the snapping turtle's foot.

"Begin!" Splinter commanded abruptly— and, without waiting for protest, he cantankerously clicked his silver stopwatch.

Before the flinching Raph could register Splinter’s command, however, Leo and Mikey adroitly readied themselves into battle formation, their oculars sparkling with an evident challenge— and wordlessly, the two shared a nod and brandished their glinting weapons.

Raph watched dizzily as Donnie listlessly summoned his tech-bō— and the swaying snapping turtle, using the majority of his depleted energy and focus on attempting to keep his swaying, heavy self upward, merely watched his brothers as though he were on autopilot.

As Leo and Mikey lunged uncoordinatedly toward Splinter, Donnie— his narrowed eyes inscrutable— briefly caught Raph’s gaze… and time seemed to freeze as the snapping turtle’s breath snagged on his constricting throat.

Before Raph could tear his deer-in-headlights gaze from the softshell turtle’s scrutinizing gaze, however, Donnie glanced away, adjusted his tech-bō, and leaped toward the fight.

“Raph!” Leo blurted, causing the snapping turtle to flinch once more. “What are you standing around for— oops.”

Raph swallowed tremulously, the world seeming to slowly spin like a torturous carousel ride he could not disembark from, as Splinter scowled in frustration and lowered the golden key. 

A commingled surge of guilt and relief enwreathed itself around Raph at the realization that… he, Raph, had ruined the training session.

A sudden glimmer of fear ignited the snapping turtle’s oculars— how would Raph be able to attend missions with the dizziness, weakness, mental haze, and consuming exhaustion against him?

Splinter placed the key aside and sighed wearily. “Well,” he said defeatedly, “that is all for today.”

Raph refrained from exhaling in something akin to relief— yet the relief was short lived as Donnie returned his gaze onto the snapping turtle.

Stop lookin’ at me, Raph thought bitterly as he stared at the revolving ground.

Why couldn't Donnie simply mind his own business? The softshell turtle wasn't the one who had fainted, after all. This was not Donnie's burden to carry.

Mikey exchanged a glance with Leo. “Wait, what? It’s over already?” the box turtle questioned. “But… we didn’t even get a chance!”

Splinter narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you four do not understand the weight of this assignment,” he warned delicately. “You do not get a do-over if Draxum gets the remaining pieces of the Dark Armor. You four need to work as a team and figure out how to communicate without speaking.”

Still studying the wary Raph, Donnie retracted his tech-bō into his shell.

…Can we leave already? Raph thought with growing, pulsating anxiety.

Mikey’s expression drooped in despair. “But that’s impossible!” he interjected hopelessly. “We can’t read each other’s minds!”

Leo groaned dramatically as Donnie only continued studying Raph. “Dad. Everything’ll be fine— Draxum’s not gonna get the Dark Armor. Right, guys? Donnie? Raph?” A slight frown dimmed the red-eared slider’s curious countenance as Raph flinched. “You two are weirdly quiet today.”

Raph glanced upward and stiffened in panic, but before he could interject—

“As you all should be,” Splinter warned. Rubbing the bridge of his nose and heaving a sigh, he added defeatedly, “You are all dismissed.”

“What? But—” Mikey protested— yet Splinter merely lifted a palm, tacitly indicating the conversation had ended.

Reluctantly, Leo and Mikey sulkily departed the room; eager to avoid Donnie’s interrogative gaze, Raph woozily hurried after them.

Just gotta get to my room, Raph thought as he hurried down the hallway, his gaze fixated on the distance. And Donnie’ll finally leave me alone… for now, at least.

Raph quickened his stumbling pace as he spotted the familiar sanguine room entering his sight.

And who knows— maybe he’ll even forget what happened yesterday? the snapping turtle thought expediently—

 Yet the sensation of oculars tracing his shadow shuddering down his spine suggested otherwise.

Raph clambered into his room, weakly collapsed onto his stuffed-animal-crowded bed, and attempted to catch his fleeting, laborious breath.

Please tell me he doesn't follow me, Raph thought anxiously. Please, please, please….

The softshell turtle whom Raph was telepathically pleading to did not register this entreaty, however— for following these words, Donnie's familiar shadow approached, and Raph’s empty stomach lurched.

—                     —                     —                     —                    

Inhaling bracingly, Donnie determinedly strode into the crimson bedroom, awkwardly crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall to discover the familiar cluster of teddy bears sequestering the snapping turtle buried in the coffin of a bed.

There was no conversatory escape that would serve Raph now. 

Donnie investigatively swept his scrutinizing gaze across the sepulchral room— yet apart from the cascading crimson blankets on the disheveled bed, nothing… seemed to indicate that anything might be amiss… but regardless, something remained inherently wrong with Raph’s recent display of behavior, and Donnie refused to rest until he uncovered that something.

Donnie pushed himself from the wall, exhaled softly, and discreetly seated himself at the edge of the crimson bed.

The stuffed-animal-concealed Raph seemed to deflate at this presence. “Whaddya want?” his muffled voice mumbled brusquely.

Unperturbed at this less-than-warm welcome, Donnie merely crossed his arms and lifted his gaze toward the gloomy ceiling draped in shadows. “You to tell me what’s going on,” he returned.

“...Nothin’,” Raph’s muffled voice answered automatically.

The mattress muttered in the silence.

Donnie inhaled and pensively crossed a leg. “Y'know,” he began gingerly, “people don’t just pass out for nothing—”

Raph abruptly lifted his head. “Look— I can’t tell you, alright?” he snapped. “Just— drop it,” he added tetchily as he irately flopped his visage into the carmine sheets.

Bewilderment furrowed the softshell turtle's brow— only one thing drove Raph to such an obstinate silence: the notion of worrying the others.

Donnie hesitantly bit the inside of his lip.

…But similarly, only one thing would spill Raph’s secret.

“...Okay,” Donnie began reluctantly, uncertainly feeling the back of his neck in the gloaming. “What if… I promise I won’t say anything about… whatever’s going on?” he offered tentatively.

To something of Donnie’s relief, Raph slowly lifted his head. “You mean… you really wouldn’t tell anyone?” the snapping turtle asked breathlessly. “...You promise, no matter what I say?”

Again, Donnie hesitated as a jarring bramble of anxiety began to prick the insides of his stomach— the premise of the promise depended on the verisimilar factor that Raph was not harboring a ghastly secret, which was often the case, but… Raph had also never lost consciousness before.

It was then that Raph, his anxious eyes glittering hopefully, shifted and turned his gaze onto Donnie’s— and a pang of anxious sympathy lurched inside at the misery so perspicuous upon Raph’s sunken, strained expression.

The softshell turtle resolutely clenched his jaw. “I promise,” he uttered.

Raph closed his oculars and exhaled relievedly. “...Okay,” he acquiesced. “So… um,” he began, resting his chin on a teddy bear. “...You remember about a week ago, when I, uh— got stuck in the Turtle Tank?”

The Turtle Tank…?

Donnie stiffened in stupefaction, a dreary darkness eclipsing his oculars at the remembrance; when crafting the floor hatch, the softshell turtle had committed a miscalculation in Raph’s specifications— but, due to an extemporary utterance relative to Raph’s ‘doing sit-ups every day’ phase, the softshell had successfully maintained his flawless image, for if anyone had discovered that Donnie was not the flawless genius and entertainer that he strived so desperately to be, how could he ever be worthy of appreciation?

The softshell turtle adrift in thought blinked back to the crimson bedroom. “Uh… y-yeah?” he stammered disorientedly, swallowing uneasily.

A flurry of fear suddenly besieged the softshell’s mind— did Raph suspect that Donnie had perpetrated such a crime?

Raph bit his lip. “Um, I’ve been, uh… on a diet since then,” he mumbled. 

A sickening dropping feeling twisted in the softshell’s stomach. “...A… diet?” Donnie repeated in mortification. 

…Because of the floor hatch…?

Yet the horror intensified with a blood-congealing flurry of venal ice as the sudden realization struck him— this furtive dieting had caused the snapping turtle to pass out.

No— dieting was a euphemism.

Raph was… starving himself.

“Raph—” Donnie blurted tremulously. “Y-you can’t— you—”

Raph glanced away in the depths of the dusky room. “I just… gotta lose some weight, that’s all,” he mumbled. “Then I’ll be able to fit in the floor hatch.” 

Your size is fine— it's me who made the mistake! Grgh— I mean, I! I who made the— I'm sorry! Donnie longed to scream. Please tell me you don't want to change your body because of a stupid lie I said.

Donnie swallowed and exhaled tremulously. “...Look, I… I can adjust the floor hatch,” he offered frantically. “Then you’ll fit.”

“No! I should’ve fit in the first place,” Raph insisted. “I just need to lose some weight.”

You never used to fit! I lied! Donnie longed to exclaim. “Listen, you… you don’t need to lose weight, Raph. You’re all muscle. And… who cares about some dumb floor hatch?” Donnie added nervously.

“The floor hatch ain’t the problem. I am,” Raph asserted miserably. He shook his head, his expression giving way to misery. “I’m becomin’ an inconvenience to all of you,” he whispered.

Donnie bit the inside of his cheek. No, I’m the problem! he longed to assert— but the words did not escape his sealed lips. I’m the inconvenience! I made a miscalculation!

But the emotional confession of failure did not escape Donnie's chest.

“Anyways,” Raph added, jolting the softshell back to the present. “Um. …You won’t tell anyone, right?”

“...Right,” Donnie mumbled, his miserable gaze shifting to his lap.

Raph abruptly pulled the softshell into a brief embrace. “Thank you."

A burning glaze of tears began to blur the stupefied softshell’s oculars— and it was no longer then that Donnie discerned not the prickle of dissatisfaction, not the feeling of waning worth… but arrant self-hatred surging relentlessly inside.

Donnie could no longer excuse his vast history of failure and malfunction.

What had he done?

Donnie acrimoniously dug his teeth into his cheek, desperately attempting to withhold tears.

Why had Donnie made a miscalculation? Why had he exacerbated the crime by inventing a muttered lie? And how could Donnie ever inform the others of Raph’s treacherous secret when its strongest root was a miscalculation? 

No, no, no… Donnie alone had broken this; therefore, his duty— alone— was to convince his eldest brother that starving oneself was not a viable option.

Donnie’s stupefied expression hardened into resolution as Raph continued to wrongfully embrace him.

…And once Donnie succeeded, he could return to his self-hatred endeavors and disappear from the family altogether.

…Perhaps he could… start somewhere anew…?

…Or— no, better yet— end everything for good?

Chapter Text

Dearest readers,

So... it appears that I may have grossly miscalculated my ability to write; unfortunately, since the last chapter upload, my eating issues have again begun to return, this time with a much stronger intensity (although not due to √Miscalculations, I don't believe, since I have admittedly not been thinking about it since its last chapter). In addition, my mental health is also absolutely plummeting once more, and I am now channeling all of my remaining energy into simply surviving. 

Kindest regards, and the sincerest apologies at yet another hiatus, 

—K.L.S.