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I’ve translated the ones that aren’t in English! (at least the ones in the main photoset, my Chinese isn’t good and I’m too tired from doing those translations to sit and decipher some of the characters that are blurry haha sorry)
ROTTMNT
Leonardo & everyone
written for @nerdy-turtle-enthusiast, as part of @tmnt-secret-santa-2024
PROMPT: Getting older
AO3
A/N: I had so much fun working on this fic! Couldn't wait to share it with everyone. Happy holidays!
--
There are better things he could spend his birthday doing, Leo supposes.
Like going home and actually attending the ''surprise'' party his brothers are definitely throwing him, judging by how shifty Donnie has been acting the whole week. He's never been a good lair, and he's even worse at keeping secrets – especially from Leo.
But no one said anything to him in the morning, only exchanging knowing glances, and he quickly took that chance to run.
There are places where he goes to wind down, to make his lungs fill with air, his stomach unclench.
And there are places where he goes to occupy his mind with other annoying things, to the point where he can't even remember what made him so upset in the first place. Places like Draxum's apartment.
“That's a check,” Draxum tells him.
“No, it's not,” Leo says on instinct, even before his brain winds up to find the right move.
He moves his bishop, the sudden surge of uncertainty leaving him as soon as it appeared.
Draxum's face shifts into something strange, like he's bitten into a lemon, which Leo now knows means he's trying to hide his amusement.
Draxum is still the only person he actually knows to have ever beaten him in the game, and every time Leo outsmarts him leaves him with a sudden surge of giddiness. He's also the only person willing to play with him on the regular.
He's always been more than good at chess, and it gave him a great sense of pride and probably more than a bit of a god complex. But Draxum never seemed to care about the genuine emotions that spilled out of him sometimes during the game, usually matching his intensity tenfold.
Which is one of the reasons Leo came to him this morning. There were things he never seemed to mind, like Leo's intense emotions, quiet bitterness and secret cynicism, taking everything at face value and never talking about any of it.
It's why he's not expecting him to ask.
It's Draxum he spends the whole morning with, and it's Draxum who first puts the idea in his head.
“Well,” he says, rather sudden. “You're turning twenty-five.”
Leo blinks a little.
It's not like he really expecting Draxum to fully forget, and there might've been a sting of something painful if he did. But it's nice reassurance.
“I am,” he says.
“So, are you planning on doing anything with your life?”
Leo's hand freezes, previously hovering over his queen.
He puts the finger on the piece, feeling the smooth wood under his callused skin.
“What?” He asks.
He can feel his mind ticking away, like a factory machine, trying to unwind every detail of the new conversation.
Draxum's not meeting his eyes, but he usually isn't, so that doesn't really tell him much.
“You're twenty-five, and you haven't done a thing.”
A part of Leo bristles, the part that used to take everything as a personal attack. It was something that made him rather annoying in his early twenties, and borderline unbearable in his teens.
He clenches his jaw, letting himself take a breath as Draxum knocks down his rook.
This is the part that he grew to appreciate over the years – raw and unfiltered honesty. Even, especially if, it makes him feel a little worse about himself. He needs that reality check, sometimes.
“I've done plenty,” he says, simply. “Like save the entire world. And many people.” He raises his head again to look Draxum in the eye. “Including from you, by the way.”
Draxum doesn't seem phased, which makes Leo think he might've practiced this whole conversation before. He hopes he hasn't, because that means there's a real chance of Mikey being involved, and he's already heard enough of his brother's unwanted advice to last a lifetime.
“You haven't done anything that made you happy,” Draxum says, and then leans backwards, like he's been itching to say it the whole morning.
That puts Leo's mind to a stop, for just a moment.
“I like helping people,” he defends, letting some of his old anger slip though.
Draxum moves his queen. It suddenly feels like they're playing two games at once.
“That's not the same.”
“I was happy the world didn't, you know, end.”
He sometimes still feels the weight of that "almost" in his chest and Draxum looks at him like he knows.
“Well,” he finally snaps, his voice harsh and bitter, “did wanting to kill all of humanity made you happy?”
“... No,” Draxum says, and it sounds so honest and raw it punches all the anger out of Leo.
They don't talk for a long moment.
Leo works his jaw, pushing the words in his head over and over again.
He's not wrong, is the thing. There were moments in his life where he felt happier than ever, and they rarely had anything to do with the heavy weight of a "leader" balanced on his shoulders.
He moves his knight (which he keeps calling a "horsey" out loud, only because it annoys Draxum), and says:
“I'm not unhappy.”
“I believe that.” Draxum nods.
“Did Mikey put you up to this?” Leo finally asks.
Draxum's face does a complicated thing.
“No,” he lies.
“Well,” Leo scoffs a little, looking at the board. The conversation made him distracted and he can already feel the corner he was backed into. “Tell him I'm perfectly satisfied with my life as it is.”
“Clearly you're not,” Draxum says, a little harsh. “If you were, you'd be having a birthday party right now.“ He moves a piece. “Check.”
Leo feels like someone drew a line straight through his chest.
Because there was a moment in his life where birthdays stopped feeling like laughter and presents and cake, and started to look a lot like responsibility and expectations, and he's not sure he can ever go back now.
Twenty-five is a big number.
“What I am supposed to do, then?” He asks, desperate.
It's weird, because there's a whole textbook of history between them, and he doesn't think he'll truly ever see Draxum the way Mikey sees him, but he thinks they might be friends now. And isn't that something.
“Whatever you want to,” Draxum answers, simply. “Right?”
Leo watches the board.
Then, he holds out a hand, putting a finger to his king. Slowly, he tilts it down.
“Right.”
***
Later, he comes home, gets his birthday party, and they don't talk about any of it until two weeks later.
***
When he pokes his head through the door, Mikey's sat in his hammock, legs swung over the edge.
He looks up from a sketchbook sprawled over his lap and smiles at Leo.
Leo never really grew into the habit of knocking before walking in, and Mikey was the only one of his brothers that never seemed to really mind.
“Hey, dude,” he greets and Leo walks in, closing the door behind himself.
“We gotta talk.”
Mikey's face falls, just a little. There's a line forming on his forehead that grows more and more pronounced with each year, and reminds Leo of Raph in an almost painful way.
“Okay,” he answers, very slowly. “Do I need to bring out a PowerPoint presentation for this or...?”
Leo can't really find it in himself to smile honestly, so he doesn't.
He shouldn't be angry with him.
Him and Mikey spend an awfully long time fighting in their late teens – both sick on guilt, misdirected anger and too much love. There were many things that changed after the Kraang, but out of everything, Leo regrets this one the most.
He doesn't want to waste more of his life making his little brother think he hates him.
(Even if he did, just for a short while. Mikey saved his life and Leo hated him for it.)
It took years, swallowing down their own hurt and pride, and many, many late night conversations for Leo to feel like he could breathe freely again.
Still, there was some odd comfort in knowing that Mikey would never walk on eggshells around him – laying down even the harshest truth if he didn't see any other way.
Maybe that's why it ruffled Leo so much.
That even after all that, he still couldn't face Leo himself. Not with this, apparently.
Leo sits down on Mikey's bed – the cleanest part of his entire room, probably only because it was so rarely used.
Leo still isn't sure how Mikey deals with an aching back after spending so many nights in his hammock.
“I had a very weird conversation with Draxum the other day,” he says, cutting right to the point.
He puts his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, leaning against the wall.
Mikey watches him for a moment, very carefully, his eyes bright and wide open.
“Did you?” He finally answers.
“Stop that,” Leo huffs. “I know you talked to him.”
Mikey makes a face.
“He's bad at keeping secrets,” he says, almost like an apology.
He looks back at the sketchbook on his lap, adding a few more lines with the pencil held in his hand. It's not a spiral one, and so he spread the two pages so flat it left a mark on the spine.
“The hell was that about? Since when is he a mail pigeon?”
Mikey doesn't look up, but there's something more genuinely apologetic etched onto his face, some kind of regret. Maybe embarrassment.
“I felt like you wouldn't listen if it came from us,” Mikey says, quietly.
Leo clenches his fingers, holding his thumb until it aches.
“That's not true-”
“Is it?” Mikey cuts him off, harsh.
His face quickly softens; he chews on his cheek.
Leo thinks for a moment.
“So you talked to Donnie and Raph? Is this what we do now? Talk behind each others' backs?”
“That's not-” Mikey holds a hand to his forehead, groaning. “You're doing the thing again.”
Leo stands.
He circles Mikey's room, feeling the anger buzzing under his skin. His bad knee startles in pain and he feels it up to his spine.
“Doing what?”
He doesn't want to argue.
But he hasn't been able to sleep well since his birthday – caught up in his own mind, reflections and what-if's, and he can't help blaming others for it.
Because they're right.
Draxum, Mikey, his whole family, apparently.
There are things, parts of his life he never dared to look too closely at, that they all saw right though. And that scares him to his bones.
“Damn it, Leo.”
Mikey slides to the ground, letting his sketchbook fall to the ground with the outermost carelessness. He steps closer, blocking Leo's way to stand right in front of him.
Over the years, Leo grew taller and taller, towering over most of his family.
Right now, he feels much smaller.
“This thing,” Mikey says, as a way of explanation. “Where you keep acting like we all hate you.”
He reaches out, closing his fingers around Leo's arms, shaking him a little.
It's so unexpected it almost punches a laugh out of him.
He feels like he's running backwards, grabbing onto all the old anger that's left in him instead of letting it go.
His progress is a circle and he's always running backwards.
“I'm worried,” Mikey says, quieter now. “You're-”
“What? Useless? Depressed?”
“Aimless.”
That hits Leo right in the chest.
They don't really go on missions anymore, not like they used to. Donnie called them "retired" and Leo wanted to laugh because it was true. His brothers had lives to throw themselves into, something they carved along the way. Seemingly, Leo missed his cue to do the same.
He was himself, then he threw it all away to be a leader, and now he's too scared to look. Scared he'll find nothing else left.
“You wouldn't get so defensive if you didn't agree,” Mikey says, because he's known him his entire life.
Leo feels like he's been sitting with this for months, like an open wound right in the middle of his chest, and he needed Mikey to force his chin down to finally face the fact that the pain wasn't coming from inside.
“I love you,” his brother says, like the most important part he forgot to add before. “I want you to get your shit together.”
Leo laughs, and Mikey smiles. His face always seems to fall, rather than stretch into a smile, like it wasn't made to do anything else.
“I don't know what to do,” Leo says, honestly.
“You're a smart guy,” Mikey says. “Figure it out, man.”
Leo looks at his face and wonders when he missed the moment where his brother started to look so grown-up.
***
He sits on it for the next week.
Mikey told him to 'figure it out', and he honestly, truly – tries to. But it's only a rather long and tedious call with April, many aimless walks around the Hidden City, and even more conversations with Draxum – that he comes to an idea.
It's something he latches onto from the loose suggestions thrown around him, and holds onto like a drowning man.
There's hesitation there, of course.
He's past the point of admitting his own failure, but the thought of actually picking himself back up scares him. He's grown detached from the idea of throwing himself into the deep water like this, of climbing out of the uncomfortable and cold hole he accidentally dug himself into.
'It'll take years,' a part of him says. 'You'll be thirty before you'll even get anywhere'.
'You'll be thirty anyway,' another, bigger part replies.
Past that, it's not a hard choice. He can't really imagine anything better for himself.
He loves helping people.
There's a part of him that wonders if this too is tied more to his past and how he was raised, rather than his true self. He shuts it down pretty quickly, because it doesn't really matter what finally gets him moving, as long as it does.
He lets himself chew on that thought for another week, like a hard piece of gum he can't quite swallow, before he finally sets his mind to it.
But he knows the difference between making plans in his own mind and actually putting them into practice, especially in his own case.
He needs a final push.
The door to Donnie's room is cold under his knuckles when he knocks, and it only takes his brother a second to answer it:
“If it's not a life-or-death situation, I don't wanna hear it right now.”
Leo rolls his eyes, the sudden urge to be annoying, just because he can, adding confidence to his steps. He pulls at the door, letting it open with a quiet squeak of rust.
“It's always life-or-death with me,” he says.
Donnie stops for a moment to look up from his soldering work, which can already be counted as great success.
If they were younger – fourteen and careless, where death was a thing that will one day reach everyone but them, Donnie would've said: ''And I wish you'd choose that second option more often''.
He doesn't now, because they stopped joking about those kinds of things a long time ago.
“Well, hurry up then,” he scoffs instead. “You're already bringing down the property value.”
Leo shifts in place, suddenly feeling a little smaller.
And from behind Donnie's clear, protective glasses, Leo spots the exact moment his brother squints, brows drawn into a furrow.
“What's wrong?” He asks, because he's never been good at reading people, but he's always been good at reading Leo.
It must be something in him, the things people usually don't pay attention to and that Leo doesn't bother hiding, that Donnie has grown so attune to over the years. A high pitch note that he can only notice when it skips a beat.
“Nothing,” Leo says.
Donnie frowns some more.
“Lair,” he says.
Leo has been called many things in his life. Out of all of them, this might be the truest one.
He sighs, letting his shoulders curl a little in an unusual show of vulnerability.
“I just, uhm.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I need to do some research. Thought you could help?”
Donnie's shoulder's drop, and there's an increasingly panicked look growing on his face, like he's standing on the edge of a drop, leaning in further and further, only now realizing it doesn't seem to end.
Leo doesn't blame him, because the last time he spoke almost those exact words was also the day he first came out. He's been out to his family for ten years now, but that first day has cemented itself as one of the most painfully awkward experiences of his life.
And one of the sweetest, probably.
“It's nothing like that,” he reassures, and Donnie's shoulders loosen with relief.
“Oh, okay.” But quickly there's some new worry in his eyes, something more embarrassed. “I mean, not like- If it was, it's not-”
“Look,” Leo says, sparing him from the awkward, lingering moment.
He walks up to his desk, finally letting go of the leaflet he's been squeezing in his hand and placing it in the middle of the table.
It's covering Donnie's work, which he doesn't really care for, but there's also a slight wave to it now, where the sweat from his palm leaked into the ink. He wipes his hands against his thighs, self-conscious.
Donnie stares at the paper.
He blinks before finally looking up at Leo.
“You're going to med school?”
The words leave his mouth and the air around Leo grows just a little thinner.
He laughs, nervous and without any traces of humor.
“Well, I'm not going yet. It's just- I don't know, I thought about it?”
He rubs his hands together, going back to the old habit of circling the room. He can't tell if his knee hurts, or if he just can't seem to stop clenching his muscles.
Donnie's quiet, carefully tracing the small text with his eyes. He picks the leaflet up to see better.
“Like, obviously I can't do New York Med,” Leo continues, “but there's this college in Hidden City. And it's not like we really have any, uhm, proof of education or anything, but I'm sure Big Mama can pull some strings, right?”
He turns his back on Donnie, too skittish to keep looking at him.
He walks back and forth, eyes trained on his own feet.
“So I just thought- I don't know. It says here you have to pass an exam to even get in, so it's not like that's cheating or anything.”
Donnie has always been the smartest of them, but Leo and his brothers all took to education like ducks to water, as long as it involved anything other than sitting straight in front of a desk for hours.
He doesn't think they'd do well in a normal school, not as kids, but they always seemed to soak knowledge a little faster than April, like tiny-turtle sponges, especially when it could be applied to practical use.
Leo's sure it was part of Draxum's design.
He might not be far behind Yokai his age, but there's still uncertainty curled at the bottom of his chest.
He's uncertain about everything.
“And, like, I probably won't pass it, anyway. But I thought,” he breaths, “maybe-”
“Nardo.”
Leo stops.
He feels his heartbeat in his head, beating fast behind his eyes. He blinks, turning to look at his brother.
Donnie's still holding the leaflet, absentmindedly running his finger along the edge. His face looks calm, almost neutral, but there's a new spark in his eye.
“What's after the exam?”
Leo swallows, clenching his fingers to stop his hands from shaking.
“Then it's five years of school, and then residency.”
“Okay.” Donnie nods. “Do you want me to help you study for that exam?”
It's a long moment when Leo doesn't know what to say.
“You think I can do it?” He asks, finally, his voice quiet.
Donnie looks at him like he's stupid.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Donnie holds out his arm, handing him back the leaflet. His other hand, clenched into a first, taps against his thigh, like there's some new energy in his fingers he can't quite hold in.
He's bleeding happiness, and Leo doesn't know to wrap his mind around all of it.
“You're going to be a doctor,” he says.
“Is this a question?”
Donnie reaches out to squeeze the crook of Leo's elbow; once, twice.
“No. That's a statement.”
***
He's been staring at the envelope for ten minutes now.
It's off-white, closed with an old-timey wax seal, and there's his name on it, written in a neat cursive right at the top.
He runs his thumb over the soft texture.
Him and Donnie spend a few grueling weeks almost living inside the Hidden City's library, with stacks of books piled onto desks in the most inconvenient of ways, and newly developed dust allergies.
Donnie's methods of teaching consisted mostly of borderline bullying, but it was the constant need to prove a point that pushed Leo forward – not that he was going to admit any of it out loud.
He showed up to the exam hall half-drunk on stress, desperately trying to look like someone who hasn't thrown up into a trashcan on his way there.
He found the questions tricky but not hard, which made him double guess everything over and over again, until he was probably the first one to finish, and the last one to leave.
Leaving it all behind was like weight dropping off his heart, and he feels all of it coming back now, settling behind his lunges like an avalanche.
He's bouncing his leg up and down so much his knee starts to ache.
Leo takes a breath, and with one hand – rips the envelope open.
His family's in the living room, huddled around the table for a dinner he's late to, and everyone's heads turn when he walks in.
His heart beats: once, twice, thrice. And in that rhythm, he says:
“I got in.”
***
In his first year, Leo learns a lot of things, only most of which have anything to do with medicine.
Most of his classmates are younger than him, bright with that special kind of annoying you can only be at nineteen, and Leo quickly learns to keep his distance.
His lectures feel long and exhausting, leaving his body aching after hours of sitting, and he's forced to leave the more practical classes to stretch out his bad knee – numb from standing in one place for far too long.
He thinks the faculty might know his family, or at least the reason why he was even able to apply in the first place, because there's a certain look some of his professors give him, that makes something in his stomach turn uneasy.
It's his first steps, and he's already climbing uphill.
He's so caught up in it – in desperately trying to avoid the label of a major weirdo, the constant thought of finals looming of his head, planning out his week to squeeze in as much free time as he can, that it takes him a while to realize he's planning out his week.
He's leaving the house everyday now; there's always a class to attend to, a book to pick up from the library, or something he needs to scream about on some secluded beach in Hawaii until his throat goes hoarse.
He's both more and less tired now. There's some sleep he always seems to be losing, but it doesn't settle in his bones like it used to. It doesn't cling to him like molasses, making him want to curl up on his bed until he can't get up anymore.
(He wonders if it was something other than tiredness keeping him down this whole time.)
His family is looking at him differently now.
Maybe they've been for a while. He just had too much time to dwell on himself to notice it before.
There's something in their smiles now, something hesitant but hopeful, like he's an injured bird they nursed back to health – taking flight again.
He's clumsy and slow, but he's up in the air and there's no going back.
He's moving now.
And that's a start.
***
The first exams hit him hard.
“Come on,” April says, her fingers tapping on the book's cover. “You know this.”
Leo's laying flat on the couch, his fingers locked together on his stomach, and he feels a little like he's at a therapists office.
That is, if therapists were weirdly interested in his bones, rather than feelings. Which might be true for some. Leo has never been to one.
April's sitting on the floor, her back rested against the couch, a heavy textbook spread open on her lap.
“I don't,” Leo huffs.
April seems monumentally more interested in adjusting her leggings than anything he has to say, so he waits till she looks up at him again to roll his eyes.
“You're just panicking,” she says, very matter-of-fact. “Stop winding yourself up.”
It's the kind of tone that used to keep them all in line when they were kids. It still does, to a certain point.
So Leo just wines, picking up a pillow he previously threw aside just to have something to scream into.
When he's finished, April raises an eyebrow at him.
“You're so dramatic.”
“I'm tired.”
Something genuine must've slipped into his tone, because at that, something in her face softens.
She reaches out to squeeze his good knee, before handing him some of his notes back.
“Read over it again.”
Leo studies his own handwriting.
There are so many things, so many things to remember, that he doesn't know what to put his hands into.
“This is so stupid,” he says after a minute.
April's already busy, filing down her nails with careful consideration.
“Welcome to college,” she says, holding out her hand in front of her face. “What shape should I do?”
“Almond,” he responds, automatically. Then: “How did you do this?”
April got her degree a few years back, coming out the other side with bangs under eyes, coffee jitters, and radiating happiness.
“Through sweat and tears,” she says, simply.
“What if I fail this?” He asks.
“What if?”
She doesn't turn to look at him, but raises a brow again, like she knows he's looking at her.
“I'll have to retake it,” Leo says, a little hesitant.
“Ok, you'll do that then.”
There's a kind of certainly in her voice, something stubborn and so sure of itself, Leo almost lets it quiet down the worries that have been rotting him from the inside out.
“And what if I fail again? I'll have to redo the year.”
He sounds even less sure than he'd like to, his voice quiet and mellow.
“You have all the time in the world.”
“What if I fail so much they kick me out?” He finally lets out.
It's a worry that sits heavily in his bones, the fear that he'll slip, and then all of this would've been for nothing.
“Then you'll find something else to do in your sad, little life.” She tilts her head against the couch, sending him an upside-down grin. “You're not winning this game.”
Leo lets out a shaky breath.
His chest squeezes, matching how she touched his knee just moments ago.
He might slip.
He might fail, and he might fall and never want to pick himself back up again.
It won't matter, because as sure as he breaths – there will always be someone there to catch him.
“Okay,” he says instead. “Ask me those questions again.”
April's smile widens.
Leo has a lot of things to learn. But he already knows who he can count on.
***
He feels the years pass faster now.
It might just be that he's getting older, but he feels like it's barely a blink before he's already in his third year.
It gets both harder and easier.
He's been an outsider his whole life, always either too young to understand why the world he lives in would never accept him, and just old enough to feel like he could never be a part of anything else.
But he knows the way people see him. He's cheerful and optimistic when he needs to be, charismatic to his very bones, and it doesn't take all that long for his colleagues to warm up to him.
They talk to him like they believe he should be there, like they see potential in him, and that makes him want to try harder and harder – over and over again.
And before he blinks, it's his birthday again, and there are twenty-eight candles, all awkwardly squeezed onto a cake.
Mikey baked it, and the blue frosting flowers he decorated it with look a little wonky, maybe a little worse than he would've done some years back, but so much better than anything he could've done right after Kraang. It makes Leo smile with all his teeth.
He's so occupied with all of it, with his family's arms around him, the promise of sweet taste on his tongue, loud music drumming away from the speakers – he almost forgets to make a wish.
He hesitates, for just a moment, before blowing out the candles.
More, he thinks. More of this.
A few hours later, he's sitting on a chair; feet aching from dancing and mind numb from beating Draxum in chess three times in a row. He's already on his fourth piece of cake, grateful Mikey never learned how to bake in moderation, when he feels a familiar shadow pass over.
He tilts his head back, meeting Raph's eye.
“Hey, man.”
Raph's finishing his own plate, tossing the leftovers on his plate with a fork.
“Happy birthday,” he says, not for the first time today. “How was school?”
Leo's classes were long and exhausting, made even more grueling with the promise of a warm welcome waiting for him at home.
“Ugh,” he says. “I don't wanna talk about it, it's my birthday party.”
Raph gives him an interesting smile, tilting his head a little.
“Well, okay. Raph just wanted to say...” He hesitates for a moment. “I think it's really cool you're doing it. You're gonna help a lot of people, you know?”
Leo feels his face twitch a little.
“Yeah. I mean, that was always the goal, wasn't it?” He says, and it comes out a little more honest than he intended.
Raph's face twist, like Leo just stepped on his foot but he's too polite to say anything about it.
He's still awkwardly hovering over him, which means he has something more to say. Leo doesn't rush him.
“I wanted to say...” He scrapes his fork over his plate. “I think I was too hard on you when we were younger.”
Leo blinks.
He sits straighter on the chair, turning around to look his brother properly in the eye.
Before the Kraang, him and Raph were rubber bands, high strung and waiting for the other one to finally snap. It was wanting to show each other up, and it was the rush of panic when they realized their wish might come true.
“Thanks. But maybe I needed some of that,” he says.
Leo used to think himself larger than life, like he knew some undeniable, secret truth that all of his family was too blind to see. He wishes he would've felt the cold water they were trying to throw on him before it pulled him under – right into the deep end.
“Yeah, yeah,” Raph says like he doesn't really mean it. “But I just- I was looking at some pictures and I saw some from right after Kraang and... I don't know.”
They took a lot of them during that time, like a desperate rush to never let anything slip through their fingers ever again. Leo thinks his broken bones and bruises that seem full on display on all of them, no matter how hard he was trying to hide them.
He remembers Mikey taking one of them, making him look straight into the camera despite his blackeye. Now, he thinks there was something to that.
Something like: 'despite everything, you're still here'.
Raph shuffles on his feet, his gaze turned down.
“I don't know. You were smaller than I remembered.”
Something in Leo's throat hitches.
He searches his mind for something to say.
“You were smaller than you remember, too.”
Raph's smile turns warm.
Leo knows there are things hidden under those sentences, things they need to talk about sooner than later. But for now, Raph only says:
“I'm really happy you're doing this. I mean, it's awesome,” he laughs a little. “You're awesome.”
Leo looks up at him, and just this once, lets himself grin with all he has.
He's warm, drunk on good food and good company, and when Raph goes to sit down next to him, he reaches out. He puts his arms around his brother's neck, letting his head rest against Raph's shoulder.
He feels when Raph takes a deep breath, then sighs.
The song playing in the background dwindles down, turning into something that makes April and Donnie pick up another fight.
“Hey, you know.” Raph picks up his fork again, playfully tapping it against Leo's snout. “I'm proud of you.”
Leo takes a breath, and when he breaths out, it comes out as a laugh.
“Thanks,” he says, honest and raw. “I'm proud of myself, too.”
***
When he's in his fourth year, his professor asks him what he wants to specialize in, and it's almost like making that first choice all over again.
Except this time, he doesn't hesitate for a moment.
There's confidence in him that he hasn't seen in a long time, and the world feels wide and open, everything on his way pushing him further and further along.
'I'm not unhappy', he told Draxum a long time ago.
'Are you happy now?' he asks himself every day, looking into the mirror.
Every day, the answer he gives feels a little more like the truth.
***
While he waits for the tea to boil, Leo taps his fingers on the counter.
He's been fighting hard to kick back his caffeine addiction, and it might be a battle he's losing, but he's going down with dignity. And a lot of tea.
He's thumbing through his journal, because he's the kind of person who keeps a journal now, absentmindedly memorizing the dates of his finals. It's a lot of work, commitment, and work again, but he's used to feeling busy these days.
He looks up at the sound of familiar footsteps, smiling on instinct. He's smiling a lot less than he used to, but for once – all of them are honest.
“Hey, Pops.”
His dad grumbles, rubbing his hands over his eyes, clearly not awake enough for an actual conversation yet. Leo decides to not hold that against him.
“You want some tea?” He asks instead, not waiting for an answer before reaching up for a mug.
He feels this urge more and more often now. To pass him the remote, to move his chair for him, to bring down the heavy pans he can't quite reach anymore.
He looks a little older every day, and every time Leo spots a new patch of gray fur he wants to bury himself in his arms and never let go.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks, walking up to the counter to watch Leo wash his mug under the sink.
“Tea,” Leo answers. Dad looks at him like it's too early this sort of attitude, which is probably true. He adds: “I gotta bounce by the uni later. I have to give them some papers.”
“What papers?”
Dad takes the mug out of Leo's hands, filling it with tea and hot water himself. He's been doing that more and more often, too, like he has something to prove to them now.
Leo supposes he does.
“Just for next year. We're branching out, so it's a mess all around.”
He often felt like the administration system of his university was a pure mystery to everyone involved.
Dad looks up at him, eyebrows raised a little.
“What are you 'branching out' into?”
Leo hums.
“Pediatrics.” He reaches out, pouring water into his own cup. “They have a good program here. One of my professors said-”
He stops, something on the back of his neck crawling with alarm.
He looks down. Dad's not meeting his eye anymore.
“Pops?” He says, very carefully.
He puts away his mug and his hands hover awkwardly, unsure where to lay.
His dad's hand presses against his mouth, his eyes fixed to the floor, and Leo's body tenses, like he's once again a little kid who just broke a glass – waiting for the shoe to drop.
“I'm-” Dad finally looks up at him again.
His eyes look glossy, and something in Leo staggers, like a seized engine.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
Dad shakes his head, stops, then nods, like he's correcting himself.
“Yes, yes, I just-” His shaky breath turns into a laugh.
“Dad.” Leo shifts on his feet, his fingers tapping against his thighs in a very Donnie-like gesture. “Dad, are you about to cry?”
His father laughs, waving his hand almost dismissively, but there are already tears in the corners of his eyes.
“I guess-” He sighs a little. “It just hit me now. You're- You're really doing this.”
Leo blinks.
He frowns, looks around the room like he expects to find any answers there.
“Doing what?”
“Come here.”
Leo's still frowning, but there aren't a lot of things he wouldn't do for his father. He leans down, letting Dad cradle his face in his palms.
Leo's grown so much taller than him, and everyday it hurts, just a little.
“You know, it's funny,” Dad says, very quietly. “I don't remember you growing up.”
Leo swallows.
The ties holding them together are strong, but coated in years and years of history, bitterness, and things they never said out loud.
It's melancholia, it's bitter-sweet, and it's an apology.
Leo raises his hands, covering both of his.
“My boy,” Dad says. “My baby blue.”
I love you too, Leo thinks.
***
The only good thing about his final exam, is that it is the last one he'll ever have to bare.
The whole ordeal feels more a job interview than an oral exam; unimportant inquiries about his future plans and small talk mixed with actual, medical questions. Leo gets the sense they might've been intentionally trying to throw him off, which seems a bit mean, but maybe necessary.
Waiting in the hallway for the examinators to call him back, Leo sinks into his seat, feeling the full weight of all his bones and muscles.
His family's waiting outside, and when he closes his eyes he can almost hear the hum of their nimpo, warm from the inside of his chest.
He thinks he might be nervous. But more so – he's relived.
He thinks that, for the first time, he's not afraid to fall.
This is his best.
Hope is a fragile thing and Leo's holding onto it with everything he has.
They call him back in and he's hovering in the doorway just for a moment too long, until one of the professors looks up at him.
There's a smile edging at the corners of their beak. They raise a hand to beckon Leo closer.
“Come on in, doctor.”
***
Leo can't imagine spending his birthday in any other way.
The night air feels cool and calm on his skin; his head and face warm from dancing and drinking. He's leaning back against the railing; the rooftop of April's new apartment building already familiar enough for Leo to not hesitate before he tilts his head up, balancing on the edge.
“Raphael wanted to eat the last piece of your cake.”
Leo straightens, opening his eyes to look Draxum in the face.
“Tell him to piss off, it's mine.”
“He already ate it.”
Leo's face scrunches up and he huffs.
He doesn't say anything else, but he shifts a little, because Draxum will only stay if he doesn't acknowledge his presence. He's like a cat in that regard.
The man slides next to him, resting his palms on the railing.
“How's work?” He asks, because Leo is now the type of person who's asked about his job.
With real curiosity at that, because while Leo's usual clients are rarely anything other than heartwarming, their parents have been the source of more than a few equally absurd and frustrating stories.
Even with that, he rarely complains about work.
He thinks he's actually good at it, which might be the funniest possible outcome for someone who's only previous experience with children was being one.
He's been told kids find him funny, parents 'charming', and there's a real kind of satisfaction that comes with it.
But working so closely with kids, with their bright smiles, chubby fingers, cute faces and not a single ounce of bitterness in their entire being – made him feel a whole sort of new things. Things he never thought he'd catch himself thinking.
Things that look alarmingly close to white picket fences, piles of small shoes next to the front door and the future.
Why not, he thinks to himself. Why not?
“It was fine. One kid fit an entire Lego piece up his nose.”
“Riveting.”
“You want to play chess with me later,” Leo says.
“I'll be tired.”
“That wasn't a question.”
Draxum huffs, and Leo recognizes it for the laugh it is.
“Leo!” Mikey's standing on his chair, waving at them from the other side of the roof. “Group picture time, get your ass over here!”
And so he does, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
As he tilts his head to squeeze into the frame, he takes a moment to look at his own reflection.
'Are you happy now?', he asks himself.
He hears the answer in his brother's laughter, in the soft music playing in the speakers, in the hum of an airplane passing above them.
He's only a few years past thirty, and there's already a deep ache and sadness etched into his bones – things that wouldn't seem unfit in someone much older.
The limp in his left leg won't ever go away.
But there's something in this, in getting older and older.
He was a dreamer when he was a teenager, and he dreamed of glory, blood rushing in his ears and things greater than his own life.
He's a dreamer now, and he yearns for more of this. More slow mornings, more days where he can't feel the coming cold in his bad knee, more moments where his brothers laugh like they haven't ever forgotten how to.
He's been living with a gun aimed at his head for so long he didn't even feel the cold metal on his skin until it stopped.
Leo tilts his head up, looking into the sky.
And from where he sits – the lights of the airplane almost look like stars.
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Signal boost! Please read if you want to save ROTTMNT!
Resources!
Q & A:
Can we still make and post Rise content until then? YES! As long as we flood the internet with as many posts as possible on August 16 and 17. Make sure to stockpile and then release all your posts into the wild!
What else can I do that would help Rise’s chances? Stream the movie and the show on those two days. Having the viewership suddenly increase on Paramount and Netflix would also greatly increase its chances! ALSO! Like and support as much Rise content/posts on that day! Every little bit counts! Even if you can’t draw, write, or create, you can ALWAYS like, reblog, retweet, and share!
one of the greatest tragedies in life is that you will always be loved more than you will ever know. someone in class finds your presence inviting and warm, even if you’ve only ever exchanged a few words with them—maybe none at all. someone on the street loves your smile and it gets them down the next few streets. someone you used to be friends with still wishes to fondly call your name. someone you used to be friends with five years ago would give anything to be in the same room as you today. someone who regularly comes into work is disappointed when you aren’t there to brighten their day. someone missed you today. someone noticed you were gone. someone loves you when you’re there; someone loves you when you’re nowhere to be found at all. you think you have always disappeared when you’re no longer in the picture, but you’ve never left the frame.
*points at username* of course i named it after a fiddle tune
It was originally a dip pen test, with a bit of gouache for the orange. I love how wobbly the lines are and how imperfect it turned out (●'◡'●) inking traditionally is so much more enjoyable than digitally.
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New idea: instead of writing the fic, you come over to my house and I tell you the entire plot while I pace my tiny kitchen. There’s a cup of tea, warm in your hands. The words don’t stop and the affection never leaves your expression.
Edit: referenced major character death, grief, loss of a parent
-
He's on April's fire escape when you find him, holding a glass of something that looks suspiciously like whiskey and staring out at the skyline. He gives a slight turn toward you and smiles, but it's a plastic, painful thing that you'd rather not see. You wish he would just let the mask drop. If it's this exhausting just to watch him pretend he's fine, you can't imagine what it must be like for him.
You smile back. Make small talk about the caterer. Tell him he looks good in his suit. And ignore all the little signs that he's very much not okay.
The relative darkness out here doesn't hide the red rims around his eyes. His voice is quiet, but you still hear the tremble every now and then. He seems... subdued, but, honestly? If you were someone else? Someone who didn't know him well, someone who didn't care enough to pay very close attention? Then you wouldn't notice anything amiss. Just a charming-but-quiet turtle mutant at a wake.
But you do know him. And you do notice.
"Leo?"
He hums in answer, briefly glancing your way as he brings the glass to his lips. You watch him swallow, the bob of his throat catching your eye, before you fully turn to face him. His grip tightens on the glass, but... you could be imagining that. Still, you soften your voice as much as you can.
"I'm really sorry about your dad."
There's a long moment where Leo stands frozen, so still that it seems inhuman. (It is, though, isn't it? Inhuman?) But then you see his eyes close and his shoulders droop. You catch a glimpse of his face crumpling as he places his glass on the railing and crouches, bending forward and hugging himself. You follow without thinking, like there a line connecting you together, pulling you down with him. Your hand finds his shoulder, and you rub gently as he audibly struggles to breathe.
"I miss him," he chokes out, still staring at the skyline through the gaps in the railing. "And now he's- he's just- gone. It doesn't make sense, I know it doesn't, but I just- I thought- he was always there, you know? How could he not be? It's Pops, I mean, even when he hasn't exactly been there he's at least always been there and I just- I always thought-" Leo pauses. Blinks. And turns his head, staring at you with wide, wet eyes. Something in his gaze changes that you can't read, and his voice lowers to a whisper. He looks like he's... searching your face. For something. "I thought I'd have more time."
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No, sorry it's actually not an artist's guide to drawing hands. Those are just warmup studies (which I'll talk about in this post.)
This is a guide to Your Hands and how to take care of them when making art.
No one ever sits down and teaches artists how to take care of their hands. They didn’t even teach me this while I was in art college. This is just what I've learned myself through years of pain and scouring the internet for advice.
This is going to be a long one and geared towards illustrative traditional/digital/pen/pencil artists specifically, but artists of other mediums and crafts should take care of their hands too! Well, we all should take care of our bodies in general, but this is about hands.
(advice is below the read more)
First off I'm not a professional or anyone with actual medical advice. I'm just some guy with chronic hand pain who makes art. This advice is free for you to use or discard.
WARMUPS!
Ever sit down in the morning to draw and wonder why your art is so stiff and looks so much worse than what you were drawing last night? It's because you didn't warm up!
You know how for physical sports they all warmup and do stretches before getting into the actual sport. To prevent injuries and all that? Yeah, it's good to do that for art too.
One way to warmup is to just draw lines. Try to keep them as straight as you can. Going up and down and diagonal. Draw squares. Big squares. Small squares. Circles! You are warming up, keep it loose and relaxed! Basically just scribble away.
(examples. I usually keep going until there is no paper white left. This can double as practice for drawing straight lines without a ruler, which is a great skill to have when freehand city drawing.)
Before hopping right into drawing people you can try doing some quick gesture drawings. Line of Action has timed sessions with a large variety of clothed or nude models. I usually do the 30 min class as it has a nice balance of short and long timed poses. The point isn't to draw nice art, but to warm up. Try to get the basic form down, not the details. I find that doing a full class session can really help my drawings feel more loose and grounded in reality for the rest of the day.
Some examples I found in my folders. I suggest looking into what a line of action (not the site) is and giving it a try with some of the studies!
COOLDOWNS!
For sports it's to return your body back to your everyday baseline after a workout.
Example; you are working on a big project! A masterpiece! It's detailed and cool! You have been focusing on this for hours and drawing so intensely. But you need to stop working for the day.
A cooldown is for winding down out of the go go go mindset. Put away the big project and do a couple small doodles and sketches. You are relaxing your hand and letting it stretch out. Keep the sketches loose. Let the art happen slowly. Don't polish anything, that can happen another day. Just ease yourself out of drawing.
...
Cool! Now we get into the meat of this thing.
HAND PAIN
How to avoid it and how to manage it if you already have it.
I love you artists and creatives, I am begging you to please take care of your most important creative tools. I really don't want this to sound like scare tactics like "oooh you better do this or blah blah!" Nope. I just had to learn all this the hard way and I'm extremely passionate about it.
Take this advice or don’t ╮(ﾟ～ﾟ;)╭ I can't tell you what to do, I'm not your dad
Adjustments and Small Solutions
If you are feeling physical discomfort while drawing there are many different solutions to try! Here are some suggestions that may or may not work for you.
Hold your pencil more loosely. Stop gripping that thang so tightly!!! Relax that hand! They make these… squishy pen grip things... I think they are called Adaptive Pencil Grips or Adaptive Writing/Drawing Aids? They stop your hand from being all cramped up by making your drawing tool wider. It's going to take a bit of time to adjust to drawing with it, but it's worth it for those who hold pencils too tightly.
Don't press as heavily. For traditional art, if you find yourself pressing really hard to get darker lines try moving to a softer pencil. Most standard pencils are HB, the B pencils have softer graphite. Experiment until you find the right one for you. For Digital, adjust your pressure settings so you don't have to press as hard to get thicker lines. You should not be pressing so hard all the time, it wears out both your hand and your tablet! It takes a bit of time to adapt to pencil or pressure changes. Try doing some unimportant sketches, they don't have to be good. You are just training your hand and mind to adjust using less pressure.
Draw with your arm and not your wrist! It's small repetitive motions that cause the most strain. You probably hear this one a lot, what does it even mean? It means moving your arm with the motions of your line, and trying not to make too many tiny movements with your just your fingers or wrist. This one is hard! It takes time and conscious thought to change the habit. Tips? Work bigger. Zoom in more. Use bigger sheets of paper.
(Motions exaggerated for a clearer example)
Change the angle of your drawing surface. They make angled tablet holders, angled desks, angled desktop raisers. Experiment, find and angle that is comfortable and the one that causes the least pain. (It's also good to make sure you don't have to hold your head at an uncomfortable angle when drawing. Staring straight down or hunching over a paper flat on the table can cause pain!)
Compression Glove? Wrist brace/tensioners? Some folks use them and I've been thinking of getting one for years now. I can't give advice on this one, because I don't have experience with it. Look into it if you want!
Managing Pain
First things first.
IF YOUR HANDS START TO HURT WHILE YOU ARE DRAWING. STOP! Put the pencil/pen/paintbrush/whatever down. The art will still be there for you to continue tomorrow.
I know from experience that it's extremely hard to pull away when you are hyper focused on an art piece. It's hard to remember all sorts of basic needs like food or bathroom when hyper focused. But you Need to stop when you feel that pain. (Preferably even before the pain…)
Take Breaks! Let your hands rest when you can. Just like a machine, if you don't schedule maintenance, the machine will schedule maintenance for you. Often that means having to wait a few days for it to return to functional. Best to take a day off from heavy usage or take an occasional 30 min break throughout the day to let your hands rest.
Stretching is important! Full body stretches are good; your arms, shoulders, neck, and spine are all connected, but I'm specifically talking about HAND and wrist stretching. There are a lot of stretches and massages for carpal tunnel and arthritis out there. I find they work for hand pain in general. Move into and out of each stretch slowly. Do not push a stretch if it hurts!! Be gentle!!
I am not a qualified professional and I will not be giving out specific stretches (that is beyond my personal comfort level). There are other artists out there who have made helpful stretching info-graphics which are cool, but I will not be because i don't want to be responsible for someone accidentally hurting themself. Ask your doctor for stretches & advice or look some up on your own.
Don't feel bad about forgetting to stretch frequently! Of course it is good to do it regularly and frequently, but I would be a hypocrite if I said that I remember to stretch daily. Setting timers for stop and stretch sessions can work for some people, but also doing stretches whenever you remember is fine! If you are sitting on the toilet you can idly do some hand stretches. On the bus? Laying in bed? At the beach? Do a couple stretches! Even just once a week is better than… nonce a week.
Using Cold or Heat to treat pain. If you really overdid it, put your hands in some cold water or wrap a cloth around an ice pack and apply it to your hand. Cold works best for me, but warmth works for others. This is just pain reduction and reducing inflammation from overuse! This is not a permanent solution.
If your hand hurts a lot! Frequently! Talk to your doctor? Idk mine has never given real advice. Just gently poked my hand and told me there isn't much to be done about it :/ but there are really good doctors out there who will care and give helpful advice!
Again. IF IT HURTS TO CONTINUE DRAWING. STOP DRAWING! This is not a "no pain no gain" type situation. Drawing so much that you hurt yourself isn't noble, it's just… limiting yourself. You only get one set of hands. These things are very handy to have.
Other Advice
Things I couldn't figure out how to fit into the earlier sections.
Your other hand can't handle the strain! Lets say you hurt your drawing hand... the other hand is right there free to use for art. Right? Wrong. Your other hand can't keep up with the demand, it hasn't been trained to the same extent as your dominant hand, it does not have the built up muscle. If you want to use that hand for drawing you are going to have to use it s l o w l y and train it bit by bit over a long period of time. When I tore a tendon in my right hand I decided to just keep drawing with my left and I got Really Good at it. It only took like two months before my left hand hurt too much to move. Then I had 0 functioning hands to pull up my pants. Not fun!!
People who draw on phones. That is extremely impressive! I'm amazed by the things people can create on such a small space. But phone artists are the ones I see most frequently mentioning hand pain. please please please make sure you are taking breaks. Would a stylus work instead of using a finger?
Outside of Drawing. Sometimes it's things outside of drawing that are causing the pain. For me there are multiple sources, but I also have tiny baby hands. Holding a phone too long causes pain. The handheld mode for my Switch causes A Lot of pain. The way my hand rests while typing on my laptop hurts! Playing tense videogames for too long hurts! Find the source of your pain and make some changes. The same things will apply to most; take regular breaks, do some stretches, and find soft things to prop up or rest your arms on.
Change your Artstyle. This one is more of a last resort. You might have to change your art style if you are getting sharp pains every time you draw. I loved drawing tight clean lines and many small fancy details, but drawing like that left me in so much pain at the end of the day. In 2023 I had to take the better part of year off from illustrations just to learn how to sketch and draw more loosely. I had to learn how to be gentle. To stop gripping my pencil so tightly. Learn! Adapt! You might discover a new style that you love even more!
A lot of this stuff gets more complicated in a work setting where you have to draw fast and long in order to get paid. Things like reducing your workload can help, but that can be... financially rough. But outside of that, it’s ok to be a slow artist. Going full steam and hurting yourself is not worth it.
Aaaaaanyway, thats all folks. Today's rant brought to you by me! The guy with chronic hand pain who always forgets to stretch! The guy who got frustrated with a sketch yesterday and decided to push to keep drawing for just one more hour! The guy who woke up this morning and had to spend 2 hours massaging and stretching their hands. The guy who probably shouldn't have typed all of this out because ooww ow ouch
If your hands do hurt, it's going to be ok! You don't need to be a speed demon who draws all the time. It's ok to take your time and take frequent breaks. You are going to do great things! Just be gentle with yourself...
