#ratdaddy

He trembled and whimpered softly. Couldn't stop despite wanting to, feeling ashamed of the perceived weakness. He felt Splinter's arms tighten beneath his legs and shell, pinning him somehow even closer to his chest. Would have been crushing had the resistance not fled, all his arrogance bleeding out of him, his confidence and self-assurance, all retreating, to seek someone more deserving; leaving him loose and soft. Melting in his father’s grasp. A rag-doll, boneless and limp.

The long whiskers of his father's beard tickled the top of his head. A beautiful distraction from the crushing, cramping, sharp, burning criss-crossing his heaving chest. He wanted to see. Needed to. To see what was hurting him like that. Why wouldn't it stop? He started to move his head downwards to see when Splinter shifted him.

"No. No, Leonardo," his voice thick and sounding strained, hoarse and aged, ancient and tired, withheld and tight, as if he were holding his breath while still trying to speak, "Do not look."

His eyelids closed in immediate obedience, even as his chin dipped, but that was more due to the sudden impossible weight of his head upon his neck. As though sensing this, Splinter shifted him again and his head lulled to the side to rest upon his sensei’s chest. His eyes fluttered opened again and rolled as he was jostled by his father's running footsteps. More pain lanced him, needles and jagged teeth through softer bits of him, but it didn't matter. His father had him. He would be okay.

He blinked languidly and glanced up. Over and above Splinter's shoulder, broad and set in rigid lines of determination, the starless sky watched with empty indifference. There the blank expanse opened and Leonardo felt the call of the void.

His eyes slid closed. Began to sink, incrementally into that emptiness. His dreams rose up, visions clear and vague: of siblings, thick with baby fat; of games played and whispers exchanged between blankets; of shivering beneath a bridge, dripping and wet from rain warm as a bath, while holding his breath, expecting and waiting for father to return; of presents given, presents received; of eyes luminous gold and lush with pride watching him, nodding approval, the soaring song of his soul as he perfected another kata; and finally, of the girl, the beautiful girl, with her hidden truth, shining like a light beneath all the dark layers, a beacon to his own aching soul.

A steady cadence distracted him from his slow descent. His face turned towards the sound. And warmth suffused him, filling his closed eyes with a glow that did not burn. That did not blind. He felt his being fold towards the sound. Curling towards it despite the return of the pain, sharp and insistent. Wicked and evil with its glee in making him hurt. But he continued towards it, crawling within himself. Centering himself at its core. The thrumming, repeating sound. Where he could lay beneath it and rest.

His breath hitched as the first thundering blow of guilt hit him, and Splinter murmured something he could not hear. The disgrace smothered him, blotting out sound and vision. The intolerable shame of defeat came upon him suddenly and he cried out meekly. Squirmed in his father’s arms. He did not deserve rescue. Where were his brothers? He failed them. Surely, he did.

“My son, be strong. You are almost home.”

He shook his head and moaned. The sorrow creeping up behind the guilt and shame of failure. He cried out again, a name, and Splinter shushed him.

“They are here, Leonardo. They are safe.”

The words sunk through and past the pain. And stubbornly he told himself he would only truly believe when he saw them with his own eyes. But for now, he’d take his sensei’s word. His body settled as he felt Splinter manuveur down into the tunnels.  His head rocked slightly back and forth until he pressed again into his father’s chest, searching for that sound he’d discovered before his fear had stolen away his temporary moment of relief and bliss. There. The thrum-thump, thrum-thump of that stalwart heart; that origin of all his reverence and devotion. He would sleep beneath that lullaby of life. He pressed his cheek into the source of that rhythmic wordless song of comfort, his father's chest, so warm, scented with everything that whispered of home: herbs and cotton, incense and tea, warming candles and warmer embraces.

"No, no, my son," the voice resonated through him, grave and commanding. "Do not sleep. We are home."