It Starts With …

"Bastard heathen child!" the old rat hissed at his child.

Around his bed candles were lit, their flames illuminating a world that would otherwise lie in a perpetual state of dark. The dark was a welcome choice, and made it far easier on the once proud Sensei's primary carer. To see his Father, his dark eyes that though capable of taking in their surroundings were unable to recognise the boy that battled with him at his bedside.

"Master Splinter …" the eldest begged, as the old rat had continued to forget he had taken up this role to spare his brothers the pain of seeing their father fade away, and consequentially abuse them. "Please, it's just soup."

"Poison!" he snapped, though frail and wasting away in his bed the old man jerked away from the porcelain spoon. "Ugly boy!"

"No …" slowly Leo took a sip from the bowl, "It's just the way you like it." Despite experience telling him other wise Leonardo moved closer to his father. Carefully he moved one purple candle from the side of the bed, before gently dropping to his knees. Balancing the bowl in one hand he picked up the spoon once again, diligently filling the utensil before offering it. In the half light, the boy stayed alert, his eyes watching the bony arms that lay just beneath the thick red blanket warily.

"Heathen child …" Splinter turned his snout from the spoon, his mouth turning up at the corners into a firm line.

"Father, it's soup." Leaning forward the porcelain brushed his father's whiskers, and for a moment it looked like he might take a sip. The candle light caught a small smile from the boy, "Soup." he whispered quietly,reassuringly "Just soup."

"NO!" with lightening quick speed one bony nailed hand shot forth, striking the bowl and spoon out of the precarious grasp that the boy held on them. The burning liquid splashed over the boy's plastron, and across his legs, causing him to wince in pain. Adding insult to injury, talons sliced over his nowexposed forearm, raking up small amounts of flesh. Staring at the scratch marks Leonardo withdrew, there would have been a time, months ago he could have avoided such a clash.

"Fine! Be that way!" The anger that surged through him dissipated seconds later. This wasn't his Father's fault, it was that goddamn disease. Standing up he took in short breath after short breath before retreating from the room, perhaps his Father would be hungrier later. Don could wrap his arm and he would come back and try again later.

Yes, that would work.

-

Life in the lair was decidedly tenser than it had been in a long time. Mike kept himself busy by endlessly cooking; cakes, cookies, lavish dinners that no one was in the mood to eat. Whatever he could do to keep his mind off the simple fact that his Father was wasting away, and taking a good chunk of their eldest brother with him.

Leaving the frying pan unattended to check the recipe book the youngest didn't realise he was setting himself up for a nasty burn until the spitting oil landed on his extended arm.

-

"I'm fine." Leonardo sounded anything but fine. Tired, stressed out, an emotional train wreck, there were a thousand different ways of describing the pale, bowed head of the boy, but fine was definitely not one of them.

Whilst hands wrapped a length of bandage around the seeping wound Don's eyes flickered up from the task to look at his brother. "Okay… I guess the question I'm really asking is; how are you feeling?"

Leonardo chuckled softly, though it sounded more like a hollow, muffled cough. He had spent so long in his Father's presence that he had forgotten how little could slip through Don's radar. Shifting his weight round in the small fold up chair he sat in he glanced down at the floor. "It's horrible." Gritting his teeth against the sharp pain brought on by pressure being applied to the cuts he waited for the sensation to pass before continuing in a low, defeated monotone, "He's not there anymore Don, and it doesn't matter what I say or do he …" eyes raised from the floor to pick a new random patch to stare at, tears that he would normally be able to control pricking at the corners of his eyes, "He doesn't recognise me. Or you, or anything." With his free hand Leo ran his open palm over his eyes, relieved that the tears didn't fall. Shaking his head he changed position once again, this time tilting his head up to the curved red stone ceiling, "There are times Don, I pray I'll get there in the morning … and he'll be gone."

Hands that had been busy withdrew from the arm, satisfied with his work Don moved off his chair to squat down beside his brother. Taking his brother's wrists in his hands he pulled them into his lap, capturing his brother's eyes he held their gaze whilst he did his best to reassure his brother's battered, and waning morale. "Leo, you don't mean that."

Withdrawing his hands Leo broke away from his brother's reassuring gaze. Standing up he smiled at his younger brother before responding in the same deflated, defeated monotone, his tired eyes offering Don a small drained smile "Don't I?"

-

Complete

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Inspiration (aka 'Author' sits to one side stroking her purple plot bunny) -

"Michelangelo could talk the talk and walk the walk, but he was just scared or crazy enough between the talking and the walking to be underestimated more often than not. No one could do hidden motive like Michelangelo, and there were times that Leo wondered if that underestimation wasn't carefully cultivated."
Brotherly Reflections, pacphys (an excellent little one shot! READ IT!)