He looks up at the sky and wonders if Michelangelo has ever been angry at him before.

Raphael's anger—specifically towards him—is, of course, a state of natural being. Donatello is rarer. A temperament a little too close to his own, something too gentle and kindred in being the only ones with a few coins in the company's sanity meter. Less generous when his things break, but his ire, while caustic and often reinforced with a big stick, is usually deserved.

Leonardo can't remember the last time Mikey was angry at him. He hadn't thought his brother's eyes capable of ice, for how alive he is, for how nothing about him ever ceases to move. He is a sun built within a running reactor, never frozen, never cold.

Michelangelo is angry at him now. He isn't certain why. He isn't certain about anything.

Mikey's yelling at him. It hurts his head.

It's hurting a lot of him, right now.

"Hot," he says, and immediately thinks that it's an oddly dumb thing to say. Mikey is still upset, but there's plenty of alarm pinching the skin under his unmasked eyes. Ah, maybe that's it. His eyes just seem colder without the warm orange to offset them.

Leo isn't hot, so he's not sure why he said it. Michelangelo doesn't seem to care either way. He doesn't seem to care about anything other than yelling, at the moment. A splash of warm color and sound against the backdrop of fog and concrete and glinting metal, cut and beaten into gnarled pieces around them.

He still is like a sun, Leo surmises. That's what he meant.

Something about the realization is so comforting that he decides to just stop thinking right there.