This is a belated birthday gift to ChiakiAngel. Hope you like it, hun!

I n n o c e n c e

His legs went numb hours ago. He thinks that he's forgotten how it feels to move them, to stretch them and feel the pull of his muscles beneath the skin. The light filters in from the grate above and his skin has been sun burnt in little squares, making him feel almost like a chess board. He supposes he's just not used to the sun. None of them are used to the sun. That was a sad fact.

Leonardo takes a deep breath and glances up. It's just a twitch, a reflex almost, but still, he freezes.

A few seconds.

Nothing.

He relaxes.

The sun has started to set, but Leonardo doesn't move from his position. He can hear the sounds of the stragglers as they pack up their goods and prepare to move out. He can still smell the oil, fumes and salt in the air. It's thick, pungent almost and he resists the urge to wrinkle his beak. These people are living in the filth. These people live in the darkness, both figurative and literal. He can feel a chill descend on him as the last few rays of light disappear.

He still doesn't move.

He'll wait it out. A few more minutes.

It's always a few more minutes. A few more. Just a few. Then an hour. Sometimes more. As long as possible.

Because Leonardo doesn't want to go home.

He thinks that maybe he's a coward, and the thought sinks into him, saturating him until the shame is gathered at his eyes. Wet. He swipes a hand over them, drying the moisture.

His mask has been dislodged from position, the eyeholes shifted slightly to the left. Leonardo moves to fix it, but pauses. What would it be like... not being able to see? Would it be terrifying the first time, plunged into complete darkness? Not knowing what was going on? Did he fumble for a light before stumbling to the door? When he flung it open, had he known? At that moment? Was that why he'd screamed?

It's cold now.

He wonders if his brother is cold. Probably not, Donatello's been taking care of that. He's been taking care of everything. Leonardo knows that he should help, that he should be there. Be there like he always told Raphael to do.

He's a hypocrite. A goddamn hypocrite.

When he finally moves, his muscles are aching. It's a bone deep feeling that he hasn't felt for years. He's been out long today. Far too long.

But going home feels like taboo, and he wonders if this is what Raphael has been feeling all these years.

*0*

The lair doors close behind him. Leonardo is only a few steps in when he sees Raphael walk out of the kitchen. He's holding a can of something that looks like soda. He sees Leo and follows his gaze to the drink, raises the can and nods his head. By way of explanation he says, "We're out."

Leonardo nods as well. He knows. There are a few bottles in his room that were never there before. Nor did he ever think he'd stoop that low. But then, he's been surprising himself a lot lately.

Raphael stares at him for another long moment with something that looks a lot like accusation.

It's your fault.

I know. Leonardo's thoughts are screaming, I know.

Then his brother shrugs and turns away, "He's in his room."

Leo catches the unspoken words, "I know."

He can see the line of Raphael's shoulders tense and he clenches his teeth. He's used to the snide comments, the shouting. He's not used to the silence. Not to this.

Not to Raphael just walking away.

And he wants to shout after him as he climbs the stairs. Scream and shout and make him say something, anything. Make him angry.

He doesn't though, and by that time Raph has slammed his door.

*0*

The room smelt almost stale when Leo pushed open the door. It was light, the bedside lamp was on and so was the over-head globe.

"I don't like the dark."

Leo turned his head.

Michelangelo gestured above them, "I'll turn it off later."

Leonardo nodded. Then he took in a deep breath, "Okay."

He shifted his position, his eyes raking over Mikey's form, slumped at the edge of the bed. They'd lowered his bed. Michelangelo had been furious about that. Now he just seemed resigned.

How do I make this better? Leonardo was struck by the innocence, the naivety, the helplessness. He sunk to his knees. His arms were limp at his side. His head lowered and he shut his eyes.

"Leo?" Mikey sounded concerned, "You okay?"

His hearing was amazing. Leonardo shook his head. Then, once again, it struck him. Mikey can't see that.

"Yeah." The words sounded choked. Choked and shallow. So damned shallow.

"You're not."

Leonardo raised his head. Michelangelo's brow was furrowed, his skin creasing behind his mask. His mask. The one he had stubbornly insisted on wearing even after the accident. He said that it was a part of him now, and he couldn't just give it up. Leonardo knew the real reason though. Giving up the mask was giving up his heritage. It was giving up all the years he'd spent training. Giving up being a ninja. Giving up his life. And Michelangelo wasn't quite there yet.

Yet.

Leonardo could see the shadows in his eyes. His glassy, lifeless eyes.

"No..." It was a whisper past his lips, and Leonardo hated how weak he sounded. He shouldn't be weak. That was the cause of everything. Everything.

His eyes.

Oh God, his eyes.

Leonardo stumbled to his feet, clutching at the desk. Behind him, he could feel Michelangelo tense, "Leo." A warning.

Still, Leo raked his eyes over the stacks of paper. He reached out a hand, caressing them, riffling through the little pieces of Michelangelo's soul.

"Leonardo!" he turned to see Michelangelo on his feet now, his hands balled in fists at his sides.

"They're beautiful."

Mikey went ridged at the words and for a moment, Leonardo thought he was going to explode, to shout and scream and blame him like he so deserved to do.

Instead, his brother's glassy eyes slid shut, and he slumped onto the bed. Burying his face in his hands.

After a second, Leonardo could see the tiny trembling of his shoulders.

Crying.

He hadn't cried since the first night. Leonardo has listened at the door every evening, every day, clutching at the wall with tight fists until his hands bled, his own face twisted in grief. Silent. Like Michelangelo.

His baby brother.

He was supposed to protect him.

Oh god.

He took a step forward, stumbling, half tripping until he slumped down next to him.

Words. He opened his mouth. Then closed it.

Open.

I'm sorry, I should have done more. I should have done something.

Closed.

You're going through so much. I can't help. I should try. What's the point when I was the one who left you damaged and broken? So damn broken.

Open.

You never smile anymore. Little brother. Innocence, light.

Closed.

Darkness. Permanent darkness.

Open.

"I'm sorry."

He heard the breath rush from Mikey's lungs. Then he laughed, but it was nothing like it used it be. It was dry and hollow and raspy.

Dead.

"Who said I even blamed you?"

There was bitterness in his voice, but Leonardo could feel that it wasn't aimed at him.

"Mikey, I was-" Every word was a painful wrestle with his throat.

"Are you so fucking self-absorbed that you can't see past yourself?"

Leonardo jerked back, stung.

"Can't you see that it's Bishop's fault? Bishop, not you, get that through your thick skull."

He was starting to sound like Raph. Leonardo shook his head, "Mike, if I'd-'

"If, if, if!" Mikey snarled, "When I opened my eyes the first time, when I was halfway out the room before I realized that I was blind-!"

Leonardo flinched.

"Who was there?"

"That's not-"

"You were! And who held me and stayed there while I cried like a fucking baby, because Don said that he couldn't make it right again?" He didn't give Leo a chance to answer, "You!"

Leonardo grit his teeth.

"I-"

"Stop it!" For the briefest moment, Leonardo thought he saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes.

Anger.

But then it was gone.

"Why am I the one whose comforting you? Whose trying to make your realize that I don't want to be on my own because you can't bare to look at me! Do you have any idea how that feels?"

Michelangelo turned his head, swiping a hand over his eyes.

Leonardo felt an ice cold rush pass through his body.

Alone.

He'd left him alone.

The guilt sent a sick jolt in his stomach. He touched Michelangelo's shoulder, muttering in his ear as the scent of cloths softener, cinnamon and something like alcohol washed over him, "What can I do to make it easer?"

"Leo..." Michelangelo's voice was strained, and he could hear something like reluctance, but something much more like desperation. Like this was something he needed with his very soul, "Please just hold me."

So Leo held him.

He breathed...

And cried for the loss of innocence.