Nobody knows exactly when things started going to shit but with the most accuracy, it starts something like this:
Donnie hates the way rain feels.
He wishes he didn’t. The sounds are always pleasant, especially when they’re over at April’s and it hits against her window like rocks. But standing out in it, his hoodie at least blocking some of the feeling, Donnie absolutely hates the rain.
He’s glad he has Mikey, though; Donnie is almost always glad he has his brother. Because Mikey doesn’t mind it, or climbing in and out of piles of garbage with him to find just one piece of some useful scrap metal. That, and Mikey has a good eye for things Donnie might not really get the sense of. He sees the use in pretty much anything.
So Donnie is fine. He can bear a little bit of the icky feeling that makes his skin crawl for a while. He’s got Mikey and conversation and the thrill that comes with scavenging to distract his mind.
“I just don’t get why people would throw perfectly good garbage away,” Donnie mumbles, his teetering on the edge of the dumpster and rummaging through it.
“I know,” Mikey says as he opens a new black bag, taking whatever Donnie hands to him, “I dead don’t understand humans man. They get a lot of cool stuff easy- and just throw it away!”
Donnie hums in agreement, the metal of the dumpster amplifying the sound. “Twas true, twas true. But all the better for us, correct?”
“Righto.”
“See, Michael,” Donnie says, lowering himself to his feet and dusting himself off, “The thing about humans, besides April, is that they’re dumb.”
It’s not an opinion, it’s an observation, and the turtles were well versed in the study that Humankind was totally amazing and perplexing and stupid and wonderful. It’s just a fact of life. At least Mikey knew so, because that’s what Donnie explained.
And so they carry on in the rain, lugging their findings around Brooklyn, bantering and pretending and Donnie doesn’t think of the rain much at all. And he doesn’t think of anything else, really, besides the time he’s having now- and that’s unusual.
And that’s where it begins.
It’s a small, miniscule thing at first. Mikey is talking about mapping out their next scouting and texting Raph about what groceries they’re lacking and Donnie is listening…he is, but his head buzzes like a soft grating that he can only ignore partway.
He’s soaked at this point, and that should bother him, but the sound is more troublesome than the downpour or the fact that he’s taking too many steps in one sidewalk square than he ought to.
“….not getting milk. I dunno why Raph keeps asking for milk, he’s super intolerant to it,” Mikey says, rolling his eyes and pockets his phone in the little pack across his plastron.
“Yeah…” Donnie responds, hesitant, and looks around the street they’re on. He thinks it’s Prospect, he knows he should know it.
He can see the bridge.
It’s not all that dark, there’s street lamps and store signs to illuminate the night, though the lights blur in the rain and make the soft buzzing transition to a piercing whine in Donatello’s head.
It’s loud and it drowns out whatever’s coming from Mikey’s moving lips, or the sound of the rain, the noise of water splashing from cars- people inside those cars who hardly notice two adolescent sized turtles are standing by a bench and a bus stop, one on the verge of-
“Donnie…” Mikey’s voice is unwavering as he holds him by the shoulders, “Hey, where’d you go?”
His eyes search Donnie’s, but Donnie can’t recognize a thing. His hand twitches and he looks around the street for a hint of familiarity.
It never comes, only black spots in his vision and the instinctive calling to flee.
Anxiety. That’s what Donnie so desperately calls it. He’s had it since he was seven, and so it’s fine. He’s fine.
He wakes up, he’s staring up at Leo and Raph, crouched beside him with damp cloths and eyes shaped by worry. Donnie hates that a little more than the pounding headache he’s got. He hates to make them worry.
“Where’s Mikey?” he asks first, the only thing to come to mind, and his brothers exchange a brief look Donnie can’t read.
“Freaking out,” Raph says, but keeps his voice soft, and tries to smile a little, “He thought you were dead.”
If it’s supposed to ease Donnie, it works. He sags a little, letting his body relax. “I’m fine,” he says before his brothers can ask, “Are you guys okay?”
They stare back at him funnily enough to make Donnie wonder about that, sitting up partially.
“Yeah,” Leo laughs, something off that Donnie can’t entirely place, shaking off whatever expression that had flashed, briefly, “Yeah, we’re cool. Everyone’s cool. We just um…you don’t. You don’t remember anything?”
Rolling his eyes, Donnie lets himself lay back to the floor, “Stop.”
“Maybe Pops can check you out, though,” Raph suggests, giving Donnie a little space, “You know, just in case.”
“Negative,” Donnie mumbles with little inflection, “Dad…shouldn’t have to worry. And neither should you two. You can leave me now.”
“In the middle of the garage?” Leo asks, cocking his head, though Donnie doesn’t see with his eyes closed.
That explains the bright light. He opens his eyes in slits, “Mm. Yeah..” he says, groggily.
It only takes a second for Raph to huff overly loud and yank Donnie up as gently as he could, heaving his brother over his shoulder. And Donnie whines all the way out the garage and past the den and through the hallway, but hardly puts up a fight.
There’s no fighting Raph when he’s all determined like this, and Donnie’s tired.He’s fine but he’s so tired.
They pass by Mikey, who’s hauling blankets, who drops said blankets when he sees Donnie.
“Oh shit!” he laughs, gathering up the blankets, “You’re alive!”
“Unfortunately…” Donnie mumbles.
“Stop that,” Raph chides, because he absolutely hates that, which is sometimes why Donnie says shit like that, and they slip into Donnie’s room and Raph sets him gently in his bed.
Donnie barely registers what else his brothers say before sleep claims him again.