Chapter Text
You met him on November 21st.
It was an especially cold day, and the sidewalk traffic was buzzing with the energy of the upcoming holiday. Food stands were set up everywhere, anticipating people visiting from out of town or even out of state. A few shops were preparing Christmas treats and decorations already, the next best seller once the current upcoming holiday ends next week. Thanksgiving celebrations were to be had at your brother’s house this year. The new house he bought with his now pregnant fiance. You wouldn’t lie. It stung to see their perfect little happy family with their perfect little house and perfect little dog and perfect little fucking actual white picket fence yard…
But it was fine.
You were happy for them, truly. You can be happy for someone and envy them at the same time. Right? Of course.
”Sorry.” You’d mumbled in passing to a stranger you’d accidentally bumped into. They continue walking with a half-hearted complaint on their lips about holiday traffic. Awkwardly shrugging your shoulders to shake off the feeling.
The Krang Memorial blocks stood up ahead, eerily blocky silhouettes against the morning sun. You hated that. Hated whoever designed it to look like that. Clearly, someone who didn’t know well enough to know how much it resembled the shape of those grotesque pink, fleshy fucks that ruined your life. Few people had voiced the same opinion, though nothing could be done now.
Heaving a sigh, stiff feet carried you to that familiar slot in the stone. The one that had your name on it.
There, in the black glossed concrete, your name is etched. The angry scratches you had left when you’d been so enraged one night that you stormed out here in your scant pajamas and carved at it with a flathead screw driver you’d found in your junk drawer at home. Slammed the metal against it until your fingers burned and twitched, and your eyes were sore enough that you could finally go home and get some kind of sleep. At least, the designer chose some damn good material for the Krang Memorial Site. That shit was there for good. Permanent.
You could taste the blood in your mouth still.
You’d stood there for a good hour, staring. Ruminating. Thinking. Over analyzing. Not thinking. Thinking again. So lost in your own turmoil that you didn’t even notice the presence of another just a few feet away from where you stood, still as the pillars before you.
”Did you lose someone?”
Startled, you blinked twice before looking to your right, squinting against the sun. Ah, it’s one of them. The blue mask, one of the turtle brothers that had saved the world. His pupils slowly slid left to look at you, and your shoulders hiked up to your ears defensively. Turning back to the boulder in front of you, you croaked a pathetic ‘no’. It had been the first word you’d spoken all morning. You could feel his eyes burning holes into the side of your head.
“Did you?” Your voice carried across the silence. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. A part of you hoped he wouldn’t, you didn’t need more ammo for your guilty conscience.
”No.”
”Oh.”
The awkwardness of the situation sliced through the tension of your moody morning, and your mind was left reeling. This was out of routine. You came here to stew in your anger and misery, to rot your brain with it until it couldn’t form a single coherent thought of it at all anymore, not meet strangers. Heroes. Him.
You had left shortly after that.
Which brings you to now, a week later, standing in front of the offensive pillar again. Normally dressed in the laziest outfits you could find, which usually consisted of baggy sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, today you were dressed in fall colors and your hair was actually brushed. Thanksgiving morning, the streets are quiet and empty, everyone’s inside with their families cooking and visiting with distant relatives. You had to get out of your brother’s house, as much as you loved your family, it was too much. Nearly suffocated you. Too many ‘good morning’s, too many hugs and how are you’s, too many people touching your fucking hands-
“You know, for someone who didn’t lose anyone, you come here a lot.”
With a frown and a quiet huff of annoyance, you look to your right again. He’s there, again. Standing in front of a different pillar now. This time, due to the cloudy weather and absence of the blinding sun, you're able to see more of him. Black pants and a blue coat with a blue beanie on his head. The tails of his mask sway with the frigid breeze, and the corner of his mouth is quirked up in what could either be a teasing grin or a sympathetic grimace. You leaned toward the former. ‘So do you’ sticks to the tip of your tongue and you face forward again with a deep scowl. You wouldn’t entertain him, not today. Maybe if you ignored him, he would just leave you alone.
After a few minutes of your usual endless ruminating, you startle when you feel a puff of warm air on your face. The most cringe-worthy noise escapes your lungs as you scramble to put space between you and the offender. “The fuck-?”
”Chill out, Short-stack. I was just asking a question and you didn’t answer. Now, as I was saying… do you wanna go for a run?” He stands up straight, cocking his head to the side as he waits for a response. This close, you can see the red crescents peeking out from beneath his blue mask, his dark umber eyes watching you a little too intensely.
”…a run.” You repeat in a disbelieving tone, still eyeing him warily.
”Yes. You know-“ He pulls a three-fingered hand out of his pocket and uses two fingers to mimic a person’s legs running in the space between you. You can’t tell if he’s being a smartass or trying to lighten the tension. “-a run. Blow off some of that steam?”
You don’t answer, merely glaring up at him, and he sighs deeply through his nostrils, the warm exhale tickling your forehead. He takes a step back and shoves his hand back into his pocket with an actual grimace this time. “Okay, okay. Not a runner- got it.”
He walks leisurely to a park bench and shrugs his jacket off, haphazardly tossing it onto the back of the bench. Beneath the jacket is a tight black long sleeve shirt with a purple logo on the chest. It looks expensive, like maybe some sort of cold resistant clothing. It fits snugly around his muscles, toned and flexing with each movement as he stretches his arms over his head while doing a few obnoxious leg lunges. He is, admittedly, quite handsome. A sharp jawline, and eyes that you suspect don’t miss a single thing. He’s tall and bigger than he was in the videos that various new outlets had broadcasted of the fight against the vicious aliens that terrified New York for a day. No longer just a lanky teenage mutant.
You try to ignore each lap he makes past you, but it’s no use. It’s like he’s trying to draw your attention. Against your own will, your eyes occasionally drift from the stone to his form running laps around the area.
You leave with a huff, biting the inside of your cheek until you can feel the indentions of your teeth with your tongue.
You make it through Thanksgiving dinner without any confrontation this year. Not wanting to be a burden to your family’s dinner, you sit at the kids’ table. They bicker, as kids do, and you might as well not exist to them at the moment. It’s nice.
The turkey is bland, the mashed potatoes are like glue, and someone put pickle relish in the stuffing this year. You shove the food into smaller piles, making it look like you ate. Without making a sound, you place your plate in the sink and leave out of the back door. Not wanting to deal with the festivities anymore.
You're a ghost to your own family.
You can see it on their faces every time they look at you. Hell, you would look at yourself like that too. They had a funeral for you and everything, presumed dead like all the others. It’s been five years and they still can barely look at you.
It’s getting dark outside, and as you pass by houses, you see the families inside. Happy and warm and comfortable and normal. God, so fucking normal. Your eyes burn with fresh tears.
As soon as you’re in your apartment, you slam the door behind you and pull your hands out of your pockets. Jittery and clammy, you already know it’s coming. Pale hands tremble and itch and burn, fuck, it burns. Your chest heaves now, ragged breaths spilling into the quiet room, and you slide down the wall until you’re crouched onto the floor. Hands tuck themselves beneath your chin as you try to ease the tremors.
Slimy pink flesh melds with your skin.
Golden eyes, slitted pupils in the reflection of a broken window.
Wailing of someone beneath your claws.
Warm, metallic fluid floods your mouth.
”Stop it. Stop freaking the fuck out.” You pant out, berating yourself for the panic that threatens to claw out of your chest. Your heart slams like a sledgehammer against your sternum, your pulse throbs in your ears and the space between your eyes.
Fangs, too sharp for your mouth, pierce your own lip.
A third eyeball on your abdomen looks for its next prey.
”God, fucking stop.” You sob, opening your mouth to rub your teeth against the fabric stretched over your arms. It doesn’t snag. No fangs. Your teeth are normal, blunt, human.
It takes a solid half hour for your mind and body to calm down, purely out of exhaustion. You stand, feeling stiff and achy, and refuse to look at the scars on your hands when you apply your prescribed ointment. It doesn’t help. It never does.
The phone in your pocket buzzes with an incoming message. You fish it out and look at the screen that illuminates your face in the dark apartment. Though no one else is here, you still feel conscious of your puffy eyes and lips.
Broseph: Make it home okay?
Unsteady fingers type out a quick response.
Sista: Yeah, I did. Sorry I left so soon.
He only responds by hearting the message, leaving you to stare at your phone with a vacant stare.
You used to be close.
Mom used to jokingly call you twins, being inseparable since the moment you were born. She’d gotten pregnant with you not even a year after he was born. Attached at the hip until the Krang invasion happened.
He’d taken it harder than anyone else in your family. Demanded they find your body before announcing your death, got angry on your behalf when memorial and funeral arrangements were made, cussed out your father for spending your college fund on funeral costs and therapy for your brother and mother. It didn’t help things when you’d finally been found three weeks after the invasion, trapped in the cellar of the family owned shop you worked at. He hasn’t looked at you the same since. They think that you’re still in counseling.
You stopped going to therapy sessions two years ago.
Your first therapist was human, and though she was kind and professional, she had no professional expertise on cases like yours. After a year of no improvement on your end, a new therapist was appointed to you. A yokai- the underground species now mostly welcome in the city because of the turtles. Most of New York’s citizens had demanded that, with the knowledge of mutants and yokai existing now, we welcome them topside. It had been a whole ordeal, but ultimately, the government had allowed it. With rules and conditions, of course.
Counseling agencies had come to the conclusion that Yokai therapists would help Krang Invasion survivors more than humans could. The dog Yokai assigned to you- knowledgeable and soft spoken and understanding, had helped a little. But your case was definitely more complicated than most. With a heavy heart, you had ended your professional relationship with her after two years, and she had given you her personal number in case you ever needed it.
A resigned sigh escaping your lips, you move off of the floor. Zombie-like, you go to bed and sleep restlessly, dark eyes surrounded by blue fabric replacing the golden eyes that usually haunt your sleep.