literature

Gingerbread Men : Run

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Day: 79

It’s black. There is static. Everything blinks. There is a small room, it too is dark. Heavy breathing from a single location clouds the sound. The room shudders, more black, in and out.

The shadows move. There is a figure in the corner of the room, huddled over and head bowed down. Only its backside is visible. It has a shell. It trembles.

The black continues to flicker. The breathing grows louder. It doesn't come from the figure in the corner of the room. A hand reaches and covers everything and its solid darkness. The fingers are dripping in blood.

It's completely silent.

"I hate you."

---------

We're coming for you.

Donatello's eyes snapped open. Michelangelo was staring directly at him and he nodded before he asked quietly, "Did you hear them?"

Don sighed and pulled his hands back from the younger turtle's grip before he looked away. The two were sitting directly across from one another, legs tucked underneath them. For a few moments he glanced around the empty room, his gaze lingering on the vacant, windowless walls that boxed them inside. It all looked so much smaller without all of Leatherhead's machines stuffed into every corner or and maps plastered on the walls or hanging off the ceiling. Hard to believe that was only a few weeks ago when he’d stepped inside to find it all completely gone. Not a trace it had ever been there to begin with.

He only wished Leatherhead had at least said good bye.

"Don?"

He looked back at Mikey. It was difficult to hold his gaze. He didn't really answer, the vibration in his temple still sending jolts down his spine. Instead, he just sort of half shrugged and reached up to rub his forhead.

Mikey scuttled forward until their knees bumped. He leaned in, his voice softening to a whisper, "It's okay, I heard it too."

"It's getting worse."

"I know, but we're gonna be okay. Did you talk to Raph about it yet?"

There it was again. That violent, gut twisting surge that writhed deep in the pit of Don’s belly. He tried not to react, but he felt his eyelid twitch. Even before he opened his mouth to respond, Mikey was quick to interject.

"Dude, I thought you said you were gonna tell him last week?"

Don didn't hesitate this time. "Just as you have with Leonardo?"

Mikey rolled his eyes, "That's completely different. I already told you, it's not his turn yet."

"Right. His turn. "

The younger turtle smiled. It was so gentle it made Don internally squirm on behalf of his own irritation. But if Mikey noticed he failed to mention it. Instead, the smaller mutant reached out and gingerly took Don's hands back in his own, turning them over until his palms were facing up. Without a word, Mikey began rubbing them soothingly with his thumbs.

Don no longer tried to shirk away. Mikey's touch was warm, and his fingertips comfortingly rough. The pads of his thumbs traveled the silky smooth inside of Don's palm with slow, familiar precision, traveling up along his narrow wrists before massaging the tender skin that only hinted at a remainder of the past. The bruised flesh and deep scars were growing fainter by the day, but Don knew his victory was not a shared one. Slowly his eyes traveled to the exposed wrists of Michelangelo, the bright white tape strapped tightly around them already showed stains of pale pink.

Mikey instantly stopped and sat back on his heels. Don looked up and Mikey gave another knowing nod, "We'll be okay. You just gotta trust me...and Raph."

"Right..."

Don closed his eyes and breathed out softly, trying to erase the stomach churning image of stained bandages and forgiving faces. He had never imagined that things could be harder being around those who genuinely cared for him as opposed to accepting their hatred.

Even harder still was finding someone so like him it made his skin prickle and the nights feel even colder. Michelangelo was different.

He was special.

You will be ours again.

Suddenly Don's phone alarm went off.  For the first time he realized how stiff his shoulders were as he quickly snatched it from the floor beside him and shut it off.

8:30

Time for work.

"Thank you, Michelangelo," Don said as he stood up and grabbed his jacket, "I do appreciate your company on these mornings. I will think about what you said, about telling Raphael I mean. Sometimes I think he...well, anyway, did you want to come to the studio with me?"

"Nah, I'm good," Mikey answered cheerfully. He stretched his legs out in front of him and reached for his bare toes as they wiggled, "Leo said he was gonna meet me here in a little bit and then we'd head over together."

The distinct scent of the leather jacket instantly made Don feel warm as he slipped himself inside and zipped it up. "Alright," he said as he wriggled his bare feet into his boots, their chunkiness still a bit of as nuisance but forgivable for the cozy warmth they offered, "Then I will see you later. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Mikey's toothy grin widened as he shrugged, "You just look so cozy."

Don resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but he did allow himself to offer a small smile before he buried himself deeper into the soft folds of the deep crimson fabric. He knew Raphael’s sweatpants were going to be too big.

"Don’t bother Irma too much. And don’t be late." Don said with final wave before he slipped out of the room. The narrow hallway that lead up to the room that was once his dear friend's headquarters were dim, and he pulled out his phone again to light the way. For the first time he realized he had missed a phone call, the name blinking on the screen.

RAPHIE

With no one in sight, Don allowed himself a grin. He remembered quite well the first time he had used the less-than endearing moniker. Trapped between a fistful of sweaty sheets and thick muscle, the name had burst from his throat in a moment of frenzied mania. He had felt the heavy body on top of him give pause, and it was just long enough for him to regain proper dominance before once again succumbing to the rush of toe-numbing chills and blinding adrenaline. He didn’t even know if Raphael had remembered it the next day.

Don didn’t answer the call, instead stuffing the cell into his pocket the second he discreetly stepped out of the hall and into the bustling coffee shop. He was immediately enveloped in a swirling scent of mocha and cinnamon, the tinkering clatter of spoons and mugs a welcome relief to the engulfing silence of the room upstairs. He spotted Irma busy behind the counter, and he decided to slip out without bothering her. Mikey would undoubtedly come bounding downstairs and try to charm her for a cookie pretty soon anyway.

The air immediately nipped at his bare cheeks and nose, but it felt refreshing. A fresh snowfall had begun early that morning and it continued to sprinkle over the city in a powdery, dreamlike haze. Don briskly began his trek to the studio, savoring each and every crunchy footstep, once again reveling in the warmth of his new boots.

The city itself was in a flurry to celebrate the rapidly approaching New Year. Although Don did not miss the final reminders of yet another Christmas gone past, he felt a strange sort of uncertainty huddled deep inside his chest at the thought of the impending festivity. The turning of yet another year gone past. A future that, for the first time, did not hold a promise of suffering and a longing for death.

It was the first time he would start over with people he loved.

The studio came into sight when he felt his pocket began to vibrate once again. Don pulled out his cell and pressed the flashing green button, “Good morning, Raphael.”

“Someone keyed the fuckin’ bike.”

Don frowned, “What?”

“All along the fuckin’ gas tank, there’s a huge gouge at least ten inches long! God damn kids and their fuckin’-”

“Does this mean you’ll be late to work?” Don shifted the phone to his other hand, reaching inside his pocket again for the keys, “You know I could really use your help. We have three new students today and-”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there. Don’t get your tail in a twist bright eyes, I’ll be right-”

“Don’t interrupt me. I’m sorry about your bike. Take it to that garage over by the plaza, they’ll have it done by-”

“Hell no, you mean that Chet’s Garage place or whatever? They’re owned by the same company that towed my car!”

Don had stopped walked. His fingers had wrapped tight around the keys, when he felt it. He was a mere few steps away from the front steps of the studio. The porch was empty as usual, the screen door still locked from the night before. With the rising of the sun, the porch light had flickered off on cue, and all was as it should seem on every other morning.

Only something was wrong.

A hollow, dead freeze had settled upon the ground. It sucked in the wind, leaving everything lifeless and thick with shadow.

He was faintly aware of Raphael’s voice. It was still talking, words meshing together, but they sounded blurry and distant. Slowly Don brought the phone up to his mouth, never removing his eyes from the studio door.

“I’ll call you back.”

He hung up. He wanted to look away, inhale deep and calm the rising beating of his heart, but his gaze refused to sway.

Move. Walk.

Up the stairs.

Don’t think.

Just go.

He shoved the key into the lock and paused. Tiny beads of sweat lined his forehead, and he finally forced himself to stop. He could feel the ringing reverberate through his body, the buzzing chill resounding through his veins until his hands began to tremble. He turned the lock and the door swung noiselessly open. Don stepped inside.

Everything was still. The rushing in his head stopped instantaneously, and there was only pure silence left in its wake. Slowly Don turned his head, inspecting every inch of the empty studio. All was as it had been the night before-mirrors meticulously wiped down, mats and hand targets neatly stacked on their respective shelves.

But it wasn’t right. Something had shifted. Off-balance.

Don warily walked forward, heading toward the office. It too was locked. Normal.

Yet after it’s unlocked he can’t fully step inside. Instead he stood in the doorway. He methodically began to scan the room, his gaze falling to the floor, before slowly the inspecting desk, climbing up the walls, over to the shelves-

There.

A strangled, painful gasp ripped through Donatello’s throat. He sprang forward, nearly colliding into the wall as he scrambled to pull everything off the shelf. Trophies and glass awards crashed to the floor, medals falling from where they had been pinned to the wall for over a decade, but Don paid them no mind.

They were missing. Gone.

He knew it.

His head grew light as he forgot to breathe, his vision grew distorted as the burning stab of tears filled his ruby eyes. How quickly they came now and he almost wished he was back to how it was before. Before it was so easy to let his guard down. Before anyone could hurt him.

The bells were missing.

He knew they weren’t on the shelf, could already see it. But he refused to accept it. He swallowed huge gulps of air, forced the mangled sobs that became stuck halfway up his chest back down deep inside. He had to keep looking.

Look everywhere. Tear down everything.

Don’t stop until they’re found.

So consumed in his search, he didn’t hear the gentle footsteps as they walked through the front door. The shadowy figure that carefully leaned into the office door was no more than a blur in the peripheral of his vision. A ghost that meant nothing.

At least until it spoke.

“Excuse me…does Leonardo Hamato still own this studio?”

Donatello jumped, bumping the side of his head against another shelf and sending a new wave of memorabilia shattering to the ground. He bit his tongue and instantly crouched, frantically scavenging through them, not bothering to look at his intruder.

“He’s not here.” He answered briskly.

“Oh…” the voice sounded irritatingly disappointed, “well, if you know when he might be in-”

“We’re not open yet sir,” Donatello snapped as he finally stood and turned around, “come back when-”

He stopped. Stared into hazel eyes.

Both remained frozen. Shock.

“D-Donatello? Is that you?”

Someone was shrieking inside his skull. High pitched screams, drowning everything in deep pools of thick, crimson red.

He knew those eyes-a striking hue of gray and blue. That voice. Soft yet melodic as it twisted itself deep into night after nightmare. He’d heard it, seen it. He’d felt that powdery white fur against his palms, the thick tufts between his fingers and the soft, tender flesh beneath his nails. He knew the slope of that neck and the taste of his scent as intimately as he knew his own.

Don swallowed numbly.

“Who are you?”

 

 

Title: Gingerbread Men ( A TMNT AU Sequel)
Summary: Although three months after the battle between Michelangelo and Donatello have passed,  the growing pains of new relationships is strong. Untold secrets and shame continue to cloud the air as the four turtles struggle to mend the scars that have been so deeply ingrained in their lives, yet the startling arrivals of familiar faces only drive those wounds ever deeper. When a strange, yet chillingly alluring young woman unexpectedly enters Donatello's life, the walls surrounding the past rapidly come crashing down. She rapidly unravels the bonds to the past, and the hunt begins for answers to the key against a deadly threat which has remained dormant for far too long, and is swiftly approaching with the promise to destroy them all. 

Pairings: Raph/Donnie, Mikey/Leo
WARNING: This story does contain romantic relationships between the turtles. Please STOP reading if this bothers you. This story will also contain elements that may be triggering for some readers including the suggestion of self-mutilation, non-consensual sex, drug abuse and death. Please be aware if these are upsetting topics for you.

Prologue: Gingerbread Men [Prologue]
Chapter 1: HERE
Chapter 2: Coming Soon

BOOK ONE: Break and Bend : Komorebi
© 2015 - 2024 BossanovaInk
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