"But if you'd hold my hand and we'd look to the sky
I think that there's a chance we can once again feel alive.

...

But if the sun comes up inside your mind
Then we could make it home just in time
To see a moon lit loft taking flight
And then to the life we once knew would collide." –In a Different Time, JBM

Chapter 11 – Flying Home

The truck rumbled along the dirt road, bumping side to side. The only sound came from the tires rolling along the rough-furrowed surface. The radio was switched off. Neither was in the mood for music or conversation.

They'd spent the entirety of the four-hour ride mostly in silence, each too engrossed in the emotional weight of the circumstances which propelled them upstate. Each wrestling with their own consciences. Their regrets. And fears.

April glanced aside at Donatello; his head down, bowed over his lap, working on a small piece of machinery that did god-knows-what. A ghost of a smile passed across her lips. Anything to keep his mind busy. To keep distracted. To quietly put distance between himself and the unfortunate topic of conversation. Between them. She could hear his gentle admonishing in her mind, so often spoken to her over the years and now, much more often: Can't talk now, super busy. Can it wait 'til tomorrow? Really, I'm just swamped. Not now. Later. Please, April, I'm working.

In his mouth were several delicate tools. Pinched between his thighs was a large piece of wax paper where tiny screws and washers bounced. He removed a slim, pointed screwdriver from between his lips.

Her mouth opened only for her to close it again without a word as he shifted slightly in his seat. The tilt of his head purposely angled to keep from eying her. She sighed. Fine.

They drove on.

The sunlight glowed rosy through the late summer foliage, tinting the spreading scenery shades of copper. The goldenrod and wild sunflowers rippled, tipping their bronze and brown faces as breezes raced over the hills. In the distant canopy there was a touch of amber. A hint of autumn's approach. The signaling of the coming end of the bountiful, easy season. The shadow of leaner, harder times encroaching just beyond. Dark thoughts circled the back of her mind. Stalking her stoicism. Gnawing at her brave façade.

Chilled, April shivered. Donatello did not notice.

The turnoff came up and April pulled right into the lane. The movement sharp, jostling them, as she nearly missed it – having not come up here in too many years to count. Or maybe it was just because it was so hard to see with the tears standing stubbornly in her eyes. Welling, burning, but never spilling. Not if she could help it.

Donatello jerked and hissed softly in pain. Cursing under his breath just before he stuck his thumb into his mouth.

"You okay?" she asked with a glance.

He nodded, sucked, pulled the thumb out; examined it with a grimace. "It's fine."

"Oh. We're just about there."

"What? Already?"

He turned his gaze out of the window, took a look at the surroundings and then gathered up his mini project by crumpling the wax paper into a ball and tossing it down between his feet.

April's brows raised.

He rubbed his thumb and crossed his arms.

"Don," April started in a coaxing tone, unable to help herself, "try not to . . ."

"To what?" he asked, and it was more of a snap than a question.

She sighed hard through her nose.

They'd been over this. A week ago, when they first got the crumpled letter from Casey. The edges of it worried into ripples and parts thinned where he'd erased and started over. It was a letter not easily conceived, one that carried the evidence of the weight of its contents in smears, wrinkles and over-thought, written and rewritten words.

They'd been over this since then so many times she was sick of the subject, but she couldn't afford to trust. Not in him. Not in anything. There was so much at stake here. An entire future. Good or bad. He could ruin everything. And how she loved her husband, with everything in her heart, but he was as stubborn as they come. Even more so.

And when hurt, he held a grudge longer than anyone else she'd ever known.

She pressed it, because she had to. As a mother who hadn't seen her daughter in too terribly long, until the ache was a real thing, right between her breasts, constant and squeezing; as a friend who'd lost too much over the years – about to lose incalculably more; as the one who had to always keep the family, broken as it might seem, together.

"Almost two years, Donnie." She glanced at him. He avoided her eyes. Looked away. "I can't risk losing her. Not now. Not with . . . She needs me. Us."

"I know," he muttered.

"Could you just," she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, struggling. "I know things are strained. Considering . . . everything with-with –" It was no use. She choked it out. "Raphael."

He tensed at his brother's name.

She braced for a fight.

Instead, she saw him surrender. In the softening of his shoulders, the slight dropping of his chin. The news had changed him. By increments, by barely measurable degrees. It had changed him.

"I'm not going to cause any trouble," he said quietly, not meeting her eye, but staring out the window as the roofline of the farmhouse loomed up ahead.

They pulled up near the front of the farmhouse, just off to one side, close enough to see Casey rolling his chair down the ramp to greet them. Nothing much had changed besides the jet-black hair having gone completely silver and an injury a few years back that had nearly killed him. One that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Gray and grizzled, but still broad in the shoulders like an old bear, he sat grinning ear-to-ear with a smile that was as sincere as a sunrise.

"Hey! Wow, you guys made great time," he called out, wheeling through the gravel, leaning forward and punching the side of the truck admiringly.

"Hello, Casey. How are you?"

"Donnie!" he greeted as the old turtle climbed out. "Oh no, man, you let April drive? You are a brave sonofabitch, you know that?" He barked out a hoarse laugh, crinkling up the corners of his eyes into a riot of wrinkles, only to dissolve into harsh coughing.

April moved around the front of the truck as Donatello shook Casey's hand once the coughing fit subsided. She bent and gave him a hug. A quick peck on his bristly cheek.

"Aw, nice." He shrugged back into his chair, squinting up at her. "Nice to see you, Ape. Nice to see you both," he said, eyes twinkling as he gazed up at them. Taking them in. Casey shook his head. "Man, haven't seen either of you in," he sniffed and shook his head with a laugh, "too long. You know what? You guys looks great. A little tired, but yeah, great."

April opened her mouth to ask about Michelangelo. If he'd been contacted. If he knew anything, but, behind Casey, the screen door squeaked and KoKoa crept out onto the wrap-around porch.

April straightened up and Donatello stiffened.

She was dressed in denim overalls straining slightly at the middle with a white t-shirt beneath. Her complexion looked healthy, but even from where April stood she could tell the girl had been crying, hard and recently.

KoKoa took a step forward, leaned against the post and gave a half-hearted wave to them all in general. "Hey," she called out meekly. Then pointed behind her in an off-hand way, "There's, uh, iced tea and some oatmeal cookies in the kitchen."

Neither April nor Donatello moved.

Casey worked his chair around. "Hot damn, sounds like breakfast to me!" He started to roll away when April started from her daze and moved around him to the stairs, leaving Donatello to assist Casey up the ramp.

She heard Casey say to Don as she dashed by them, "You gotta hook me up with some off-road treads. Or maybe like some kind of nitro on this thing."

At the top of the steps, April reached out for KoKoa. There was an awkward moment before the girl leaned in and they embraced. April thought she felt thin, considering. And as she held her daughter, April thought the tears might finally spill free. Instead, she felt the girl tremble and her resolve to appear strong redoubled.

"It's okay, honey," April murmured.

KoKoa jerked away and, wiping at her eyes, moved to allow Casey to come up to the porch. As he did, she hurried into the kitchen, holding open the door without looking in Donatello's direction. They went inside. April took in a shaky breath and followed them.

KoKoa was only in the kitchen for a second before slipping from the room, to the staircase, muttering something about letting him know they'd arrived. April watched her go, stepping from the kitchen to the dividing hallway between that and the living room, feeling torn, wanting to follow, but deciding at last that she would probably like a moment of alone time with Raphael to prep him for the visit.

She turned and noticed that the living room had been converted into something of a bedroom. Things were untidy but not terribly so. In one corner was the familiar hockey bag, hanging limp and full, unused in so long. Dust motes twirled in the air through shafts of narrow light coming in from between the drawn blinds. Casey's coughing brought her back into the kitchen.

Don was standing in front of the sink, staring out across the front yard.

April moved to the cabinets and looked for a glass. She held it aloft towards Casey. "Lemonade?"

Casey raised a hand, refusing. He grunted and reached alongside his hip. From the crevice of his seat, he pulled out a flask, unscrewed the top and took a long, deep drag. He wiped his mouth, and recapped it, throwing April a wink.

April rolled her eyes but returned an indulging smile as she poured herself a glass of lemonade. She slid into a chair, resting her forehand against the heel of one hand. "So," she began.

Donatello turned his head and then slowly moved his body to face them, leaning his aching hip against the counter with his arms crossed.

"So, yeah," Casey coughed. He fingered the top of the flask and raised his eyes to sweep them from April to Donatello and back again. "Well, like I said in my letter, it's pretty bad. Uh, really bad. Actually." His face lost some of the ruddiness, leaving it shadowed, gaunt. His eyes, hollow and haunted. All the boisterousness was gone from his voice, drained away. Leaving it thin. Barely above a whisper.

"As bad as it gets."

For a span of heartbeats, the room fell still as the worst fears of the occupants were once again justified. Reinforced.

April whispered, "Why didn't you contact us sooner?"

Casey scratched at the side of his jaw and looked chagrined. Something of his school-boy charm still held despite the years. He shrugged. "I wanted to," he said. He glanced at Don. "Right when they first came up, about six months ago. I wanted to. I fought him about it. You know? Especially when I found out about KoKoa and the –"

Something in Donatello's face made him falter. He cleared his throat. "But Raph," he said, trailing off. His face twisting with something like bitterness, morphing at last into a contemplative grin. Softly, he added, "You know how he gets."

"You should have contacted us sooner," Donatello said, but there was no conviction in his tone, no real anger, only that sodden resignation that had taken up residence ever since they'd gotten the news last week.

They sat in silence.

"I want to see him."

April and Casey looked up at him in unison.

At that moment, KoKoa reappeared at the edge of the room. Addressing Casey, she said, "He's up."

Donatello made to move when Casey swung around. He braced one hand against the air between them. "Don't be surprised if he, uh, doesn't know you. At first, or, not at all, maybe."

Donatello stiffened and April made a soft sound of distress.

KoKoa jutted her chin, eyes lowered, speaking to the floor. "He's himself this morning. Better than he's been in weeks."

"Huh." Casey nodded. "Oh, good," he murmured. "That's good." Casey blinked suddenly wet eyes and raised them to April. "The last week or so, it's gotten," he choked and trailed off with a shake of his head.

KoKoa turned her head by inches to stare out the door into the front yard, steeling herself against the tension in the room. Her eyes glazed and face frozen in the stiff way one gets when hearing bad news and not ready to accept any of it. Or maybe to reject it, completely.

April's attention went back to Casey as he said, "He keeps talking out of his head. All of a sudden it's like he's in the middle of a conversation. Middle of the night, sometimes."

Donatello's attention sharpened.

"What does he say?" April asked as if reading her husband's mind, surprised at the evenness of her voice.

Casey's expression softened. "Leo."

Donatello's eyes dropped, his complexion paling to a soft gray, but made no sound.

"Yeah, talking to Leo, like he's right in the room with him."

April covered her mouth, felt her eyes burning. Listening with her heart hammering. Knowing what this might be doing to her husband.

With a grim expression, Donatello moved past them all without a word towards the staircase. KoKoa shifted away so as not to brush against him as he exited the room. Not giving him the slightest glance.

Head swimming with the information Casey had provided, Donatello paused. His hand gripped the top of the worn Newel post for balance as his eyes swept the room to his left and settled on what looked like a handmade crib.

The room tilted and his mouth grew dry. The floor swayed and he staggered, leaning on the rail for balance, glad to have gripped the post a moment before. He'd known, since the letter. He'd suspected for longer. Seeing the crib, though. Seeing it was something different. He sucked in a breath and faced the blurred and doubling stairs ahead of him. With some effort he raised his foot and pushed himself, step at a time, up to the second floor.

The hallway loomed, distorted in the dim rays of light, swirling and fogged with dust motes. He made it, somehow, down the impossible length of it to the door sitting partially open. He placed splayed fingers against the panel and pushed. It swung open to a small bedroom, narrow and sparsely furnished. A wardrobe rested in one corner, a short stool near one of the open doors, one the floor: a few rags, bottles of medicine and a flashlight. There was a wide window that took up most of the opposite wall, curtains drawn, blocking most of the light.

His eyes crawled to the bed. Up the tattered edges of the quilts to the jaundiced, sunken figure who could not, not in a million years, not in any possibility of the imagination, not in any way, be his strong, willful, imposing brother. This was an impostor. A fake.

Glittering eyes peered at him from a drawn, haggard face.

Casey's words returned to him then and filled him with renewed dread: "Don't be surprised if he, uh, doesn't know you. At first, or, not at all, maybe."

But even in the dimness, through the haze of illness and cutting a path through the more dominating press of death's sulking presence, there was, in those eyes, firmly and without a doubt, his brother.

Donatello, bolstered by this, straightened and crossed the room on mostly wobble-free legs. He came up and stood a moment next to the bed, near his brother's arm laying limp on the coverlet, before reaching and flipping through the stack of papers and books on the nightstand adjacent to the bed. He scanned the information. Print-outs from medical sites. Dozens. Pages and pages of printed documents as if the person who'd searched this information out and printed these would somehow find a way out of the situation. An impossible hope, a way towards a cure by arming themselves with knowledge.

Useless.

Donatello dropped the papers. He jumped as something cool brushed his wrist. He turned to see Raphael's fingers fumbling against him until he turned his hand and then felt his brother grip him with surprising force.

"Donnie," Raph rasped. He shuddered with the effort to speak. "You come . . . all this way . . . to give me a checkup?" Raph squeezed his hand, but did not let go. "What's the . . . outlook, doc? 50/50?"

Donatello finally looked down to see a sardonic grin spread across his brother's face.

"I'll take . . . those odds."

He was surprised to feel angry. Surprised to find his hands balling into fists as if he were about to pummel his sickly brother, his dying brother. But as Raphael's grin turned into a huff of a laugh, it morphed into a violent choking and Donatello felt only a sodden helplessness.

The strength of his legs gave out and he sat heavily onto the bedside, making the springs squawk. He stared at Raph. Watching him squirm and jerk in pain as the fit passed into a wet, drowning gurgle. Slowly, his other hand covered the top of his brother's. He found himself unable to speak as if the unfairness of everything had strangled the ability to talk right from his throat.

As Raphael sat back, blood coated his bottom lip and chin, spattered the coverlet. And that's when Donatello saw the bundles of tissues with the rust-colored stains, the mottled blots and larger spots along the pillow and the edge of the blanket. And that's when the words of Casey's letter came back. And all their terrible, finality. Raph, his brother.

The brother he'd maligned at every turn. The focus of all the bitterness, all his jealousy, all his life.

His brother, whose only crime was being who he could only ever be.

Donatello looked up, eyes glistening, wide and full of apologies. "I can't fix this." The words seem to belong to someone else. Someone speaking to someone else. How could this be real? How could they have come to this point when so much was left raw and unfinished, ugly and broken between them?

And yet, they came again, dropping from his lips like some ridiculous disclaimer, "I can't fix this."

Raphael settled back, sinking into the stained pillows, and still did not release Donatello's hand. The ends of his mouth turned down. "I know."

Donatello shook his head, helplessly.

"It's okay."

Donatello dragged his gaze from his brother and stared at the wall behind the bed. There was nothing okay in this. Not in any of this. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

He considered the question and finally asked, "Why?" Raphael shifted and grimaced, fighting back another fit of coughing, making rough puffing sounds that sound more painful than the earlier fit to Donatello.

He raised his hand from Raphael's and rubbed his face, surprised to find it wet. In a weak voice, he admitted, "I dunno." And he didn't. What could he have done? Nothing. Not for this. And once again, Donatello felt the odd-man out, the useless one, the one who would be left behind. And there was nothing he could do about it.

He closed his eyes and made a sound between a laugh and a sob. Once he started, he could not stop himself. There wasn't room for shame or dignity or anything but the overwhelming crush of sorrow. For his brother. For himself. For everything lost.

With a tug, he was pulled to one side and enveloped into a bear hug. He stiffened, but didn't fight it. Realized he didn't want to.

With his eyes pinched tight, he returned the hug as best as he could, feeling his brother's shrunken body under him; Raphael's sobbing turn into more coughing, hearing the strain of his lungs, filled with fluids, rattling and wheezing, sounding like the most terrifying thing he'd ever heard.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to run away. He wanted to rewind the past two years and find a way to reconcile, to recapture what he had thrown away out of angry, spite, jealousy and hurt. He wanted to take back every rotten thing he'd said about Raphael, take back all the accusations and judgments. To start over.

But it was too late.

He felt himself sliding towards despair. The darkest pit in the far reaches of his reason. He could not halt the momentum of tumbling towards that emptiness, not knowing what he'd find within it, but knowing that once he entered, there would be no way out. The image of the crib downstairs flashed into his mind then and the falling feeling abruptly halted.

With Raphael, he had what was left. It wasn't much. It wasn't fair, but it was all he had. He could still try to make it right.

"Raphael," he said around his hiccuping, as he calmed himself and began to ease out of the loosening hold. "I'm going to . . . I mean to say . . . I'm-I'm sorry. For everything."

Raphael turned his face away, coughing into the pillow. Donatello sat watching him, shivering and shaken, sick and reeling. When it passed, the spreading crimson on the fabric remained.

He held up his hand, dismissing Donatello's words. "Don't," he croaked and swallowed, struggling. "It's all . . . in the past."

"No. Still. Listen. I was unfair to you. I was always," his words caught, his face twisted in fury and self-hatred, "such a bastard to you."

He was surprised to see Raphael grinning through the tears. "Nah." He shrugged. "Deserved it."

Donatello leaned in, gripping his brother's thin - god, so thin! - shoulder while the other hand still sat captured in Raphael's clasp. Their eyes met and Raphael grew serious, nearly sheepish under Donatello's intense stare.

"Never," Don wheezed. "You never did."

"Don," Raphael's words came forced between the strain of his breathing, "will you . . . forgive me?"

Donatello's eyes dropped closed. Fresh tears spilled. He nodded. His voice came out breaking, like a boy's, cracking over the syllables even as he stumbled over them. "Of course. Yes. If you can find it in yourself to forgive me."

He opened his eyes to see Raphael nodding, his lips formed the words he could not speak, too weak now, to even do that. Donatello brought his forehead to Raphael's and then sat back. He felt Raphael's fingers finally uncurl, releasing him. At last.

"I'll make things right. With KoKoa."

Raphael's gaze sharpened and focused on him, eyes bright and full of something like fragile hope.

"Nothing will happen to her or your . . . baby . . ."

"Boy," Raph said in a hoarse whisper.

"Your baby boy." Donatello said around a watery grin. He imagined he knew what the name of this child would most likely be. "I promise."

Raphael's wavering smile swept the years from his face, making him look young, and all the more vulnerable. He shook his head, unable to talk, but Donatello understood.

"Okay? Okay. Rest, now."

Raphael tipped his chin in agreement, looking suddenly exhausted, spent. He looked past Donatello, over his shoulder and for a moment, Donatello thought he saw his brother stiffen, eyes widening, a flash of something like fright come over his face. Don turned to look, but saw only the peeling wallpaper. Nothing more. When he turned back to Raph, his eyes were closed and sunken, breathing roughly, but breathing.

With a tiny mew creaking from the back of his throat, Donatello eased off the bed and backed out of the room. Outside the door, he reached out and braced himself against the opposite wall in the hallway, heaving and gasping, doing his best to compose himself.

Later, he found himself standing next to the crib, musing silently on what he'd wished he'd told Raph, going over and over in his mind what was actually said, what he'd seen on those printouts and what little time they had. A cup of coffee in his hand, the other, running gently across the smooth top of the side rail. It had been crafted beautifully. At the headboard, Donatello noticed the family clan's symbol had been carved delicately into the wood. This added detail was unexpected and moving. He never guessed that Casey was so good at woodworking.

"He made it," KoKoa said behind him. He never heard her approach.

Donatello turned. "It's very nice. Solid." There was a beat of awkward silence that he felt the need to fill. He hadn't spoken to her in over two years and the only thing he could manage was, "I never knew Casey could build like this." He ducked his head. It wasn't what he wanted to say, not anywhere near where he wanted to begin. But it was something. For April. For Raphael. He would try until things were made right. And she was at least speaking to him. It was a start.

"Not Casey. Raph. Raph built that."

Donatello started. "What?"

"As soon as he found out."

He stood muted and oddly shamed. He remembered, then, how good Raph had always been at making things, building engines, welding, molding, and woodworking. It made sense, if one wasn't inclined to think only the worst of his brother.

"Congratulations," Donatello said quietly. "I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner."

KoKoa eyed him suspiciously. One hand went to the bump in her middle.

"He said you're expecting a boy." He gave her, what he'd hoped, was an encouraging smile. "Naming him Leo, I assume."

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "Wrong again."

He frowned. "Oh?"

Standing as if reciting something from memory, she stated, "Don Leonardo Yoshi Hamato." She rolled her eyes again. "Sounds like a mobster or some kinda gangster to me. But," her face darkened, eyes clouding with sadness. "It's what he wants."

Donatello found himself speechless, leaning back, legs like jelly, the crib keeping him upright.

"Casey wanted me to tell you that Mikey's coming back up tomorrow – he left a day ago to get some more supplies for us from the city. He's been helping a lot."

Mikey. He knew. Hadn't said anything either. Donatello wondered how long he knew, but none of that mattered. Not really. He didn't blame them for not wanted to tell him anything. If April hadn't insisted he would have never even came up. He'd have held onto his pathetic grudge like a fool. Don pinched his eyes closed. Feeling ill.

She turned then and he only dimly heard her say she wanted to check on Raphael before she went to bed.

April stepped into the room then, pausing to give KoKoa a smile and a brush of her hand which KoKoa seemed to lean into. April's warm expression dropped as she spotted him. She hurried over.

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head. His mouth worked. "He's . . . naming . . ." Don trailed off. April ran her hand along his arm, down to his hand and gave it a squeeze. Donatello focused on her, eyes glassy. "Why do you love me?"

She started, her mouth broke into an astonished grin as she huffed a laugh. "What?"

"Why do you love me?"

She grew serious and studied his eyes, his face. "I love you because you're thoughtful, caring, intelligent, because you're always supportive, because you've never let me down. You've always did your best to be honorable."

"Have I?" he cut in, voice broken, on the verge of tears.

"Yes, Don." She brought her hand up to his cheek. He covered it with his own, looking sorrowful and guilty. Breaking her heart. "This isn't your fault," she whispered.

He hunched over and set his coffee cup down on an end table next to the crib, immediately falling into April's embrace. She held him against herself and shushed the quiet sounds of his distress.

"It's going to be okay," she whispered to him, over and over. Feeling her own tears threatening, but not spilling. Not yet. That would come later. For now, she had to stay strong.

And when the sharp, high wail of her daughter's grief flowed down the stairs like a waterfall made of all the sorrow in the world, making him jerk and go rigid with fright and anguish, she held him tighter and repeated herself again.

And again, keeping her tears held back, shoring up the last threads of her strength for her family. They were going to need someone to be there. To be strong. Again. It was her job, after all. It had always been that way, since the first time she'd met this amazing family. And she was honored to take the role.

The rooftop is bathed in steel blue with silver highlights. Bright and flashing, making it hard to focus, blurring his eyes as they tear-up. He isn't sure, but it feels as though he might have been crying. He's out of breath, as if he'd been running or sobbing. Blinking he turns in a half-circle, wondering for a moment at where he is, how he'd gotten there. He feels he's forgetting something terribly important. There is a muddled confusion, but no fear.

The sky in the east is growing a pale yellow, chasing the darkness back into the west with a trail of still sparkling stars winking in the expanse above. A warm breeze blows across his bare skin and leaves prickles in its wake.

Someone suddenly rushes by, tags him on the opposite shoulder. He spins around to just see his older brother leap across the wide span between the buildings, laughing. Laughing in a high young voice that he hadn't heard in years. Or so it seemed.

"Slow poke!" he taunts, rolling around on his heel after he lands all grace and sinewy youth, hands cupped around his mouth.

Raphael reaches out, dumbfounded at the ten or twelve year-old version of his brother. Stunned, he stands. One hand outstretched. Lost in his confusion. But a growing happiness suffuses him. Warms in him a coldness that he hadn't realized was there.

"Leonardo," he whispers and the wind steals his name, pulls it free from between his lips and smears it into the pastel clouds unfolding above him. "Am I dreaming?" he asks, but Leo doesn't hear the question or ignores it. And Raphael finds the question strange and dismisses it immediately. Of course he isn't dreaming. He's there, isn't he?

"Come on! What are you waiting for?" Leo calls, swinging his thin, boyish arm, just starting to show the muscle definition that will only become more prominent with the upcoming years of grueling training, but for now is reedy and thin, but steady, strong.

Raph steps forward, looks down to find his aged body gone. His hands, palms up, are plump and firm as they were when he was nine or ten himself, and any thought that he was ever old, infirmed or anything other than what he is right now seems like a dream fading. Fading away into where all things of no importance go. How silly to ever think he was anything than what he is right now. How strange.

He steps another step forward, finds himself now at the edge of the building he's standing on and looks down to multiple stories below, then up to the gaping expanse between them. Wondering how the hell his brother had made that jump, yet never doubting that of course Leo could do that.

He could do anything. Anything.

But Raph . . . he sidles back. He can't make it. He can't. He isn't as good. Not as nimble. As fast. He's heavier than Leo, despite being younger, he's slower.

He looks across to see Leo leaning forward on his palms turned backwards against the concrete parapet of the opposite building. He's looking down at the cars racing between the buildings like ants racing along with sparklers in their mandibles.

"I can't," Raph calls weakly, hating to admit it, but not sure what else to do. Besides, he can trust Leo. He's the only one who he can actually open up to without fear of judgement or teasing.

Somehow Leo hears this. His head jerks up. "Yeah you can! 'Course you can!"

Raph glances around. The light is stretching pale yellow further into the sky. "We gotta get home," he hedges. "It's just about dawn!"

"Don't be scared!"

Raphael stiffens. "I ain't!"

"Well, come on!"

Raphael hesitates. Fear leaves his palms cold and wet. His legs twitch. There's a part of him that things he can do it, but only because Leo seems so sure of him.

"I'll catch you!"

Raph looks up. Leo has backed up a little, arms open, outstretched. Ready. Waiting to catch him.

Raphael's feet shift back and back again. Before he knows it, his legs are pumping and his arms are swinging as he runs as fast as he can. He runs and crosses the distance to the edge and feels all the tension building into a ball of immense force in his legs and as he springs all the confusion, the fears just vanish as he traverses that impossible gulf between them.

He leaps.

Eyes wild, mouth open. Arms out, breath stolen – never doubting he'll be caught.

Leo's there, eyes dark and true as a summer sky. Happy and shining brighter than the rising sun. He's laughing out loud, and it's like music, like all the music in the world; standing strong, braced, ready to catch him when he lands.

And Raph might as well be flying across for all his happiness. In fact, it feels exactly like he's flying.

Flying home.

A/N: So.

This might have been the most emotional ending of a story I've ever written. Thank you, so much, for reading this and sharing your thoughts and leaving comments or even just giving it a try.

I appreciate every one of you. So much.

The 2015 StealthyStories FanFiction Competition is under way! Even if you did not send in a nomination you can vote - after the reading period is over - sometime around April 6th. Please consider participating. It's a wonderful way to spread the love for our fandom's amazing writers. The link to the site is on my profile page.

Thank you.