Having three older brothers can be suffocating.

Usually, it's suffocating in all the best ways. There's always someone to watch television with, someone to take care of him when he gets sick, someone to talk to when the dreams turn to nightmares and reality doesn't quite align the way it should, and when it's still dark and all the monsters are real (they're always real) but now they're here, they're close, and they've come to drag his brothers into corners and shadows, where he can scream forever and never reach them.

That's when strong, hard arms will wrap around his plastron, and a heartbeat, slow and steady, will guide the terrified racing in his chest back to the closest it will ever come to a relaxed pace.

Even in his sleep, he's usually running. It might explain why he's always so hungry when he's awake.

But having three older brothers also means there's always someone around to hog the remote, someone to make sure he stays in bed a day past he's well again and if he has to look at those same four walls again or if Don tells him to hydrate one more time, he is going to lose his mind!

So he decided to sneak out. It's the early morning, and since they've all spent their nights patrolling the streets, ever since they first laid eyes on the surface, and decided they were going to protect it, his brothers are all still asleep.

Now, he knows Raph sneaks out sometimes, and Leo does it, too, and Don's even done it once or twice, so it's only fair that he gets a turn, right?

Cool air washes over his head as he fiddles with the manhole cover, squeezing his thick green fingers into spaces meant for human hands, and closes his eyes, allowing the breeze to calm the swell of anxiety inside him. Putting aside how eternally grounded he'll be if any of his brothers or Master Splinter find out about this little prison break, he dives into the thrumming, buzzing exhilaration beneath his skin, and pushes away the solid metal cover like it weighed little more than a pancake.

With a whoop of triumph, one he quickly tried to stifle by clapping his own hands over a mouth that couldn't stop grinning, he leapt out onto the surface, confident that the orange hoodie pulled over his head would keep any early risers from noticing his shell or the leaf green shade of his skin.

"Hello, yes," he muttered to no one in particular, shoving his hands into the pockets of the sweats he'd 'borrowed' from Raph, "don't mind me. I am one of you."

As he strolled down the back paths, the less traveled sidewalks where cracks ran through the concrete and no one ever bothered to fix them, he couldn't help but notice how different everything looked in the daylight. The movie theater, the market, even the few people he passed seemed brighter, happier without the blue and purple hues of the night dancing over their features.

The alleys where New York's less savory youth often sat to smoke, those who could always be seen thanks to the perpetually glowing embers of their cigarettes, like poisonous fireflies in the dark, were nowhere to be found.

It was just as well.

Regardless of their absence, Mikey wasn't too keen on potentially meeting up with them without any backup, and did his best to steer clear of their usual hangouts. There was a saying Master Splinter had about looking for trouble, and it usually started with – don't.

Before he had the chance to get too comfortable, to think that maybe his field trip could end without a hitch and he could sneak back into the lair without anyone the wiser, there was a scream, followed by several shouts. It didn't sound like a scream of terror, more like excitement, but it was always better to be on the safe side when it came to these things, and if checking on the commotion meant finding out what was so exciting, then that was a sacrifice Mikey was willing to make.

After a quick glance to make sure no one was focused on him, he darted towards the nearest fire escape, climbing up the ladder two rungs at a time. Had anyone been paying attention, they might have noticed how the strange boy, his head ducked low and obscured under his hood, had suddenly vanished.

Moving quickly, Mikey melted into the meager shadows of the day, using everything he knew about stealth to scale down the wall of the next brick building over, closer to a group of teenagers in loose fitted clothing he'd spotted clustered in a group on the dusty dirt of an unpaved back road.

There was a persistent pulse stemming from an apple-sized speaker standing upright next a laptop computer, and though Mikey's view of the scene was hindered by the garbage can he'd ducked behind, he was willing to bet three slices of pepperoni pizza that the first screen he'd see if he got his hands on that computer would be a playlist of more of this strange jazz/pop hybrid that the teens seemed to be bobbing along to.

They were divided into two groups, each vibrating as though they'd never known a moment of stillness in their lives, facing each other with wild, enthusiastic glee as the music began to build, until finally a slender boy in a navy blue cap dove into the center on his palms, spinning his legs with a speed and precision that immediately reminded Mikey of his own nunchucks.

Every muscle, every bone, every joint stretched and snapped with perfect control, while the boy himself moved with a fluidity that could only have come from years of practice.

As the cheers grew louder, the boy's pace grew more frenetic, until he was shifting from palm to palm with so little of his body actually touching the ground that it Mikey got the impression that he could take off and fly at any second.

And just when the music couldn't get any louder, any faster, when the crowd had reached its peak, the dancer froze, as though suspended in time. A hush fell over the audience, time slowed to an agonizing crawl, and right when Mikey thought he was going to explode from the pressure, the sun hit his hiding spot just right, catching him nervously chewing on his fingers, and the boy glanced in his direction, a flicker of surprise crossing his young features.

Then he winked.

And before Mikey had a chance to properly freak out about that, the dancer shoved the ground, lifting his entire body into the air as their team scrambled to make room. Making the most of his momentum, he tucked into a tight ball, allowing the motion to pull him through one complete backflip, then, following the rotation, he feet slammed against the ground, easily transitioning into another.

And for an instant, as he was sailing over the dirt and the dust, as both teams watched with muted awe, he closed his eyes, content and happy and free.

Then his feet touched the ground, and he stuck the landing, drops of sweat streaming down his cheeks and chin as he pushed a dark lock of drooping hair out of his eyes, trying to rearrange it into its former styled spikes, before folding his arms over his chest with a cocky smirk, and his team rushed him, surrounding him on all sides as they hooted and hollered in the spirit of unrestrained celebration.

The opposing team merely nodded their acknowledgement, more low-key in their appreciation, and as it was their turn, a dancer with a blond crew cut, wearing a bright yellow T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, began to amble towards the center, his shoulders bobbing to the beat as his arms swayed and his feet tapped out the rhythm.

Having temporarily forgotten he wasn't supposed to be exploring the surface in the first place, Mikey turned to blend back into the shadows, already beginning to imagine the best way to tell his brothers all about the cool dance he'd seen, when a head full of spikey black hair and two dark brown eyes stopped him short.

It was the boy from before. He waved, canting his head to the side with a grin. "Hey."

And Mikey may have thrown his hands up and squealed, sounding much younger than his years, but there were no photos, no videos, no proof beyond the word of the kid staring at him with an amused smirk, and so it never happened. "So, I noticed you staring at us. Want to join in?"

With disbelief rendering his tongue a numb, floppy weight behind his teeth, Mikey could merely point mutely at his plastron. The kid laughed,"Yeah! Come on, man, who else could I possibly be talking to?" Still not convinced, Mikey looked behind him, back at the other boys dancing to the beat, none of whom were green. He turned around to find that the boy had encroached on his personal space, mischief glittering in cool dark expanse of his eyes, "Well," he outstretched a hand, "you gonna leave me hanging?" And then, with a blatant challenge creeping into the lightness of his tone, "Or are ya gonna get out there and have some fun?"

And since the day Mikey would say no to fun would be the same day Donnie gave up his wireless wifi connection, he stepped confidently out from behind the garbage can, waving at the others as though he'd been planning to join in on the dance battle all along, only to realize his mistake when he caught the spiky haired kid staring at his thick turtle fingers. Quickly stuffing them back into his pockets, Mikey started, "Listen, dude, it's not what you think-"

The boy sucked in a breath, then let it out in a long, low whistle. "Body mod? Cool! I've always wanted to do something like that."

"So, why didn't you?" Mikey asked without thinking.

A deep, aching sadness tainted his gaze, creating the illusion that though he stood close enough to touch, there was actually a considerable distance between them. "My brother would've killed me if I'd come home blue."

Something about the way he said it, about the way his shoulders drooped ever so slightly, reminded Mikey of his father, of the only other person he'd ever known to carry a scar over his heart. But this boy didn't have a scar yet. He barely had a scab, so Mikey decided to redirect the conversation towards a topic he'd been hoping to broach eventually, anyway. "So, what's your name? What're you and your friends doing out here?"

The boy stopped a few feet away from his team, nodding reassuringly in the direction of those few who were obviously wondering why he'd brought a stranger to the impromptu competition. Then he turned back to Mikey, gratitude still a glow that lived in the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "The name's Hiro. Hiro Hamada."

"Mine's Mikey. Mikey Hamato."

For some reason, Hiro seemed pleased. When the latest dancer had finished, he paused the music, drawing a series of groans from the crowd, then walked straight back to Mikey and introduced him.

It all still felt so surreal.

Mikey couldn't believe that he was actually interacting with humans, and they weren't even afraid of him! They even seemed relieved to have him around, since now the teams were even. It'd been a while since it'd felt like anyone was happy to have him around.

It felt like he was floating.

Was he floating?

He checked.

No. No, he was not.

A dancer from the other team stepped forward, the bright yellow shirt clashing oddly with the shock of carrot red hair sticking out from under his baseball cap. "Woah! Green skin?" The exclamation reminded Mikey abruptly of how different, how alien he must've looked to the other humans, so he hurriedly shoved his hands into his pockets, his smile tight and strained and hard to see once he'd lowered his head. But though Hiro frowned at the reaction, the speaker took no notice as he excitedly questioned, "You taking commissions now, Hamada?

Tearing his gaze away from his most recent companion, Hiro laughed. "Not from you, Thomas." And when the unfairness of the denial was loudly protested, he added with a wry smirk, "You were staring at the sun three days ago, buddy. I'm not giving you wings."

With a pink flush staining his freckled cheeks, Thomas shrugged, casually explaining to his peers, "It changes colors when you do that."

A stern, exasperated looking boy standing next to Thomas unfolded his arms and swatted him upside the head. "That's your retinas frying, brainiac."

While the rest of his crew conversed amongst themselves, Hiro touched Mikey lightly on the sleeve to get his attention, then explained that what they were doing was called B-boying. "Or breakdancing, depending on who you're talking to." It wasn't a serious competition, or even a serious crew, but they'd had a bluetooth speaker, a laptop, and some time to kill, so what better way to spend it then on some improv dancing. No preparation. No routines. Just creativity and instinct. "It's all about expression, so there's no right or wrong way to do it." Perfect. "Add a couple backflips to tech up your routine and you're set."

Thinking about the careful control he'd noted in the previous dances, Mikey asked if it stemmed at all from martial arts. "Well," Hiro admitted, "it's kind of similar. And knowing some martial arts definitely helps. Except instead of your weapon, your body's your instrument." Mikey nodded, feeling immensely satisfied that Hiro hadn't lost him yet. "You've got to know what your muscles are doing at all times. And you've got to know your limits. Push yourself too far, too fast, and you'll pull something or worse."

Hiro strided towards the center, then swayed, moving his arms to the beat of an internal rhythm as he explained that the standing move was called a toprock. "It's pretty common to start out like this. Helps get the audience hyped." Bending over until his palms hit the ground, he moved from standing to standing on his hands in one fluid motion, as though he'd simply melted from one form to the other. "There are plenty of ways to make this shift," he commented, the tips of his hair brushing the ground as his legs maintained a rigid, immovable stiffness, "but Pick Up The Coin is a good enough start as any." With a toothy grin, he added, "And here's where it starts to get fun."

All at once, his legs fell, only to stop about a foot away from the ground, where they began to spin, crossing and uncrossing at the ankles, a whirl of color and clothing and worn down sneakers. He shifted from arm to arm, moving as though he had no limits, no reason to tire or ever stop, only an endless, unfathomable joy.

And Mikey knew humans couldn't fly, they weren't born with wings, but watching this boy launch himself into the air, barely touching the ground, as though he brushed it only to remind himself it was still there, waiting for him to come down, Mikey thought that maybe this human could.

When Hiro finally came up for air, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead as he once more pushed away his bangs with the heel of his palm, it was Mikey who whistled and clapped the loudest. "That trick was called a Windmill Flare. Learn it. Love it. Live it." He gave a self-deprecating snort at the greeting card phrasing. "So, that's some of the basics. Want to give it a try?"

Mikey nodded so fast he was honestly shocked that his head didn't fall off. The noise, the fast paced movements, the uncontainable energy, it all appealed to him, fed some part of him that tended to go hungry while cooped up in the sewers.

Wearing an easy grin, Hiro gave Mikey's chest a solid thump with the back of his hand. "Well, then what are you waiting for? Thomas," he barked, "start the music. Put on track 3." There was a chorus of groans, to which Hiro merely rolled his eyes.

Though it looked as though it physically pained him to do so, Thomas did what was asked of him, and a power ballad with strong female vocals rushed from the speaker.

"Now, when you're dancing, I want you to imagine you're not just dancing to the song, but a part of it, a living extension. Think you can manage that?"

Bending into a crouch, Mikey replied, "If you're asking me if I can imagine myself as upbeat, bouncy, and annoying, then I don't know, man." Despite his words, he was brimming with confidence. "It's a bit of a stretch, but I think I'll manage."

He ran full sprint towards the gap in the road, performing a standing flip that was timed so his feet hit the ground exactly on beat. Muscles honed from years of training in the art of ninjutsu and a powerful mental image made it easy for him to imitate the fast paced shuffle he'd witnessed, followed by his own flavor – an extended moonwalk.

"Does moonwalking count?" One of the others wondered aloud.

Arms folded over his chest as he continued to watch the display, Hiro grinned, "You feel like telling him to stop?"

The music built, a growing pressure under Mikey's plastron, reaching a crescendo exactly as he launched himself into the air, landed on a single palm, then spun onto his shell, spinning and spinning until all his colors blended into an indiscernible blur of green and orange.

Once the next verse started, he was back on his feet, jumping, waving his arms and trying to get the others to join.

It completely defeated the purpose of the competition, but Thomas and the others jumped in without much prompting, each adding their own flavor of dance to the mix, and when all was said and done, Hiro offered a permanent place on team.

And Mikey, after a moment of sheer exuberance, during which he pumped Hiro's hand, looked long and hard at his green skin, at his three fingers, remembering why it was so important to his father that he and his brothers remained underground.

Master Splinter wasn't completely right, though. Not all humans would fear them, not all of them would want to hurt them, but it wasn't for Mikey alone to decide when the time to right time to reveal themselves would be.

He would talk to his father. But first, he had to go back.

Reading his expression, Hiro ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Yeah, I kind of figured." He gave Mikey an appraising look. "That skin of yours… It's not a body mod, is it?"

Though Mikey's eyes widened, backing up as his survival instincts asserted themselves, urging him to run, Hiro quickly raised his hands in placating gesture. "Woah, hold on. Don't panic. I'm not going to hurt you. It's just… Do you have someplace to go? If you don't, I-"

"Thanks for the concern, dude, but my brothers are waiting for me." The sun was high. They were probably going to cook him and eat him for supper when he got home.

Gradually, Hiro relaxed, his bearing becoming more natural. "Okay. That's good to know." With a friendly push, he added, "Better get going then, right? They're probably worried about you."

Before leaving, Mikey picked him up, enveloping him in a crushing hug, then darted off, shouting as he disappeared from view that he'd practice his moves, and next time he came to visit, the world would be shocked by his incredible dancing, they wouldn't even care what he looked like!

Back in the sewers, Donnie could be found sitting in a lawn chair as he waited for Mikey to come home.

Seeing him, and hearing raised voices from the inside, a telltale sign that Raph and Leo were attempting to communicate, Mikey slowed his steps, struggling to delay the inevitable. "They're arguing about you, you know," Donnie said matter-of-factly from behind the pages of the magazine he was reading, before Mikey had the chance to step into view.

Sheepishly, Mikey approached, and Donnie stood, setting the magazine down on the chair's seat before continuing, "They're debating who's been the worst influence." He smirked a little. "In my opinion, Raph doesn't have much of a leg to stand on, but since when have those two ever been interested in my opinion?"

Shifting nervously from foot to foot, Mikey asked if he should wait outside a little longer for things to cool down, and Donnie chuckled, deep and low and menacing.

"You think you should be scared of them? No, see, I walked past your room this morning to find your bed empty, your weapons gone. You left no note - nothing to let us know where you'd gone or why." At some point during the conversation, Donatello had placed his hands on Mikey's shoulders, their grip firm and strong, as though to keep a mouse from escaping its trap. "Before one of the motion sensors pinged to let us know you'd reentered the sewers, for all we knew, you could have gotten yourself captured, putting us all in danger, or worse. Do you understand what I am trying to say, Michelangelo?"

Gulp.

There were several rapid nods, and then Donnie smiled, looking friendly enough to send shivers up Mikey's spine. "I don't think you do. You see, if you pull something like this again, you will miraculously find trackers on your weapons, your clothes, even in your cereal. There will be nowhere on this earth where you could go where I could not find you with the simplest press of a button." He paused, gauging his little brother's face.

He was shaking in his shell. Good. "Do you understand me now?"

"I do. Honestly, D, except..." He winked as he pulled away. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger! Stand a little taller. Something, something, when I'm alooone."

"If that's true, then by the time Raph, Leo, and Master Splinter are through with you, you'll be lifting cars with your fingernails."

And Donnie, letting out a gusty sigh, as though he could barely tolerate his reckless, wonderful little brother, as though the thought of losing him, of something happening to him, hadn't eclipsed every dream, every hope for the future he'd ever had, caught his brother like a wriggling fish, then started sneering him inside, ignoring his whines and protests.

Whatever punishment Master Splinter had in store for him, it would pass. And when it did… Well, Don knew he couldn't teach his little brother how to dance, but if it was music he wanted, and if it made living underground more bearable, then maybe it was time for another trip to junkyard.

Music players didn't build themselves, after all.