(Author's Note: And here we have the technical sequel to "Cold Fire Rising": A series of random scenes, ficlets, short shorts, bigger stories, and one-shots about neurodivergent Michelangelo and family dealing with Mikey's psionics on a day to day basis.
Some stories will feature an OC friend for Michelangelo (a psychic disabled college student whose cat got caught up in her mutation) who will show up as the stories intersect and interconnect with a timeline.
And maybe I'll have a crossover, maybe with 'Supernatural' and the Winchesters. Really, anything goes. Also, feel free to request stuff when you review.
You see, when I was a teenager, I did this all the time. "Scenes From..." in which the story picked up in the middle and left before the end. This is my revival of my "Scenes From..." period between 1991-2005. It is fun! It stretches my writing muscles! It helps me understand fandom and fiction a little better)
(Author's Note 2: Well, much my own surprise, it looks like a romance has developed between Mikey and the mutant cat OC. Whoopsie. I didn't plan it. Writerbrains go where they are called. Away from my ideas. They were truly supposed to be just telepathy friends all throughout with a hint of potential romance. So. With that in mind: There is a chapter, 16, featuring heavy, clinically detailed sexual encountering. Feel free to skip 16, "The Smell Of Sunshine" if you can't handle Michelangelo/OC sex pairings. In fact, don't even tell me. But someone else might care, and I care that people care, and I have enough sympathy to write this warning.)
Might As Well
He sat there in the light darkness, absently rubbing the massive scar on his left thigh, letting his thoughts wander. He had excused himself after eating a whole pepperoni pizza by himself and passed on the king fu movie marathon. Nobody seemed too surprised. Then again, too many things had changed. He couldn't...well, he never could sit still, but this was more. This was...his brain was...everything was everywhere. It made him mentally tired.
He considered pulling out his sketchbook and testing out that new technique, but his brain muscle hadn't quite gotten the hang of drawing without his physical hand to guide it. The first attempts had been sloppy. His family would have insisted they were beautiful, but his trained eye knew they were essentially a child's screw-up.
His random attention span jumped between everything in his room, from shelf to shelf, desk to bed, scattered pizza boxes on the floor. Without thinking, he let his body slide bonelessly to the floor and flop to the first abandoned pizza box He would need a trash bag. He reached under the bed, where a roll of them lounged dustily, and pulled one out.
Ten minutes later, pizza boxes were in the garbage bag and he was already hunting down dust and dirt; the broom from the closet was dancing on its own, sweeping and twirling and kissing the dust pan which dumped into a second trash bag without a spill. Concentrate, focus, stay with it, he thought. Ooh, was that a stack of comic books? His brain gave him a light smack. The broom and dust pan were still, waiting.
"Sheeez, I'm not the sorcerer's apprentice," he muttered out loud. "Give a guy a break."
An hour later, his bedroom was clean, his belongings stacked and organized. His head hurt a little. His body felt…a little numb. And kind of burning? Maybe?
Someone knocked on his door, silent. Waiting. His head really started hurting. He sighed. "Yeah, Don. Come on in."
The door opened. "Mikey, aren't you going to…wow, what happened in here? It even smells better!"
From the floor, Mike held up a bottle. "Air freshener, dude."
Don looked around, nodding. "What made you decide to clean up?"
He shrugged. "Something. I dunno. My brain."
Frowning, Donatello sat on his bed. "Do you…wanna talk about it?"
He shrugged again. But his muscles were aching, and his head was burning, and fuck this his lower lip was trembling. He got to his feet shakily and realized there was no point in hiding it.
"Oh, Mikey…" And Donnie held out his arms. "Come on, talk to me."
And Mikey fell onto his bed, fell into his brainy brother's arms, and for two hours, he talked and talked and Donnie listened, Donnie the ever-patient and kind, who listened while Mikey rambled on and on about pain, and brain muscles, and dreams, and just every day little things that in his head were no longer so little. Donnie knew. Donnie understood so much. This wasn't science but it was science. It was a different science. It was an impossible science, implausible, unrealistic, bizarre. Unmeasurable science was still science. And so Donnie rocked his only little brother, his chin on Mikey's head, and he made agreeing murmurs and sympathetic hums, and when Mikey asked heartbreaking questions, he answered them as best he could. He wasn't a doctor, he was an engineer, but this was his family and he had to be their doctor.
Mikey leaned against his immediate older brother's shoulder and kept his eyes shut while he talked, and he could see Donnie still, his eyes closed and tight with sympathy, really listening, really listening, and he relaxed and just held on a little tighter, as though Donatello were holding him afloat and the waves were a little too high.
And later if anyone asked he would pretend to not remember. That night, Donatello came to his room with an extra blanket and Michelangelo made room, and Donnie was a great cuddler, and they traded nightmare stories back and forth. And when Donatello was jolted awake in the middle of the night by nothing in particular, he saw that Mike was sound asleep, and Don realized that all he needed was reassurance, and he was totally fine with that.