Disclaimer: TMNT is the property of Mirage. I lay no claim and make no money off this.
Warning: Some language, turtle-slash, teenage hormones, perv!Leo.
Note: This was the result of realizing I'd never tried to write Leonardo in a semi-serious fashion. An experiment in character development, if you will – mostly I just needed to figure out what the hell my personal interpretation of Leo was. And I am guilty of not giving poor Leo enough love anyway, so it's his turn. Poor bastard. XD
"Kissing is the most delicious, most beautiful and passionate thing that two people can do. Better than sex, hands down."
Leonardo blamed puberty.
He knew it was silly; he knew that placing blame for one's problems on an unavoidable biological process was like accusing his bladder of trying to interfere in a battle. It wasn't his bladder's fault if Karai had the upper hand. The act of urination wasn't subject to pre-planned, malicious timing.
Regardless, Leonardo was not impressed with his body. He needed someone – or something – to blame for the reoccurring hot blush that raged in his cheeks every morning. A point of focus that wasn't part of, attached to, or in any way associated with him, because he felt really weird and just a little ill, knowing it was his own thoughts that inspired his daily, morning blush. And the raging hard-on that accompanied it.
How long had it been, anyway?
As fine-tuned as his memory was, Leonardo could not accurately pinpoint the day that all of this – unseemly-ness? – began. And he wasn't about to ask Donatello, despite his brother having happened upon his brothers during that terrifying critical moment. Donnie could tell you exactly how many times they had fought the Foot. Donnie could name how many times his brothers had been injured, by who, with what, when, and even recall with near-perfect detail what the damage had been.
Donnie could also probably recount the number of times Leo awoke with a stiffy, but that was mainly because it always occurred when the mellow turtle was just about to claim the bathroom for a shower, and Leonardo would (sneakily or forcibly) snatch it away in a flurry of horrified desperation.
The eldest tried not to think about whether Don ever noticed the extra protrusion, but he assumed his brother had. Why else would the olive turtle sound nearly hysterical during the single occasion in which Leo had nicked the bathroom from April? (Shell, now that was a close call! She'd nearly seen him; if Don's vocal chords hadn't strangled her name…)
Of course Don knew. And he was sure that Raphael did as well, if those knowing smirks his temperamental brother graced him with were any indication. It had surprised him quite a bit the first time his red-clad brother tossed him one of those smirks; surprised, because even as Raph's lips bulled back from his teeth Donatello (who was also in the vicinity) had let forth the silliest little giggle Leonardo had ever heard.
It must have showed on his face, because Don did it again before he fled away into another room. Raphael never lost his smirk that day, while the occasional Don-giggle had their youngest brother, Michelangelo, utterly baffled.
Cheeky bastards. Both of them!
Blaming Michelangelo wasn't an option, either. As much as he'd like to, Leonardo knew the fault lay within himself – or, more to the point, in his halfway point between child and adult. Oh, he'd seen all the television shows about teens, watched a ton of movies and listened carefully to Master Splinter's lectures on the subject. He just hadn't realized the full extent of how absolutely weird it was, or could be.
Especially considering the object of his hormonal lusts.
Why, Leonardo wondered, couldn't he just be like everyone else and pop a woody over Paris Hilton? There was a multitude of plastic surgery and implant disasters available to drool over; shell, since he was already swinging to the left why didn't he fantasize about Orlando Bloom or Denzel Washington? Leonardo diCaprio's hot, and hey – they had the same first name!
But Leonardo diCaprio didn't make peanut butter cookies the way Hamato Leonardo liked them.
And Leonardo diCaprio probably didn't smell like a mix of Doritos, oranges and cinnamon, all of which Hamato Leonardo loved (especially on toast for the latter). Nor could he make Hamato Leonardo smile the smile that he tried so hard to hide.
Casey's farmhouse brought out the kid in all of them, for no apparent reason. With his chin resting comfortably in his palm, posture that of total relaxation (something his brothers saw far too little of back in New York) as he leaned on the window's smooth ledge; Leonardo watched a delightful scene unfolding before him and could not stop the peculiar, dreamy smile from taking up residence on his face. Nor did he cease mauling the plate of peanut butter cookies (made the way he liked them) placed at his elbow.
Leo was ninja; he could multitask.
There was something curiously therapeutic about the whole thing, which was probably why he could be found at the windowsill with a plate of peanut butter cookies every morning without fail for the past week. It bothered him a little that he had forgotten this, that the time spent at home would blur his memory enough to make him hesitate at the suggestion of visiting the farmhouse.
It wasn't as if he disliked the tranquility surrounding the farmhouse. He quite preferred it. Eventually, after an hours' worth of meditation he decided that the issue lay with routine; Leonardo was accustomed to the dramatic lifestyle he shared with his small family. So used to danger lurking around every corner, with enemies almost always scrabbling at their doorstep, he found it difficult to fathom – or rather, recall and then readjust to – another kind of atmosphere.
A low chuckle escaped him; shouts from below only a small part of a new memory he wanted to preserve with utmost clarity. He'd need to work harder to remember how the farmhouse transformed everyone, and how lovely it really was.
'Poor Raph,' Leo thought, before grinning with sudden evil and changing his mind. 'Nah. He had it coming.'
Another cookie died without honor in his mouth. Leo chewed almost idly, his grin fading back into the soft, dreamy smile that caused Raph to snigger and Don to blurt out the weird little giggle he had acquired of late. Michelangelo would, of course, still be baffled because by the time he would look to see what was so funny, Leo had already artfully disposed of it and would be leveling a death glare at the other two.
Leonardo sighed again.
Why did Mikey smell like Doritos, even after a shower?
Granted, Leonardo was certain that sniffing his youngest brother's bed sheets while he was downstairs cooking breakfast didn't help. It could all be psychological, but that wouldn't explain why Raphael had once turned to Mikey in disgust, asking bluntly if he slept in a Doritos bag or if someone had (for whatever ungodly reason) created a scented body wash based on them.
Eau du Doritos, Raph had said. For his part, Michelangelo cracked up; at least until his older brother stormed into his room.
Leo would never forget that day. Probably the only time Raphael had ever done laundry without being told, and there he was tearing the sheets from Mikey's bed, all the while spitting out a stream of scolding about dirt, bugs and sleeping in filth more suited to an exasperated mother (or Master Splinter) than their tough-as-nails, who-gives-a-shit? brother. The look on Donatello's face had, Leo was sure, matched Leo's own to a T; he could almost hear Don asking quietly, 'Wow, is he channeling Casey's mom?' again.
'Yer nasty, Mike,' Raphael concluded, and to everyone's surprise Michelangelo had nothing to say in response.
But Leo liked the smell of Doritos. Which was probably why he found himself with his beak stuffed deep in his brother's sheets every morning.
Leonardo felt like a perv.
He couldn't even look at oranges the way he used to; let alone eat them the way he used to. The scent reminded him of Mikey, and the color did, too. And when he ate them it was like… like some sort of bizarre porno in his head. Peeling the skin, he would imagine his brother's bandanna falling away, and his belt, elbow and kneepads. Leo would slice the orange, allowing the smell to fill his senses, and then he'd…
Sucking on an orange wasn't exactly like kissing Michelangelo, but it was the closest he'd come to it in a while. At least the mess he made of himself, on his face from the juice was similar enough; Mikey was a messy kisser, who apparently enjoyed slobbering all over Leo's face. The eldest turtle would have chalked it up to inexperience, except that he knew his brother did it on purpose.
In his mind, from the depths of memory, Don said, 'That… looks extremely unhygienic.'
Michelangelo, after being temporarily rendered frozen in fear at the sound of their brother's voice, nevertheless regained himself and tossed their purple-clad sibling an enormous, cheeky grin. 'I know.'
He tried to recall when it had actually happened. All he could manage, however, was that it was approximately a year ago; give or take a few months. Leonardo never broached the subject with his brother again, although he knew Mikey had tried several times only to be deflected by Leo's closed expression. It hurt to see the younger terrapin's face fall, to see his bowed head and still not give in even though he knew it would – maybe – make his brother feel better.
Eventually, Michelangelo had stopped altogether. Leo had at first taken it to be a blessing, up until the dreams, morning wood and sheet-sniffing became daily routine. It was then he realized that, somehow, he had become an enormous pervert; doubts as to the wisdom of deflecting the opportunity to discuss things with Mikey wafted in and out of his head. Maybe if he did, he'd stop having wet dreams – literally, since they always involved sloppy, frothy kisses in the rain, on a warm day outside the farmhouse. And then maybe he wouldn't wake up with raging hard-ons every damn day.
Maybe if he could kiss Michelangelo again? Would that work?
Another peanut buttery treat found itself in dire straits, crushed beneath the iron will of the contemplative turtle's pearly whites.
Michelangelo obviously didn't think that macking on his older brother was wrong. While not always prone to 'thinking before doing', Leonardo was fairly certain that his lust-object had given it a decent amount of thought before trying to suck Leo's face off. Of course, when it came to those sorts of actions Mikey usually sought a second opinion. And for the life of him, Leo couldn't figure out—
A pause in mid-chew.
– was it just his imagination, or did Donnie not look all that surprised?
Leonardo frowned. No, Donatello didn't look surprised. He looked grossed out, sure, but the sort of 'grossed out' Leo initially chalked it up to be was now (after deeper consideration) found to be lacking. Thinking back on it, his genius brother had given them the same look he bestowed on Casey and April when they were smooching. Or when he caught Sensei watching a dirty movie late at night a few weeks ago. The sort of, 'Ohmigod ewwww!' look one gives a family member, like the one Leo himself had thrown at Raphael the first time he'd caught the younger turtle masturbating…
At that very moment, Leonardo had an epiphany.
Mikey talked to Don about it!
Followed by, DONATELLO WAS HIS SECOND OPINION?!
And concluded thus: If Don knows about the… the thing. With my mornings. Does Mikey know I've been sniffing his sheets?
Horror, and the pervading sense of being utterly depraved swept through Leonardo's being in a tidal wave of Oh dear gods, no. For it was then, right then, that it occurred to Leo that Donnie wasn't the only one aware of his—his 'morning issues', that Raphael was also aware of them and oh, gods, Raph and Mikey shared a room at the farmhouse, so did that mean Raph's smirk wasn't just about the—the other thing?
Maybe he saw!
And, ohmigod, didn't Don say that Leo sometimes talked in his sleep?
Wresting himself away from the sudden, powerful urge to panic (Mikey-style, complete with flailing arms and pitched shriek of 'OH NOES!'), Leonardo devoured another cookie – subconsciously lamenting that it was the last one on the plate – and willed himself to relax.
Three deep breaths, then four, he coaxed the now-spooked tranquility back into himself. He heard Mikey's joyful, highly amused squeal from somewhere outside, followed by Raphael's false bellow of rage.
A light shiver raced through Leonardo. Shell, I hate this.
… I really, really hate this.
If it were as simple as hormones, as puberty… but Leonardo knew it wasn't. It was more, much more, and he knew that he had no one to blame but himself. At any point he could stop eating the peanut butter cookies Michelangelo made just for him; stop sneaking into his brothers' room to inhale the delicious oranges-cinnamon-Doritos blend that was Mikey's scent; and if he tried hard enough he could stop dreaming of kissing his brother in the rain.
But he didn't.
Michelangelo instigated the tongue-swapping. Donatello had seen it. And he was certain that if either thought it to be an issue, if they thought it was wrong – Mikey would never have done it. Donatello would have told him, point-blank. Raphael wasn't an idiot; even if he didn't know all the details, at this point he would have figured out most of it. But none of them had said anything, so… logically, Leo surmised that to them it was okay. And if they were okay with it, that's all that mattered.
His brothers meant everything to him. On issues of honor, of battle, and strategy – as well as certain morals – they often disagreed. But this was so very different; matters of… of the heart, of deepening bonds or maybe shattering them. If they thought that these feelings, that acting on these feelings, were right… Leo would, too.
Still… there was far too much theory. Not enough fact. And he still felt like an enormous, raunchy pervert.
(He remembered the gentle fall of rain, and how the sun would occasionally peek through gaps in the thunderclouds above like a sneaky, playful child. How the early morning light glanced off his brother's skin, made it shimmer.
What would Master Splinter say?
(He'd have to make sure none of them overdid it, especially Sensei, as it was growing uncomfortably warm at an alarming rate. At least, that's what he told himself. It had nothing to do with the erratic brush of Michelangelo's skin on his, or the wet heat of an incredibly talented tongue.)
They were brothers, for god's sake! It was incest! Never mind that Donatello had debunked blood ties a year and a half ago, they were still raised thus. And there he was, Leonardo, the perfect son – sexually assaulting his youngest sibling in his mind, practically making out with fruit, sneaking into Mikey's room and snorting his sheets like some kind of messed-up coke fiend and jerking off to the fantasy of a living Hoover vacuum cleaner attaching itself to his face.
(The rain was like a balm on his skin, soothing the flurry of sparks bouncing around in ever-increasing abandon down in the pit of his belly. He tried not to startle when they began ricocheting off his ribcage. In the back of his mind, he thought it was like a bizarre game of ping-pong between his heart and his ribs.
He almost laughed.)
His brother. Sweet, innocent – well, maybe not innocent, but still! His sweet, happy, fun-loving, Battle Nexus Champion (asshole) prankster brother, Mikey. Someone he was supposed to protect, but instead…
(They needed to breathe. So they did. Eyes sparkling, Michelangelo leaned towards him again.)
How sick was that?
("That… looks extremely unhygienic." Don, standing over them.
Why hadn't he heard him coming?)
"Hey," Leo acknowledged, his eyes remaining on the scene below.
From the doorway his purple-clad brother smiled, not surprised Leo had immediately noticed him. "Hey."
"Sleep well?" Leonardo asked, glancing back for only the briefest of moments.
Donatello laughed, "You need to ask?"
By now, Leonardo had become accustomed to his brothers teasing and he couldn't help but smile. They all knew that, even at night, very little escaped the blue-clad turtle's over-protective eye; most of the time Leo knew how well his brothers slept before they were awake enough to apply the proper amount of brainpower to answer anything correctly. Although it didn't happen quite as much in New York (as there they had separate sleeping quarters), at the farm it wasn't so unusual.
At the same time, both brothers said, "Good, thanks." They laughed.
A comfortable silence fell. Comfortable for Donatello, anyway, or so Leo thought. Don didn't seem inclined to move from his position of leaning against the doorframe, which probably meant that he wanted to talk to Leonardo about something important. The problem was, Leo wasn't in the mood for it, especially since he had a nagging suspicion that what Don wanted to say had less to do with his brother and more to do with Leonardo's self-diagnosed perversity.
And that wasn't something he wanted to discuss with this brother, even though he was sure he already knew about it anyway. That wasn't the point.
Nonononono. Leonardo willed his brother to keep his silence, but Don had other ideas. The slight intake of breath signaling Don's approaching comment gave Leo enough time to indulge in some major self-pity, and steeled his defenses.
"Ugh, don't do that!" Crossly, Donatello scowled at the tensing in Leo's shoulders. "Geeze. Somebody's uptight this morning."
"No you aren't," said Don. And they both knew he was right. "Anyway, why don't you just talk to him? You know that eventually he's going to make you talk. Why put off the inevitable?" He frowned, "Especially when it will most certainly involve rope, locking you in his room – which is a pigsty, by the way, I don't know how he can sleep in there – and spiking your tea with vodka."
To Leonardo's ears, this sounded more like a fact than a theory. Slowly, he turned to face his brother, sending him a nearly impenetrable stare. It said, 'You know something I don't, don't you?'
Donatello blinked innocently. He was not a liar on principle, but, like Michelangelo, he had mastered his own version of the 'innocent puppy' look. It didn't often work, especially on Leo or Master Splinter, however this time he managed to pull it off. "What?"
After a few more seconds of heavy scrutiny, Leo sighed, turning away. "Never mind." Behind him, he heard his brother do the same.
"I hear they're calling for rain," said Don eventually. He sounded… smug.
Apparently, it was time for a change in tactics.
Leonardo glanced back over his shoulder, reluctant to rise to his younger sibling's bait and yet unable to stifle the surge of hope that rose in his breast that Don was giving up. It was Donnie, after all, the least likely of his brothers to willingly torment another just for his own amusement. He counted on Don to have his shell when the other two were scheming.
"Mhm." Leaning casually on the doorframe, Donatello smiled. "Light showers, mostly. Nothing big." A slight lifting of the eye ridges, "With the possibility of rainbows afterward."
Rainbows? Leo's confusion revealed itself in an utterly dumbfounded expression. He managed to smooth it away, reminding himself that Donatello always chose his moments with far more care and precision than Raphael and Michelangelo did. Unlike them, Donatello was not content with whatever he could get; he aimed for the tender, juicy, most choice bits of his victims to seize upon.
Which, incidentally, made him a far more dangerous opponent than the combined efforts of the other two. Donnie's attacks always guaranteed a trip to the devastation salad bar, with an unlimited supply of croutons to top it off.
Leo had forgotten that part.
"Pretty ones," Don added. He was completely serious, as if he were discussing battle tactics on the eve of a world war. "Like in Mikey's paintings." He didn't need to elaborate; they all thought Michelangelo's paintings were pretty. The ones that were supposed to be, anyway; their brother was a darned good artist and when he wanted to make something freaky he could give them all nightmares forweeks.
The two brother's eyes locked. Don kept smiling, while Leo had the kind of expression found on the faces of people who'd just experienced their first Goatse. Neither looked away from the other for a long time.
It was a staring contest of epic proportions.
"You don't say," Leo remarked eventually. To his pleasure, it sounded very non-committal. He turned away, back to the window.
Don did say, of course; he allowed an affirmative smile to creep over his lips. "Uh-huh."
Silence fell, aside from a quiet, thoughtful hum. Outside, Michelangelo was bracing his palms on his knees, gasping in delight and pained laughter. Downstairs, Leo heard the front door slam as Raph grumpily trudged up the stairs. April and Casey were on the porch, judging by the sound of their laughter-filled warnings to Mikey that he was "gonna get it". The dreamy smile graced Leo's lips again.
In a moment of absolute luck, Michelangelo turned towards the window. His eyes boggled. Jaw dropped. Even if you weren't a mind reader, you could still hear the thought that went through the orange-clad turtle's head: Dude!
Leo froze. Bugger.
And then something even more terrible:
Almost unable to prevent the violent twitch that raced through him, Leo's eyes caught the sight of Raphael standing behind Donatello in the doorway. One hand over Don's head, gripping the frame, the other resting on his hip, leaning casually forward with his chin hovering over the smaller turtle's shoulder. He was grinning fit to shame the Cheshire Cat.
Raphael snickered from the doorway. "S'about time ya slipped up, bro. Now Mikey's seen it."
"Resistance is futile," Don added solemnly, then he grinned too. They were like a pair of smug bookends, Leo thought through his growing horror. "All your base are belong to him."
Leonardo absolutely wanted to die right then. Not only did Mikey see that blasted, dreamy-fangirl of doom smile, to compliment his pain the other two had been present for this moment of epic disaster.
A small voice in the back of his mind hummed 'How could this happen to meeee, I made my mistaaaaakes…' and he knew, without a single doubt, that things were about to get extremely embarrassing. When Don started giggling, the blue-clad turtle wasn't surprised; he knew it was all over. The only question remaining was, How long?
"Put your arms around me, baby…"
Carpe diem, Donatello. Carpe-frigging-diem. Leo thought bitterly.
"Can't you see I need you so?"
His throat constricted as Raphael joined in, revealing the true depths of his evil. Leo resisted the urge to sob as together, Raph and Don began to weave what could possibly be the most creative, dastardly act of sibling teasing they had ever concocted before.
Donnie crooned, "Hold me close against your skin, I'm about to begin…"
"Loving you…!" Raphael couldn't sing worth beans, but he made up for it in enthusiasm.
"Spit on your hand and stroke my cock at a medium pace!"
Oh, my god,Leo thought. Did he just—
"Play with my balls and tell me how big they are."
"Honey, rub your beaver up and down my face."
"Sit on the corner of the bed and watch me whack off!" Raphael couldn't keep the laughter out of his voice, and Leo caught the almost admiring look his brother cast Donatello – who wasn't exactly prone to repeating filth outside of desperate battle.
"You see that shampoo bottle? Now, stick it up my—eep!"
"Good morning, my sons."
"Uh. Mornin', Sensei."
Donatello and Raphael both blanched rather quickly, shuffling their feet with the unmistakable tread of youths who've been caught looking at dirty magazines. Neither of them met their father's eyes as Splinter smiled at them, seemingly oblivious as he pleasantly questioned their plans for the day. Leo knew better, though. So did his brothers.
Leo heard Raphael follow Splinter down to the kitchen, where the red-banded turtle began preparing tea. Which left Don seemingly confused, half in the hall and half out. The eldest turtle held his breath, praying to the gods that his brother would find it prudent to stop right now and leave him alone.
"Yo, Donnie! Where're the biscuits?!"
Relief clouded Leonardo's face. It also clouded Don's, though the blue-clad turtle knew not why. "They're in the—ah, hold on!" he called back, disappearing from Leonardo's view.
The leader sighed in relief.
Don's head popped 'round the corner again, "Pretend I'm the pizza delivery guy and watch me whack off!" he hissed.
Then he giggled, and before Leonardo could get up to lay the smackdown on him he was gone again. From the sounds of it, their usually mellow brother was fairly bouncing as he fled down the stairs and into the kitchen.
One minute passed. Then two.
Even as Michelangelo continued to gaze up at him through the window, and Raph shouted at Don from downstairs (something about "putting the damn biscuits where people could actually find them, for god's sake!") Leonardo felt an enormous weight relieve itself from where it had previously taken up residence in his belly.
Whatever perversity Leonardo himself might possess; there was no way it could reasonably compare with the perversity of Raphael and Donatello. For some reason, one he couldn't explain, that made Leo feel a whole lot better about lusting after Mikey.
And at least he now kind of knew what it was they did in Don's lab on Wednesday nights – the only time Donnie would bring home pizza and not share it with Leo and Mike. And why Raph would be missing beforehand, nowhere to be found, and then suddenly swagger out of his brother's lab looking for all the world as though he'd just discovered the cure for cancer.
Leo shook his head with a tiny smile as he stood from his position and made his way downstairs, dismissing the ridiculous urge to hunt down Adam Sandler and thank him for corrupting his brothers. He ignored his siblings in the kitchen, waved to April and Casey as he passed them, and tried to suppress a huge grin at Michelangelo's reaction to the not-so-subtle wink the blue-clad turtle tossed him.
As they walked into the woods, Michelangelo's winning smile and the bright glint of excited glee in his eyes (colored with what Leo knew to be thoughts of the filth that was no doubt about to occur), he realized something.
There was no way he could find Leonardo diCaprio attractive. Not even a bit. For all the reasons he stated before, plus, he wasn't ninja. He wasn't Mikey.
Lyrics from "At A Medium Pace" are by Adam Sandler.
Comments and crits are not welcomed; they are desired and greedily hoarded. Thank you for reading!