The trick to it all, Leonardo has decided, is to maintain a ritual of routine breaking of the heart. His has been held together by thin threads, at best, for years now, and it has served him well. If he had been entirely happy, he would have grown complacent and inattentive. He would have let his guard down. If he had been shattered entirely he would no longer care and would never put forth the effort - maybe even have ended it for good. But an even stasis, that has been the key, Leonardo knows, to surviving as long as they have. He has kept them alive, because they have kept him in organized pieces. For that he is thankful.

He was going to thank them, he thinks. Maybe. He had something important to tell each one of his brothers, but he can't remember it now. It might have been gratitude. It'll come to him.

In the meantime, he is enjoying the rain on the roof (they'll never find him here). It only started a little while ago, in short, staccato drops disrupting the grease and who-knows-what pooling in the concrete corners. This is a rooftop with one of those ventilation pipes that releases steam into the sky. It probably looks like pollution to the people on the street, but because this is a Chinese restaurant, he knows it's just heat from the kitchen reacting with the air. It smells like rice, something familiar and comforting to him -the smell of dinner, and therefore one of the smells that made up home.

Oh, maybe that was it. He was going to tell them something about home. But what…? Damn, he's lost it again.

But the rain, that's easy to focus on (not the pain, don't think about that). It's warm, the first warm rain of the season, probably. He likes this time of year, when the air starts to smell a little more natural, a little less dry. It makes him think of the forests he visited a few years back – dense jungles where you could practically taste the rain before it fell. That's how it is now on this rooftop in New York. He spares a thought, briefly, for the interconnectedness of the world.

Interconnectedness and home…he swears that was a part of it. He'd had it planned out for each of them, when the time came. A lecture or – no, a lesson – on what it means to be…

Rain is falling harder now. His mouth is open (ragged, gasping breaths soothed only by rain on tongue) and it tastes fresh and a little bit metallic as only unfiltered water can. He decides, in this moment, that he prefers the taste of water this way. It tastes a little bit like survival. People catch rain in tarps in foreign countries. It can't be all bad. Besides, it's washing away the sticky red fluid all over his hands, his face, his chest – sluicing it, he thinks, away to mix with all of the other grungy, distasteful gunk gathering in the gutters. His tongue feels heavy in his throat as he coughs and more of it slides down his chin.

That was the whole problem, anyway. He could never get his tongue to work, could never tell them when there was time. And now he can't remember. Leonardo hates it when that happens.

Maybe it was a thank you for keeping him separate but whole, broken but capable, so that he could protect them and their home. That all seems to fit together (he can't feel his legs) right? It was better worded than that, he thinks, but he supposes it would be more important to get the general message across than trying to bury it with words. He wants them to know. He really wants them to know that…

…that…

Well. The rain is falling now, and it will come to him. It will come.

If only he could just…get off…the…

(Maybe one day they'll know)