Wisps of Darkness by KC

Summary: Michelangelo contemplates day and night on the beach. With Raphael.

Other info: Yet again for my flamer. My thanks. I haven't written this prolifically in quite awhile.

More info: Also for my readers. Y'all rock.


April talks about the sun. Walking through a crowd on the sidewalk, going to the beach, getting a sunburn...

Michelangelo has never gotten a sunburn. What must that feel like, sitting under the sun for so long that it burns a piece of itself into him? Would it feel like having a little golden chunk of light in the darkness?

Waves lap at his calves. April gets to see this beach in the day, but he can only visit during the night. The moon is huge tonight, a gleaming silver sister of the sun, but the light is cold and thin. He compares it to the handful of times he's seen the morning sky, when the air was pure and warm. There is no comparison.

April talks about the night. Hurrying home out of the wind, looking over her shoulder as she walks, moving from streetlamp to streetlamp.

"The wind is different at night," she says. "The wind is...I don't know...it's just different."

Michelangelo knows what she means. He fills in the words she can't find. Wild. Unpredictable. The wind at night is made of wisps of darkness, it is the breath of demons, it is the heartbeat he hears when all the city's noise fades and the rustle of clothing becomes terribly loud.

He lives in that wind. Secrets whisper within it and cover him like a second skin. "No one can see you," it says. "You're alone and apart. Their laws are not yours. You wear a mask. No one knows your name."

Worse, the night wind only tells him the truth. The daytime is full of lies, sound that drowns out hosts of sins, blinding light that blots out the imperfections with a pretty layer of glitter and glare. The night opens up so that all the secretive sounds of the city are audible-lost animals, moans of love, cries cut off too soon. The moon shows lines of the city, stark, straight, looming over the people, so unlike their friendly sunny facade.

The night may be sinful, but at least she's honest about it.

"You shouldn't be in the water," Raphael whispers, wading in behind him. He wraps his arms around Michelangelo, sharing his heat. "S'cold. And sharks love the shallows. And we're out in the open. Anyone could see."

They're one of only a handful of couples on the sand, wavy silhouettes visible for miles each way. It really doesn't matter. At night, the monsters come out to play. The sun would find them too ugly, but the moon doesn't care. Let the monsters come out. She doesn't judge, and the night wind blows cold where the spray touches them.

"You ever imagine the beach during the day?" Michelangelo asks.

"Sometimes," Raphael admits. He leaned against his little brother, head resting on his shoulder. "Crowded with ugly humans. Screaming babies. Shrieking kids. Buncha trash everywhere."

Michelangelo smiles. Crowds on the sidewalks. Sunburns. All for a vast stretch of empty sand and cold ocean water.

He turns, kisses his brother, and presses close so that the night wind can't slip between their bodies. The moon turns them into black and grey shapes moving together, silhouettes that merge into each other until it's impossible to tell Michelangelo begins and Raphael ends. And the moon tells nothing but the truth.