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When Hamato Donatello was eight years old, he noticed something weird about his brothers. Not something weird about them, per say, but about how they watched TV.
Jupiter Jim dangled from a ledge, thirty storeys of skyscraper looming below him. The evil space aliens stood atop the edge of the building's roof, glaring down at Jupiter Jim with eight beady eyes each. The aliens each took a step forward, and the camera panned to the hero, struggling to hang onto the ledge with his life. But Donnie couldn’t keep his eyes on the screen when his brothers were acting so odd.
They were all sitting perfectly still.
No rocking, no tapping, no anything of any sort. They curled up next to each other under a blanket, and sat and watched the movie. Utterly still, even holding their breath at the scary parts. Something was wrong with them for sure, Donnie concluded. How could one possibly watch Jupiter Jim save the galaxy and not give in to the overwhelming urge to move? Maybe they were aliens. Maybe they were robots. Alas, Donatello could not draw any conclusions until he had greater evidence.
His attention was drawn from his brothers back to the TV when Jupiter Jim hoisted himself up onto the ledge and kicked one of the aliens in the chest in one awesome move. Donnie heard a gasp of amazement from his siblings beside him, each of his brothers leaning a little bit closer to the screen. It was amazing, watching Jupiter Jim save the day once again. Donnie felt his hands move on their own, fingers curling and uncurling in a spidery motion.
“Donnie, why do you do that with your hands?”
“Huh?”
“That thing. With your hands.” Mikey's eyes narrowed at his older brother. Raph and Leon turned their heads too, squinting.
Donnie stuck his hands under his armpits and felt heat rush to his face. He sat there with his mouth open for a few moments, unaware that this hand-emotion phenomenon didn’t affect his brothers as well. He heard something bang in the kitchen behind him, and quick footsteps padded towards the couch.
“Come on, Purple, quiet hands.” Donnie felt his father reach over the back of the couch to take both of Donnie’s hands in his own. “Let’s break the habit.”
Donnie didn’t understand loud hands and quiet hands. It was quite confusing to keep track of what type of moving was allowed and what wasn’t, but Donnie was smart enough to realize that his finger-curls warranted a negative reaction from everyone, so he added that to his mental list of ‘not allowed’.
When his father left to go back into the kitchen, he watched the rest of the movie with his hands balled into fists, tucked underneath his chin.
^^^^^^
When Donatello was ten years old, he sat on the living room floor with flashcards everywhere and tears in his eyes. His father sat across from him, brows knit together in frustration. He picked up some of the cards his son has just thrown on the floor, and shuffled the deck to start over. It hurt, but he was getting results. That’s what he told himself, anyways. His son needed to be able to communicate with everyone, and the thought of what would happen if he never learned was much more frightening to Splinter than a few tears during the process.
“Purple.” He snapped his fingers to get his son to look at him. The ten-year-old raised his gaze and made eye contact for a split moment before immediately looking down. Splinter sighed, drawing a flashcard with a glass of water on it. “We’re not stopping until we get it right, you know that?”
Firm. Be firm, the book told him. And the book, stolen off a shelf in the local library seven years ago, hadn’t failed him yet. It was the reason Donnie had started to talk in the first place, albeit at six years old, and now it was going to get him to use full sentences. Whether his son liked it or not. He’ll appreciate me when he’s older, Splinter thought.
“Come on Purple, we did this one a few times before.” It was difficult to be patient, and even more difficult to balance that emotion with the growing desire to scoop his son up and forget about sentences all together. The anger and frustration growing in his stomach was even more difficult to juggle with everything else, and Splinter only hoped that some positive emotions might show themselves into the mess.
Donnie kept crying big watery tears of frustration but brought his head up enough to look at the card. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, and Splinter could see that he was trying so hard to look at his eyes but his gaze kept landing everywhere but.
“Can I…” And he stopped at that. The tiny little half sentence, combined with the shockwaves of tears from his son were enough to send Splinter over the edge.
“Ok. That’s it. We’re done, Purple. Go to your room.” The small turtle immediately made a run for his bedroom before Splinter could tell him when to come back for his next speech therapy. Splinter’s back ached when he stood up after what had to be two hours on the floor, having made little progress in that session. Some sessions might not yield anything, the book told him, but try again.
Splinter did. He tried again and again, fought through tears, both his and his son's, and tried even more. But after almost an entire year and a half of constant work, it finally paid off.
Splinter sat at the kitchen table one morning, holding a coffee in one hand and the daily paper in the other. Donnie was usually the first one awake, coming into the kitchen to get breakfast before everyone else would. Splinter looked up from his paper to give a ‘good morning’ when the incredible happened.
“Can I have a glass of water?”
And he even made eye contact when he said it.
^^^^^^
When Donatello was twelve years old, Splinter put him to bed every night. At 8:00pm sharp, they’d start in the bathroom. Splinter would help him brush his teeth, and watch Donnie wash his face with the green washcloth. He ever used any other cloth. Donnie didn’t need his dad to watch him, per say, but he could never seem to stay on task in the bathroom without… supervision. He’d try really hard to brush his teeth and wash up for the night on time, but always seemed to take such a long time to do it alone, even with his routine board. Donnie loved the wooden routine board next to the sink with all the sliders on it, each labelled with a different task.
Every night he got to push the sliders over as he finished tasks. Brush teeth
Slide. The knob made a nice swooshing sound in the track.
Wash Face. Slide
Wash Hands. Slide
Drink Water. Slide
When all the knobs were on the opposite side of the board, Splinter would guide him over to his bedroom and up into bed. He loved it when his dad tucked the heavy weighted blanket around his chin, and he got to listen to the sounds of the tiny glass beads roll around inside. Splinter would put his baby blue headphones over his ears and plug them into the discman playing a recording of the sounds of waves hitting a beach. His favourite part was when his dad turned out the lights and left, leaving the soft glow of the mobile over his head. Donnie would usually see his father check in on him once or twice before he fell asleep staring at the gently spinning bumblebees overhead.
It wasn’t much past eight when Donnie felt a soft smack on his face. He opened his eyes and squinted in the low light. Leo’s face was inches from his own, a smile cracked from ear to ear.
“Are you awake?”
“Obviously.” Donnie pushed his brother away from his face and sat up, grabbing his glasses from the bedside table and taking his headphones off his ears, resting them around his neck. Raph and Mikey were poking around his bed too, equally excited and touching everything there was to touch.
“There’s a parade outside!” Leo grabbed his twins hand and started to pull him out of bed.
“With floats and everything!”
“And a marching band with a big big drum!”
Donnie shrugged Leo’s hand off his arm. He sat up a little further in bed, wringing his hands together before sticking them under his armpits.
“Dad already put me to bed.”
“Well then get out of bed an-” Raph started, before he was cut off by Mikey.
“OOH! Donnie still gets tucked in at night!” The youngest sibling teased, mimicking the action of smoothing out the blankets.
Donatello felt a blush creep up his neck onto his cheeks. Didn’t dad put everyone to bed? He knew that the routine board and help in the bathroom was something dad only did for him, but did all of his siblings put themselves to bed? No tuck-ins? Nothing?
“Oh-ho, if we’re on the making-fun-of-Donnie-train anyways, who still has a baby mobile when they’re like basically a teenager?”
“Aww, Donnie’s got such a soft side!”
The blush had moved from Donnie's cheeks to his whole face, turning him beet red. Oh no, he was twelve years old and still slept under baby mobile. His brothers poked and prodded at him, smiling and laughing and Donnie put an artificial smile on his face and forced out a few fake chuckles before pushing his 3 brothers out of his room, telling them he’ll ‘act as dad-lookout’ while they go to the parade.
The minute they leave, he rips everything down. Everything. The routine board, the mobile, the sensory swing, all of it. Why should he still need all this… baby stuff when his siblings don’t? He’s just as grown as the rest of them. And in the morning when Splinter comes in and sees the mess, Donnie tells him he’ll brush his teeth by himself tonight.
^^^^^^
When Donatello was fourteen years old, it all boiled over. He was, to say the least, a bit behind on, well, everything. He hasn’t showered in too many days, his lab is a mess, his room is even worse, he hasn’t slept through the entire night in a year, and he needs to brush his damn teeth.
Brush his teeth, ok.
Go brush your teeth.
Now. Get up, go do it.
Donnie’s hands are balled up under his chin, eyes fixed on the floor as he paces back and forth in his room, stepping over things thrown all over the floor. It’s overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time. Maybe that just makes everything ‘whelming’. The sweat accumulated on his body itches, and he winces every time his tongue brushes up against his bottom teeth because they feel disgusting. It’s a simple fix, really, just showering and performing basic tasks that five-year-olds can manage, but Donnie’s found himself pacing for the better part of an hour.
Just go brush your teeth.
But it’s not that easy, is it, it’s never that easy for him. Staying in this pacing loop is awful, but so is the idea of pulling himself out of it. He stops walking, and uses a foot to kick a sweater to the other side of the room. His body racks with shudders, fists pressing upward into his jaw and eyes closed tight. He can’t do it. He’s dying.
Donnie lets himself fall to the floor and sobs, an ugly sound, fighting its way from his throat. He just wants to be five again, coddled and taken care of, because he sure as hell can’t do it himself.
“Donnie?”
Oh no. It sounds like Raph, but Donnie can’t bring himself to open his eyes to look and see. He hears footsteps move in his direction. Raph’s knees crack when he kneels down.
“Are you hurt?” Raph ghosts one of his hands over his younger brother’s shoulders, careful to avoid touching him. Raph is quiet for a moment, seemingly frozen and out of his element. Donnie sobs again, overwhelmed and embarrassed to be found on the floor like this.
“Are you sick?” Donnie wishes his older brother would either help him or leave, instead of these questions he’s unable to answer. Is he hurt? Maybe. Sick? In the head. There’s a beat of silence where both brothers are in a standstill.
“I- um.” Raph stops, and stands up. “I’m getting dad.”
Donatello isn’t quite sure how long he’s alone before the footsteps return. The heavier pair stays in the doorway, and the lighter, sluggish pair come to stop right in front of him.
"Purple, can you tell me what’s wrong?"
Donatello wants nothing more than to sit up and latch onto his father, but none of the nerves in his body are ready to do that. He settles for moving his hands over his head, pressing against his temples. His father puts a hand on the back of his neck and the feeling makes Donnie squirm. Splinter lets out a knowing breath, and hooks his arms over his sons. Ignoring Donnie’s sob of protest, he begins to pull his son towards the bathroom.
“Red, help me get Purple to the bathroom.”
Raph is much more hesitant than their dad, trying to touch Donnie as little as possible and apologizing after every sound his brother makes. They manage to get Donnie sitting on the bathmat in the shared bathroom, and Splinter waves off his older son. Raphael hangs in the doorway for an extra moment before leaving his brother alone with their dad.
“Donatello,” The use of his real name shakes Donnie from his head, even if just for a moment. “What is wrong.”
“...teeth.” That’s a good place for Donnie to start, even sparing the rest of the details. Splinter puts a dollop of toothpaste on the purple toothbrush sitting in a cup on the sink. He hands it to Donnie, making sure to press it into his hand and wrap his son's fingers around the brush.
Donnie is holding the toothbrush. That’s good. Good. Now he just has to brush his teeth. It’s all right here why can’t he just do it-
Another sob pushes out of his throat, and Donnie wants to melt into the floor. This is an entire other level of embarrassing for someone else to witness, even if it’s the person who used to change his diapers. Splinters hand returns to his own and helps him put the toothbrush in his mouth.
And Donnie brushed his teeth.
He showered, which was less difficult than he would’ve imagined, made him feel like the world was no longer on fire. His father was almost entirety silent throughout the whole affair, only asking how he was doing, or stating the next task. They cleaned Donnie’s room together, pulling out a load of laundry and a bag of trash. They swept and dusted, and Splinter took out the dirty laundry and brought back clean sheets. Donnie made his bed, and stopped to look around at the spotless room.
“Purple,”
“I know. I’m too old to be pulling stuff like this.” Donnie’s face got red in shame for the hundredth time that day.
Splinter looked almost… hurt. He took a seat on Donnie’s bed and pat the spot next to him in the universal offer to sit down. Donnie took his seat and almost gasped when his father hugged him.
“I’m sorry I haven’t noticed you struggling.” Splinter let go of Donnie, instead placing one hand on his son’s knee. “When you were little I was so scared. So, so scared that you wouldn’t be the same as your brothers. Scared you’d need help.”
“Scoff. Here’s your nightmare, Dad, happy early fathers day.”
“I’m not finished.” Splinter assured. “When you started talking, and stopped fidgeting, I was excited. And when you told me you didn’t need help getting ready for bed anymore, I was more than ecstatic. I felt like I was getting somewhere with you after so many bumps and plateaus.”
“This is making me feel worse.”
“I thought the only way you could be your own person was to learn how to do everything my way. I thought the ‘you’ I wanted was someone who acted like everyone else.”
Splinter gave his son’s knee an affectionate squeeze. “But it turns out, I wasn’t truly getting anywhere with you because there was nowhere to go. The ‘you’ I’ve got here is the one I really wanted all along. And if that ‘you’ needs some extra help, then I’m happy to give it.”
There’s a beat of silence, but it’s comfortable.
“Donatello, I am so sorry for trying to change you.”
^^^^^^
Donnie and Leo’s sixteenth birthday cake didn’t stand a fighting chance against everyone at the party. All but one slice is safe from the grips of his siblings, neatly wrapped in plastic in the fridge for Donnie to eat tomorrow. It’s 10:00pm, and Donnie is brushing his teeth at the sink in the bathroom. He spits the toothpaste into the sink, rinsing his mouth with some water, and slides the knob on his routine board that says Brush Teeth.
“Ok, next one.” Leo watches from the door as his brother rub soap onto a washcloth, running it under warm water before scrubbing his face and hands. Leo makes sure Donnie moves down the list, gentle little swooshes of the slides when he finishes each task.
When Donnie finishes, Leo follows him to his bedroom and watches Donnie pull back the covers. Leo waits a few steps away while his twin situates himself in bed, putting his bluetooth headphones on and getting under the blankets. Leo steps forward now, straightening out the covers and tucking them in around his brother. He flicks on the star projector on the bedside table, and watches the constellations light up the ceiling and walls of Donnie’s room.
“You good for the night?” He asks his brother.
“Yes. Thanks, Leo.”
"Goodnight, Donnie"
"Goodnight."