Chapter 1
It’s 11:27pm, on a truly god-awful Thursday night, when Miles kinda-sorta-maybe asks Mikey to move in with him.
“--You know,” Miles says suddenly; voice almost indistinguishable from the steady hum of nearby electricity. Old rooftop wiring. Something Donnie would probably complain about. “You could always come chill in my apartment for a few days, or something. If– if things are getting too rough with the fam.”
There’s a brief pause, before Miles adds: “—Uh. If you want to.”
And a laugh splinters out of Mikey’s mouth before he can help himself.
It’s not fun– it burns his nose on the way out, grates at his already-sore throat— and it’s not really a laugh, either, in the way it falls out of his mouth with the intent to hurt. Laughing isn’t supposed to sound like that. All bitter and brutal. But that’s what it sounds like, and Mikey is too tired and frustrated and pissed off to try and fix it.
–So. He’s laughing.
At Miles.
He’ll feel bad about it in a few minutes, probably. But for now, Mikey kinda just wants to take his anger out on something– and, well, Miles is there.
Miles is there, and he’s being stupid.
“Sure,” Mikey says. It sounds just as sharp as his laugh and half hysterical. “Sure, let’s just– fucking– tell your parents all about me, right? Cuz, you know, they’d be living with a human-sized turtle, which would probably be an issue. Should we– do you be the one who explains what mutants are, or do ya want me to do it? Should we tag-team it? How ‘bout the whole vigilante thing, do ya think that would go over well with your dad? Wanna break the whole Spider-Man gig to them while we’re at it, Morales?”
–Okay. Yeah. That felt bad.
And also kind of satisfying, in a way; but it only manages to last for a split second after Mikey reigns in his outburst, before all the anger seeps out of him and leaves his hands cold. Because that’s what a tantrum does. He’s supposed to know better than that– anger begets anger, and so there’s no point lashing out and spreading it around.
Mikey cringes, internally. Externally he keeps glaring at the night sky and refuses to look at the damage.
Miles doesn’t say anything in response. Just– goes perfectly quiet. Which. Is worse, somehow.
It’s total silence after that: just Mikey’s own breathing, slightly labored from congestion, and the occasional sound of Miles’ puffer jacket scraping against the concrete roof– and the entirety of the New York populace, too. Kinda. Total silence, except for all the impenetrable background noise. And also the bad electrical wiring. Something Donnie would definitely complain about.
–It’s a relative silence, Mikey decides.
He manages to let it hang for an entire two minutes– long enough to round out some of the sharp edges he’s spontaneously grown, just to make sure he doesn’t snap again– before deciding that if Miles isn’t gonna fight back, then it’s probably his responsibility to apologize.
“...Sorry,” Mikey says eventually. It still sounds a little meaner than he would’ve liked, and he closes his eyes in silent reprimand. “That was… uh. Uncalled for?”
A scoff, from off to his left. “Yeah, no shit. Jeez. I’m tryin’ to help.”
“Sorry,” Mikey says again– and he actually manages to make it sound like an apology this time, so that’s progress. “I know you are, it’s not– it’s– sorry. I’m just frustrated. Ignore me. Thanks for the offer, but.”
“I get it,” Miles mumbles.
There’s the scratch of fabric again, and then a padded shoulder is pressing against Mikey’s own: “Dumb idea. I dunno how we would even do it, actually, but… I’d still try to figure out a way, ya know? If you really needed an out?”
Mikey manages to choke out another laugh, and this one is significantly less bitter. Hurts his throat less too. “Boy, you know damn well you’d be the first place any of them would look, even– even if you found a way to hide me from your parents. Draxum’s would be second, probably. April’s third. I’d hafta avoid all three of you.”
“You could stay at my dorm then! Ganke wouldn’t care, he’s chill.”
“Chill enough to deal with– with a four-foot turtle dude hanging out 24/7? Cuz, that would be impressive.”
Miles goes quiet again.
Mikey waits a total of thirty seconds– New York flavored silence, again– before he rolls over to face him, unable to stop the ghost of a smile from growing a little more alive.
–Miles isn’t looking at him. Miles is conveniently staring straight up at the night sky, hands underneath his head, brows furrowed, looking thoroughly distressed at whatever mental image of his roommate he’s conjured up. His entire profile is outlined in a milky white glow that sharpens the bridge of his nose, lengthens his eyelashes: not exactly the light of the moon, since the city is far too bright for that, but close enough to it that Mikey can pretend they’re somewhere where the stars are actually visible.
(It’s a nice thing to think about, honestly. Him and Miles, together-alone; out in the countryside somewhere with no one else around. Stargazing. Gazing-at-actual-stars. No humming electrical boxes or rough concrete rooftops scratching up their backs, or thousands of streetlights and neon signs blocking out the dark. No older-brother bickering. No embarrassing midnight cry-sessions on top of an apartment building.)
(He’d look so pretty in real, actual moonlight, too. Like, prettier than he already is. Which is already very pretty. I wonder if I could draw this? He’d look nice as a sculpture, I bet. The other Michelangelo would have a field day. Good cheekbones, strong jawline, sharp angles–)
(–So, uh. Those are Mikey’s thoughts on the matter, apparently.)
(That’s probably normal.)
“...Maybe not,” Miles finally grumbles, and Mikey has to snap himself out of whatever weird trance had him admiring his friend’s cheekbones. “I mean, he is impressively chill, but having two– uh, weird mutant vigilantes as roommates might be pushing it.”
“Oh yeah,” Mikey says automatically. Because he’d kinda lost the thread of their conversation in favor of waxing poetic about stargazing and shit.
“Yeah. Probably wouldn’t work. But like– I can still help you figure it out if you really need to leave, man. We can work something out.”
Miles turns his head to the side as he talks and meets Mikey’s gaze head-on, open and hopeful and so, so sincere. Like he really just wants nothing more than to set Mikey’s life on the right track again– or, maybe the opposite, since. Y’know. He’s actively encouraging Mikey to ditch his whole family for a few vacation days. Any other context, and that would probably be a problem.
As it stands, Mikey just finds it really sweet.
It helps that Miles– well, he’d got these eyes, man. Big and dark and pretty, which kinda makes it feel like you’re staring into the face of a really earnest puppy, who’s just trying to support you in the best way they can– and who also possibly happens to look really gorgeous when outlined in sharp silver, and who also gave you their hoodie half an hour ago while you were crying and sniffling and whining all over them, and who never really holds your meltdowns or unwarranted rants against you, and who also just kinda-sorta-maybe asked you to move in with them (even if its temporary), which is like, a whole other thing you aren’t emotionally ready to deal with today, and– and yeah.
Yeah.
It’s like that.
Miles blinks a few times— probably because Mikey hasn’t responded yet, preoccupied with the sudden urge to count every eyelash framing Miles’s dark, dark eyes— and does a funny little tilt of his head.
Mikey kinda thinks he might be screwed.
Like– outside of all the family drama stuff. This is a new, extra spicy, flavor-blasted level of screwed. A Super Saiyan level of screwed. A “Jupiter Jim and The Colliding Universes of Darkness: The Sequel: The Movie: Part Three!” level of screwed, which is like, objectively the worst kind of screwed a person can be.
“Maybe,” is all Mikey can mumble in response. Because Leo unfortunately got all the Face-Man genes, and Leo unfortunately is too busy fighting with Raph to teach Mikey how to talk to boys. “I mean— I haven’t really decided that I’m leaving yet. It’s kinda just… an idea?”
Miles’s lips thin. “With how often you go off about it, it kinda sounds like more than an idea.”
“—Well, it ain’t exactly a plan.”
“It could be! We could come up with a whole game plan, Mike.”
Mikey sighs, and rolls back over onto his carapace, and brings one hand up to rub at his sore eyes. The hour-old tear-tracks leave his skin feeling kinda raw and tacky, which is gross. “I can’t just…leave. My family. They’d freak out, Morales. Do ya want a freaked-out Raph pounding at your door in the middle of the night, lookin’ for me? Or a freaked-out Donnie hacking your phone to read our conversations?”
(--Even as he says it, Mikey has to bite down the tiny voice inside his head that begs him to leave anyway. To hell with the consequences.)
“I’ll deal with it. Mikey— man, look. This is the third time this weekthat you called me up here. No way this shit is healthy. You need a vacay or something.”
“Everyone needs a vacation,” Mikey says irritably. “That isn’t specific to me.”
“—You know what I mean. Pleasejust let me help out?”
“Mmm…”
Miles gripes out something in Spanish that Mikey is pretty surewould get him in trouble with his mom, and the next moment, Mikey’s shot of the light-polluted night sky is interrupted by a serious expression and head of dark coils.
It’s very annoying. Totally. He’s definitely not enjoying the new view in the slightest.
“Angel,” Miles says– and Mikey has to tense every muscle in his body to not jolt in surprise at the nickname. Because, that’s new. “C’mon, dude. Something is clearly wrong. Everytime I see you, you look… worse. Like, fuckin’ tired, or sad, or like you’re gonna throw something. When’s the last time you came over and didn’t start crying?”
“I don’t always cry,” Mikey grumbles, slightly offended. No, scratch that– very offended. Sure, he might lash out occasionally or threaten to skip town— but the crying doesn’t happen too often. No way.
–Except.
Except.
Uh. It… kinda does?
Slightly horrified, Mikey thinks about it for a moment longer, rolling the events of the past half-a-year around in his brain like a giant miserable marble: and… and. Yeah. Shit.
God— when was the last time he didn’t ruin their meetup by crying in the middle of it, or– or throwing a fucking tantrum about his stupid family? Like, a month ago? Two months?
Is he that much of a crybaby?
“I’m not complaining about it,” Miles says slowly. Mikey figures his distress must be visible, unless Miles’ Spiderman abilities somehow evolved to include mind-reading. “It’s, like. It’s fine. You clearly need the outlet. I’m just… worried, I guess? I dunno. It kinda seems like it’s getting worse?”
“It’s not worse, exactly. It’s just not getting better.”
“Leo and Raph.” It’s not even a question at this point, and Miles doesn’t bother phrasing it like one.
Mikey sighs and rubs at his eyes. “Yeah, them. But… other stuff too? Like. Man. Donnie’s cooping up in his lab more, Dad’s out all the time for his Hamato Duty shit, Draxum went on his– pilgrimage, or whatever it is, and April’s all busy with college…”
Mikey waves his hand around a bit, trying to organize his brain. The whole situation is just messy: thoughts as scattered as his family. The irony is not lost on him.
Miles just quirks a smile. The light of the city catches the bow of his lips in a way that’s very endearing, and kinda hot, and also makes Mikey feel incredibly embarrassed for even noticing in the first place. Just another scattered thought. Totally. “Uh huh, I see how it is. So I’m the last resort to hang out?”
“You say that as if you haven’t blown me off several times, just to finish your stupid homework.”
“I showed up today, man!”
Mikey sticks his tongue out petulantly, and Miles snorts and rolls his dark, dark eyes. “Yeah, okay. Real mature. Anyway– family drama. Let’s make a plan? If everyone’s off doing their own shit, then there’s gotta be somewhere in New York where you can chill.”
“Dude. Look, if I have to get out of the lair, I’ll probably just find a place to crash in the Hidden City for a little while! You don’t gotta worry about it! This turtle’s got connections!”
“Angel– that’s such a bad plan dude, I’m sorry. That whole dimension is a shit show. And aren’t you banned from like, eighty percent of it? You’re gonna get arrested so fuckingfast.”
“It’s only eight percent if you count the Hidden Library,” Mikey smirks. It’s a good feeling. “And that whole thing was Raph’s fault! I’ve committed zero crimes there! I’m a free man, baby!”
–And then he has to pause, and take a moment to reconsider that statement, because, uh. The “zero crimes” thing might be a tad too optimistic. Mikey is pretty sure he’s never made it out of the lair without committing some kind of misdemeanor.
“Uh– well. Zero crimes that I got caught for, at least. Same thing. Kinda. Listen–”
“Mikey–”
“--It’ll be fine,” Mikey rambles. “I mean, you can always just bail me out–”
“I am not bailing your ass out for a fourth time–”
“--And, like. Again. I haven’t decided if I’m actually going anywhere yet. This whole three-times-a-week rooftop-hangout sesh is pretty nice already! Who needs a break? You don’t think this is nice? I’m having such a nice time, Morales. Lay down and have a nice time with me.”
He pats the ground next to him for good measure, which is kind of pointless, because Miles is already occupying that space and eyeing him warily; but it’s more of a plea for Miles to drop the conversation than a genuine command, anyway. Like, hey man, please forget about the emotional breakdown I dumped in your lap for the third time this week! And the unwarranted yelling! It’s a great day to just lay down and stare at nothing until it gets late enough for me to go home and not run into any of my older brothers. Pretty please? With a million-trillion-billion cherries on top?
Miles ignores him and his million-trillion-billion cherries. He’s a great guy like that.
“Does it really gotta be the Hidden City?” he asks— and before Mikey can open his mouth to repeat his whole hey-now-I-haven’t-decided-anything-yet schtick, which is getting old at this point, Miles follows up with: “Just humor me, man. Pretend it’s hypothetical. Can’t you at least– I dunno, stay on the surface? Preferably in New York?”
–Right. Because that’s a better idea.
Mikey groans, and cranes his neck back as far as it’ll go. Miles’s imploring eyes disappear from his line of sight, replaced with an unobstructed view of the starless, light-polluted sky– which is almost as bad, honestly. It’s fucking depressing. He throws an arm over his eyes to compensate. “Not easily. Can’t exactly go walking down the street up here, can I? At least the Hidden City lets me get around whenever I want.”
“Well– what about one of those cloaking things? The pins? Then you could stay up here, and it would be harder for your bros to track you down. You could stay with me! We could tell my parents that you’re just a school friend who needed a place to crash, so like– no mutant turtle explanation needed. As long as my dad’s cool with you–”
“Again, Morales, you’re the first person my brothers would stalk,” Mikey points out. “I still wouldn’t be able to hang around your apartment. And cloaking brooches aren’t… super reliable? Like, they get the job done, but they get broken or lost really easily. I’d rather just hunker down in the Hidden City somewhere, dude. Way harder to find somebody, and way harder for Donnie to track me– mystic security systems, baby! He can’t hack ‘em!”
“But it’s dangerous down there,” Miles mutters. “All those– weird lookin’ yokai, and the monsters and stuff. Isn’t the floor lava? It’s freaky, man.”
Mikey cracks a grin that Miles can’t see, even though his stomach turns over a little. What about them is so freaky? You realize I look more like I belong down there than up here, right? “Weird, the yokai say the same thing about the surface. New Yorkers terrify them.”
“That’s different, Angel.”
“Is it?”
--Miles doesn’t say anything. So. That’s probably enough of an answer.
Mikey tries to convince himself that it doesn't hurt a little too much.