#I just had to add to today's 2al angst train

[teainthesnow]

Me posting more 2al inspired writing???? Its more likely than you think. This time inspired by this post. (And this one - though warning for slight graphic content)

@intotheelliwoods

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There’s a thousand thoughts circling around his head as each footstep propels him along the concrete towards h- towards the lair.

Why is he here?

What happened before?

How is he even alive?

He really truly tries not to dwell on those thoughts, tries not to give them any attention. But there really is little that he can do to stop the torrent.

It is simply a never ending flood of fear, doubt, and a myriad of other indescribable emotions that he cannot even hope to describe.

But, of course, there is one thought, one person, that manages to stand out above the rest.

He looks down at the form cradled in his arms and cocooned within his scarf.

Of all the things that he had ever considered happening to him, ending up back in time and trying desperately to keep his younger self alive was so far off the list that he’s still in slight disbelief.

He cannot even begin to understand or describe how it makes him feel.

He just knows that a young life rests within his hands. And, somehow, despite all the loss and horror that he has seen, he is still completely unprepared for that.

As he runs, he watches Mikey, Donnie, and Raph ahead of him. He hadn’t really processed it before, and barely even has time to process it now, but those are his brothers. Two of which he hadn’t even seen in years.

There’s a painful ache in his chest.

They’re here and alive and relatively unharmed and he is so incredibly grateful to see some version of them once again. But, even so, that can’t stop the thoughts of ‘why me’ and ‘why not my brothers? Shouldn’t they get another chance as well?’

He shakes his head.

Don’t think about that now.

There are more important things.

He looks around at the world around him, wondering how it had ended up like this. Whatever had just happened had left a deep scar on the once vibrant and lively city of New York. The buildings are destroyed, glass and rubble cover the streets, and smoke and fire reach high into the ruby red morning sky.

There’s a rumble of helicopters in the distance, along with the murmur and screaming of lost and hurt citizens, echoed by the barking and howling of dogs.

And suddenly he is back within the wilds of his nightmares. Where the ground is barren, hard, and crumbling. Where a blood red sky looms overhead.

He can hear the hum of both enemy and ally aircrafts. Can hear fighting, and the growls and barks of the Krang hounds.

And his arm is nothing but a painful and bloodied stump.

It’s gone.

Completely gone.

His brother is by his side, holding him upwards, keeping him alive, all while calling him an idiot.

And he remembers those days after. Of hurting, of the pain, and – most importantly – of the comforting reassurance of his remaining older brother. Of every friendly jab at his expense, of all the jokes and reassurances that made it all slightly better, and of the days and precious resources spent building him a new arm.

A pained groan snaps him back to the present, as the past version of him shifts as he clutches at his wound with tears streaming from his eyes.

“I’m... sorry.”

He says because what else can he say?

“I’m so sorry.”

The tears sting in his own eyes and he blinks them back. Now isn’t the time for that.

He needs to be strong...

...Like Donnie was for him.

He looks at his blue scarf. That is now rapidly turning purple as the blood drips...

                         and drips...

and drips...

An image appears in his mind. Of himself standing proud and tall, draped within the very cloth that his younger self is now practically drowning in. As he weeps and yelps in pain.

A stark yet sobering contrast.

It has never been more clear to him just how small this child is.

(How small he was.)

How young he is.

(Or how young he was when it all began.)

How completely innocent and helpless he is.

(Or used to be.)

He heart clenches.

How could he ever blame or be mad at himself?

Or even this version of him.  

He presses that tiny little life tightly against his plastron.

‘You can do this.’ He silently encourages.

‘We can get you through this together.’

Little him still has his own twin, has both of his own older brothers, in fact. But if he can be something to this little Leo like Donnie was for him then, well, that’s the least he can do.

Because the world could be cruel and unkind. And so incredibly unfair to take his arm not once, but twice.

And at an even younger age the second time.

So he’d be that older brother, that reassuring shoulder to cry on. He would do all that he could to make sure this tiny little past him, that was hardly even the size of his right arm, would not go through an ounce of the pain and confusion that he did.

And, sure, he couldn’t build a replacement arm, or do any of those sciencey things. But in all other aspects he could be the Donnie, be the older brother that he had always been so proud and grateful to have.

“We’re almost home...” He reassures, holding back those tears once again.

He looks up into the new dawn.

“Hold on for a little longer, please?”

He would do anything and everything to protect little Leo.

Of that he knew for certain.