They've changed colors.
It's a small thing. Irrelevant, really. It's just...in the beginning the Kappa's enemies were purple, orange, and blue. It was how he distinguished them from one another, how he distracted himself from how much the shine of their green scales resembled his own.
Now, they're all red. Like Christmas trees, the ones he can see humans taking down as he makes his way through dark streets. Falling, falling, and he wants to tell himself his enemies will fall, too, but he feels like the one getting fucked over by gravity right now.
His own mask is black. He'll find himself picking at the ends from time to time, convinced that they're too smooth, even though he doesn't remember wearing anything different. Most of his gear is, with only the faintest accents of in
He looks at the black mask framing his own white eyes in the mirror and rubs his eyes, head throbbing from keeping his third lid closed too long. He's only allowed to open it every once in a while, and even then for just a few minutes. He doesn't know--it's just something that is.
His enemies have bright, jewel-colored eyes. He doesn't like to look at them. They make his headaches worse, like the insistent whine and scrape of their voices. He lies curled up in his cold little corner of the master's room, heads pressed to his temples.
A wicked, traitorous part of him wants to throw the mask away, but he doesn't dare--it was a gift, after all, a gift from his Master, the only person in the world who's ever bothered with a bad little freak like him. He can't be bad now, can't add even more marks to the endless tally against him.
Besides, Master likes the mask. Likes to play with it while Raphael kneels at his feet like a good pet during meetings. Likes to use it to bend him over the nearest flat surface to be spanked like a child or fucked like a whore. Likes to tug on with it the fervor of horse reins while Raphael chokes on his cock.
Likes to play with it when he's bouncing Raphael on his lap or, as he's doing now, just holding him, fondling him. Raphael's naked except for his mask, and his cock is out, leaving him feeling small and vulnerable compared to the armored bulk of the man holding him. Master likes him that way.
He plays with Raphael's cock, and he makes all the requisite sounds, but his mind is unfocused, his gaze drifting out the window. He's thinking about the day's fight, about the clash of blades and the desperate screams from his enemies, the things he didn't understand. He's thinking about red and red.
Master notices his distraction, of course, the hand tightening ever so slightly on his cock. "Is something all right, little one?" he asks.
(It's slut or whore or bitch when the Master's angry, pet or little one when he's not. Raphael can never explain why the supposedly gentler words always make him feel worse).
"I..." His instinct is to say nothing, but Master knows, Master always knows, and he doesn't want to get in trouble. "My enemies. The green ones." Turtles isn’t exactly a forbidden word, but he's careful not to use it anyway.
His master tenses, ever so slightly. "Oh?"
"They've changed colors. Uh..." He shrugs, suddenly feeling stupid. "They're all red now. I dunno. It's different."
Master hums, stroking his cock once again. "That's a good thing. It means we've made them afraid, made them desperate. They're trying to scare us with promises of blood and fire."
Blood and fire. Right. That's all red is, and it was stupid of Raphael to forget it. Red's just a mean, angry color, not good for anything other than fighting....
"No it's not!"
He frowns, looking down at his hands. They're his hands, big and callused and cruel--but at the same time they're also small, trembling, clutched around a tear-stained mask in a color that's familiar and familiar all at once. A pair of even smaller hands, dotted with freckles, wrap around his.
"It's--it's like roses, y'know? Those pretty ones from TV? And rubies, like that storybook? And strawberries, and cherries, and apples, and so much stuff--yeah, we haven't eaten it, but it looks so tasty! And--and hearts! Hearts are red! That means you're the heart of everything, R--"
"Raphael?"
His Master is looking at him again. The hand on his cock is tightening just enough to start to hurt, to very fully direct his attention away from vague wisps of memory. The child's voice fades to the dark, dusty corners of his mind again.
"Nothing, Master," he says, rubbing his temple. "Just...my head hurts, that's all." And it does, now that he thinks about it. Did it ever really stop?
"Mmm." His master slides a hand under him, pawing at his bottom, flipping aside at his tail. Raphael obligingly wriggles at the touch, sucking in a breath as Master's finger nudges at his hole. "I know just the thing to distract you."
He lets himself be carried off to bed, black mask tails swinging around his head as he slumps back in Master's arms. He closes his eyes, suddenly wanting to hide from the darkness, if only for a little while.
So he lets himself dream of red. And it doesn't frighten him at all.