Soup
“Mikey?” a middle-pitched voice called. Michelangelo stopped dribbling around the poles which supported his bed, caught the ball in his hands and answered: “Yeah?”
“Could you come here into the kitchen?” Michelangelo snickered.
“Sure thing!” He dropped the basketball and headed into the kitchen area. “What’s your need bro?” he asked Leonardo.
“I need you to give me a hand,” his brother replied, gesturing towards a pile of vegetables behind him. Michelangelo backed away.
“What? Is this what you meant when you said you’d make the dinner? Dude that is not cool! You know I hate healthy food!” he whined.
“I know, I know,” Leonardo said quickly, stepping forward and lifting a calming hand. “It isn’t going to be salad. What I had in mind was a kind of soup.”
“Soup? What kind of soup?”
“Well, I got a recipe from Donnie...” Leonardo reached inside his belt and drew out a coiled sheet of paper. “Old fashioned turtle soup recipe.“
Michelangelo believed he had overheard. “Come again?” he said.
“Old fashioned turtle soup recipe,” Leonardo repeated, staring Mikey in the eyes with frightening intensity. Michelangelo gulped.
“Um... You sure? And... what do you need my help for?” He was slightly scared of the tilt of the head Leonardo was making right now.
“I need you to give me a hand... Or more precisely...” He raised his hand to his swords. Michelangelo jerked and felt his nunchakus. “Give me all of yourself,” Leonardo said as the drawn katana hissed.
“W...what?” Michelangelo took a step back.
“Because I’m going to need all you can give.” Leonardo lunged at him.
Mikey screamed and covered his head.
---
Nothing was happening.
Michelangelo opened his eyes. Raised his head. There was a quiet clinking of metal.
Bewildered, he looked at his hands. They were wearing handcuffs.
Leonardo was standing before him. The sword was still in his hand, but only now did Michelangelo notice that it wasn’t a katana.
“W...why are you attacking me with a practice sword?” he managed to squeak, looking up. Leonardo was still glaring at him.
“Because I need you to pay attention. It’s a very complicated recipe and I can’t allow to mess up.”
“Okay...” Michelangelo agreed shakily, “but I won’t be much of a help with my hands cuffed.”
Leonardo smiled. “You don’t know what your help will be yet.”
“Chopping the veggies?”
“No.” Leonardo lead him by the hancuffs’ chain and Michelangelo followed, wondering what the shell. They stopped next to the counter. Leonardo tugged the chain and Mikey lifted his hands obediently. In a second, he found them tied to a heavy pipe in the ceiling.
“...Huh?” he ventured. He tried pulling and the old iron creaked.
“Don’t do that!” Leonardo slapped his arms. “You’ll end up tearing it down on you.” Michelangelo stopped instantly.
“Leo? What will my help be?” he asked in a small voice.
Leonardo smiled again. “Procure a fine, lively, fat turtle...”
“I’m not fat!”
“...weighing about 120 pounds, fish of this weight being considered the best, as their fat is not liable...”
“I said I’m not fat!”
“...to be impregnated with that disagreeable, strong flavor objected to in fish of larger size.”
“And I’m not a fish.”
“On the other hand, turtles of very small size seldom possess sufficient fat or substance to make them worth dressing.”
Leonardo stopped reading and eyed Mikey thoughtfully. Ignoring his little brothers saucer-wide stare, he reached out to him. Michelangelo jerked away and then darkness slipped over his sight. Leo had turned his mask.
“Much better,” Leonardo said appreciatively somewhere in the dark. “When time permits kill the turtle overnight that it may be left to bleed in a cool place till the next morning when at an early hour it should be cut up for scalding, that being the first part of the operation. If, however, the turtle is required for immediate use, to save time the fish may be scalded as soon as it is killed.” Michelangelo nearly stopped breathing. “Are you ready Mike?”
“No...” the asked turtle mewled. Leonardo laughed.
“Now listen closely. Since you’re blind, I’m going to set up some rules to follow. Breaking them will always cause you pain.”
In the prolonged pause, Michelangelo thought it had to be a dream.
“Rule no. 1. Don’t struggle. There’s a heavy pipe just above you, and you don’t want to bring it down.
“Rule no. 2. Always follow my signals. I’ll give you an example.” Footsteps went around Michelangelo. “This...” Fingers pressed the back of his neck warningly. “...is ‘Don’t move’. Not a muscle. Be perfectly still, otherwise something might happen to you.” Footsteps went around him again. “This is ‘listen’,” a touch at the side of his head, “smell,” at the tip of his snout, “taste,” at his lips. “You’ll be fine as long as you obey.”
“Really?”
“And this...” A hand covered his mouth. “...is ‘don’t talk’.”
Michelangelo nodded.
“Good.” Leo sounded so smug. Mike felt honestly weirded out. “If you’re a good turtle, this might even feel good...” Leonardo purred very close to him. A spark of excitement appeared inside Mikey.
“The turtle being ready for cutting up...” Leonardo continued reciting, his voice growing fainter as he went further away, “lay it on its back, and with a large kitchen-knife...” The clinking of metal could be heard. Leo was probably searching for a knife. “...separate the fat or belly-shell from the back by making an incision all round the inner edge of the shell.”
Michelangelo wasn’t sure now what to think. Leonardo was doing some real weird stuff but he seemed as sane as he ever was. He even established rules for Mikey to follow, and promised he wouldn’t hurt him. How did that add up? And what was Michelangelo’s “help” going to be?
The turtle’s thoughts were brought to an end as Leonardo came back, probably now brandishing a nice sharp knife. He reached around Michelangelo’s form (Mike quivered as his arms brushed his skin) and pressed the back of his neck. The captured ninja froze and didn’t dare to breath.
A touch at the tip of his snout. A very cold one.
Michelangelo pulled in a distinct smell of stainless steel. He jerked to be tranquilized by an angry grip on his nape.
The smell of metal fainted. Michelangelo searched for it, unsure of what to do.
Then he felt the same coldness on his hip.
He hissed involuntarily. He knew the knife had to be room tempertature but the sensation changed from flaring hot to deadly cold, as his confused skin shouted at him to get it away from the edge.
He felt no trickling blood but the blade left a trail of pain nevertheless. Leonardo circled him, one hand never leaving his neck, the other sliding around the edge of his shell. By the time he got to the other hip, Michelangelo was quivering. He knew Leo wouldn’t cut him but his reflexes didn’t. If he flinched, the knife would draw blood. He couldn’t do anything but stand and pray for it to be over.
Leonardo arrived above the first shoulder. He pressed Michelangelo’s neck one last time, and then drew his hand away. Michelangelo immediately wished he had left it there. He had no support but a razor sharp blade running over the top of his shell. He moaned quietly.
“Sshh,” Leonardo soothed as he marked his other shoulder and placed his hand back to Mikey’s neck. The turtle sighed with relief and withstood the last part of line. Then, both the knife and the hand were removed and Michelangelo slumped. He hadn’t even realised how tense he had got. He worked the stiffness out by wriggling in his stance, careful not to pull the cuffs too much. His arms were starting to hurt vaguely.
“When all the fleshy parts adhering to the shell have been carefully out away, it may be set aside. Then detach the intestines by running the sharp edge of a knife closely along the spine of the fish, and remove them instantly in a pail to be thrown away.” Michelangelo shuddered at the mention of intestines, but Leo seemed to have no interest in cutting him open to get to them, because he continued reading. “Cut off the fins and separate the fleshy parts, which place on a dish by themselves till wanted. Take particular care of every particle of the green fat, which lies chiefly at the sockets of the fore-fins, and more or less all round the interior of the fish, if in good condition. Let this fat, which, when in a healthy state, is elastic and of a bluish color while raw, be steeped for several hours in cold spring-water, in order that it may be thoroughly cleansed of all impurities.”
“Cutting time again?” Michelangelo peeped.
“The recipe has to be followed,” Leonardo answered and took Michelangelo’s wrist. “Spread out your arm,” he said, tugging at it. Michelangelo obeyed, with a sinking feeling as Leo let go and his hand once again settled behind his neck.
One after another, Leonardo cut off his arms and legs. Michelangelo got quite good at willing the flinching away but couldn’t help shivering when the blade traced the inner side of his thighs. Feeling it turning around the sensitive sinew, he lost a few mewls of wanting to get away. He felt Leo melting him, slowly, carefully.
The hand gripped his nape more firmly. Michelangelo felt a knife at his throat.
He couldn’t keep the sounds in this time. As Leo’s blade encircled his neck with a scorching, ice-cold thread, Mikey moaned in a small, hoarse voice, sometimes getting into churring. When Leonardo let go of the back of his neck to cut his nape, Michelangelo started feeling dizzy. The old pipe above him creaked and Leonardo hissed a curse. Michelangelo quickly straightened up.
“Don’t do that. I nearly cut you,” Leonardo said, upset.
“Mm hm,” Michelangelo agreed as he wasn’t free to move yet. Leonardo finished the line around his neck and asked the light-headed turtle:
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah...” Michelangelo muttered and, to no avail, looked around. “Can we start cooking now, please?”
Leonardo chuckled. “The recipe says to steep the fat in cold spring-water.”
“I haven’t got any fat, I’m 100% muscle!” Michelangelo protested.
“The recipe states otherwise,” Leonardo answered advisedly. Michelangelo heard the water tap be opened and squirmed futilely.
“Come ooon!” he whined. “I’m gonna freeze in cold-spring water! You don’t want your turtle to freeze, do you?”
Instead of an answer, a wave of cold water hit him. “Ack!” Michelangelo sputtered. “Not fair, not fair! Only my fat’s supposed to be steeped, now I’m all drenched! You aren’t following-”
A hand clasped over his mouth and Michelangelo fell quiet, feeling Leo’s breath on his neck as cold air.
“I will decide what part of you will subdue to the recipe,” Leonardo husked in a calm tone. “I will decide where to cut, I will decide what to steep, I will decide everything. You just listen and enjoy.” With that, he let go of Michelangelo and stepped further away. “Then with a meat-saw divide the upper and under shells into pieces of convenient size to handle and baying put them with the fins and head into a large vessel containing boiling water. Proceed quickly to scald them.”
Michelangelo wasn’t quite sure what Leo meant by scalding. He wasn’t going to throw boiling water on him, was he? That could seriously hurt...
Suddenly, he realised that his front side was feeling warm. He moved forward and bumped into Leo, who quickly shoved him back and touched his lips with one finger. Michelangelo took in a lungful of air and opened his mouth.
Leonardo pressed against him and kissed him.
Michelangelo was so surprised that he didn’t know what to do. Only when Leo’s tongue invaded his mouth did he remember that he was supposed to taste. So he did.
As he felt Leo pull away, he wanted to hold him there, but with arms high above his head, he didn’t have a chance to. He stood back, panting and hot.
Leonardo took his time regaining his breath, judging from the deep breaths Michelangelo heard once his head wasn’t buzzing so loud. “By this means they will be separated from the horny substance which covers them, which will then be easily removed.” Mikey snorted. “They must then be put into a larger stockpot nearly filling with fresh hot water and left to continue boiling by the side of the stove fire until the glutinous substance separates easily from the bones.”
Leonardo stopped reading and Michelangelo had a short while to wonder, if scalding meant kissing, what would boiling mean? After that, Leonardo moved towards him. Michelangelo stilled in anticipation but nothing happened. He was about to ask what was up when Leo groped his groin.
Mikey yelped in surprise and his shout fell apart into small satisfied noises as Leonardo continued to rub the inner side of his legs. Michelangelo squirmed and bucked lightly, and began churring when his request was met with more lively care. Pretty soon, he was hard and in Leonardo’s hand.
“L-Leo...” he panted breathlessly as his head swam in pleasure and his whole world centered around Leo’s fingers around his cock, pumping and so sweet, sweet...
Michelangelo frowned. Wha... Where was Leo?
“Place the pieces of turtle carefully upon clean dishes and put them in the larder to get cold.”
“No!” Michelangelo shouted in disbelief.
“Yes,” Leonardo replied in his best business voice.
“No!” Michelangelo repeated. “No Leo, you can’t stop now! Come on!”
“The recipe-”
“I don’t give a damn about the recipe, get it on now!”
A pause during which Michelangelo imagined Leonardo was considering what sort of punishment he would give him for such insubordination.
“The recipe follows...” Leonardo stated slowly. “They should then be cut up into pieces about an inch and a half square; which pieces are to be finally put into the soup when it is nearly finished. Are you sure you’re ready for another round of the knife?”
“Anything but leave me to get cold in the larder!” Michelangelo shrieked.
“Alright... But you mustn’t move,” Leonardo warned.
“Yes, yes, just get it on, would you?”
A bright shing as Leonardo picked up the knife and placed his hand at the nape of Michelangelo’s neck. “You musn’t move,” he reminded him. Michelangelo grunted.
He felt the blade trace along his flesh once again, but now it didn’t feel dangerous, only stimulating. Mikey tried his best to remain motionless. When Leonardo cursed under his breath for the fourth time, he apparently snapped.
“I see that the turtle hasn’t quite finished boiling yet,” he said sharply, made a fast movement and when a ching of the thrown knife was heard, Michelangelo’s head overloaded.
He came to and Leo was giving him head. Fast and furious.
Mike’s eyes rolled into his skull.
---
He was panting heavily, only standing because Leonardo was holding him up. Michelangelo raised his head, turned it towards Leo’s face and then slumped it on his shoulder again.
“Wow,” he said softly.
Leonardo chuckled. “You were moving too much,” he explained. “Can you stand?”
“Yeah I think so...”
Leonardo pushed Mikey off of himself, ready to catch him if he lost his balance. Michelangelo swayed a little, but remained stable. “I need to go find the knife,” Leonardo said and left his brother on his own, basking in his afterglow and lazily trying to remember the past minute. Not much luck, really.
“Found it,” Leonardo announced from somewhere near.
“Good for you,” Michelangelo mumbled good-naturedly. A few seconds later, he remembered what the knife does. “Wait, you’re really gonna see this through?” he asked he approaching footsteps.
“Of course,” Leonardo answered. “Why not?”
“Well it’s just that...” Michelangelo shrugged, “I’m pretty spent and I’m not so sure about another round. Plus, don’t tell me you’ve got nothing you want to have cared for? Just release me from here...”
“No,” Leonardo disagreed quickly. “I don’t think so. I’m as fine as can be. You might be spent but you’re still standing. And I still haven’t cooked that dinner.”
“Still going on about that?” Michelangelo had forgotten why he was here.
“Of course. It’s called keeping a promise, or responsibility Mikey,” Leonardo said tartly.
“But you’re not gonna cook a dinner by cutting me up,” Michelangelo objected.
“We have time,” Leonardo said in a tone ‘I consider this argument over’.
“Alright...” muttered Michelangelo, who wasn’t overly fond of the thought of having a knife on his skin once again, what’s more after such an orgasm. But still, better than before it.
Leonardo’s hand got a hold of the back of Michelangelo’s neck again, and Mikey stilled, wanting it to be over as soon as possible, so that he could sit down and finally relax.
Contradictory to that, as Leonardo proceeded from his arm down to his leg and then did the same to the other side, Michelangelo began feeling the cold precise lines more cold, more hot. Their elaborate net was covering his body like a suit of red-hot wires.
Finally, Leonardo was finished. Michelangelo sighed when his neck was released, and flexed a little to the sides and kicked his legs out to make the formication and stiffness go away.
“Now what?” he asked.
There was a grunting sound of Leonardo stretching his body, and then a relieved ah. “Just a second,” Leonardo said and put the knife down. “Put the bones back into the broth to boil an hour longer, for the double purpose of extracting all their savor and to effect the reduction of the turtle broth, which is to be used for filling up the turtle stockpot hereafter. In order to save time, while the above is in operation the turtle stock or consomme should be prepared as follows.”
“More boiling?” Michelangelo asked in anticipation. “Leo? Hey, bro? You still here?”
His mouth was suddenly covered, and he understood that Leonardo had decided to pull ninja on him. He nodded silently. He felt, and a moment later he was sure he’d imagined, a touch on his snout. Michelangelo frowned, determinated. If Leo could play ninja, so could he.
He struggled to listen for any kind of noise. The kitchen was silent. Hadn’t he known Leo was in here, he’d consider it empty. When he strained his ears, he could hear the distant sounds of water. Humming of the city overhead. Donatello’s computer.
Then, he smelled butter.
“With 4 ounces of fresh butter spread the bottom of an 18 gallon stockpot,” whispered a quiet voice and the smell of butter intensified, as if it was directly under Michelangelo’s snout. Mikey stood silent, trying his hardest to hear something.
The fragrance of butter was replaced by smoked meat.
“Then place in it 3 pounds of raw ham cut in slices.” He swore he couldn’t hear anything, but the smell of ham floated towards him, grew stronger, grew weaker, only to be replaced by raw meat.
“Over these put 40 pounce of leg of beef and knuckles of veal, 4 old hens (after having removed their fillets, which are to be kept for making the quenelles for the soup); to these add all the fleshy pieces of the turtle (excepting those pieces intended for entres), and then place on the top the head and fins of the turtle,” Leonardo’s voice read. Michelangelo recognised the tone – master Splinter had taught it to them in case they needed to speak without giving away their location. Mike couldn’t even tell if Leonardo was coming to him, or from him. He was moving like a ghost.
“Moisten the whole with a bottle of Madeira and 4 quarts of good stock.” The scent of wine penetrated his brain, heady and rich. Michelangelo imagined he’d felt a butterfly touch on his lips. He opened his mouth to have something smooth pressed to his lower lip; it tilted and Michelangelo’s mouth was presented with a gulp of Madeira. He worked it down like the ninja he was. He shortly thought about the warm aftertaste it left, before his nose was assaulted by series of scents.
“Add a pottle of mushrooms, 12 cloves, 4 blades of mace, a handful of parsley roots and a good-sized bouquet of parsley tied up with 2 bay leaves, thyme, green onions and shallots.” Each and every ingredient was accompanied by its fragrance, sharp and definite. Michelangelo was like Alice in Fragranceland, amazed and bemused why he hadn’t noticed those smells earlier.
Then, there was a while of silence. Michelangelo pondered whether to break it by speaking when he heard small, shy sounds directly from the counter. Bubbles in boiling water.
“Set the consomme thus prepared on a brisk stove fire to boil sharply, and when the liquid has become reduced to a glaze fill the stockpot up instantly, and as soon as it boils skim it thoroughly, garnish with the usual complement of vegetables, and remove it to the side of the stove to boil gently for 6 hours.”
Six hours? That was way too long... Leonardo would probably skip the waiting part again, they didn’t have that much time until dinner.
Michelangelo waited. He searched the smell of cooked vegetables rising in the air for the sharp scents of the raw material, while searching the kitchen for a presence he was almost sure was there. Sensei had taught them how to feel chi but Michelangelo hadn’t listened very well...
“Remember to probe the head and fins after they have been boiled 2 hours,” Leonardo’s voice drifted in, and Michelangelo knew that he was going to touch him a fragment of second before he did. The warm palm stroked his head, then slid up his arm, traced the handcuffs, slid down the other arm, down over his chest to his hip; there another joined it and they first groped his butt very lightly, then continued down his legs and left from his toes.
Michelangelo released a breath he’d been holding back.
“And as soon as they are done drain them on a dish, corer them with a wet napkin well saturated with water to prevent it from sticking to them, and put them away in a cool place with the remainder of the glutinous parts of the turtle already spoken of.”
Sure enough, a damp cloth was pressed against his cheek and Leonardo washed him like a mother would wash a child: gently, firmly, knowingly. There wasn’t a spark of lust in this caress, and Michelangelo thought it formed a strange opposite to how they’d behaved before.
“The stockpot should now be filled up with the turtle broth reserved for that purpose as directed above. When the turtle stock is done strain it off into an appropriate-sized stockpot, remove every particle of fat from the surface, and then proceed to thicken it with a proportionate quantity of dour to the consistency of thin sauce. Work this exactly in the same manner as practised in brown sauce, in order to extract all the butter and scum, so as to give it a brilliant appearance.”
Michelangelo smiled. Leo’s voice was now clear and loving as he was no longer using the indefinite tone to confuse his location. Michelangelo could tell that he was just one step from him, slightly to the right. If he kicked out, he would hit him. He smirked and Leonardo stopped reading as if he’d seen. Mikey listened close, like he could hear Leo regarding his face.
Footsteps went from him, and as Leonardo was no longer trying to be stealthy, the blinded turtle could hear a bottle be picked up and opened, liquid flow out, bottle be straightened, put down and closed. Leo’s footsteps neared him, followed by the distinct scent of wine.
“One bottle of old Madeira must now be added,” whispered Leonardo, brushing Michelangelo’s lips with his finger and pouring another gulp down his throat, “together with a puree of herbs of the following kinds, to be made as here directed: Sweet basil must form one-third proportion of the whole quantity of herbs intended to be used; winter savory, marjoram and lemon-thyme in equal quantities, making up the other two-thirds; add to these a double-handful of green shallots and some trimmings of mushrooms.”
And a second round of scents drifted under Michelangelo’s snout, not formless anymore because Leonardo allowed them to make a noise, but nonetheless capturing and beautiful. Mikey wondered how Leo had gotten his hands on all these fresh goods.
“Moisten with a quart of broth...” Leonardo leaned in and placed a light kiss on Michelangelo’s lips, “and having stewed these herbs for about an hour rub the whole through the tammy into a purse. This purse being added to the soup, a little Cayenne pepper should then be introduced.”
Michelangelo took in a breath of pepper and sneezed loudly. Leonardo chuckled.
“The pieces of turtle, as well as the fins, which have also been out into small pieces rend the larger bones taken out, should now be allowed to boil in the soup for a quarter of an hour, after which carefully remove the whole of the scum as it rises to the surface.”
One of Leonardo’s hands cupped Michelangelo’s cheek, and the turtle began planting little kisses down his snout, along his jawbone and following the tendons of his neck. When he pulled away, Michelangelo was slightly breathless.
“The degree of seasoning...” Leonardo paused because he too sounded out of breath; it was Michelangelo’s turn to chuckle now. “...must be ascertained that it may be corrected if faulty. To excel in dressing turtle it is necessary to be very accurate in the proportions of the numerous ingredients used for seasoning this soup. Nothing should predominate, tent the whole should be harmoniously blended.”
Michelangelo leaned forward in an unsaid request for contact. He connected with Leonardo’s head and they kissed slowly, quietly. Water was bubbling in the background. Leonardo pulled away and rested his head on Michelangelo’s shoulder, his forehead pressing against Mikey’s cheek. Michelangelo nodded his head in an attempt to fondle Leo’s scalp. Leonardo sighed and raised his head.
“Put the turtle away in four-quart-sized basins, dividing the fat (after it has been scalded and boiled in some of the sauces) in equal quantities into each basin, as also some small quenelles, which are to be made with the fillets of hens reserved for that purpose, and in which, in addition to the usual ingredients in ordinary cases, put 6 yolks of eggs boiled hard.”
Leonardo went further into the kitchen and came back bringing the unmistakeable smell of yellow. He put it straight under Michelangelo’s snout for a second, then retreated again. On his way, Mikey could hear that he stirred the pot.
“Mould these querelles into small, round balls, to imitate turtles' eggs, roll them with the hand on a marble slab or table, with the aid of a little flour, and poach them in the usual way.”
Leonardo didn’t stop before Michelangelo, he went around him, pinching his arm playfully on the way.
“When the turtle soup is wanted for use warm it, and just before sending it to table add a small glass of Sherry or Madeira and the juice of one lemon to every four quarts of turtle.”
The fine, sharp aroma of lemon juice made its way to Michelangelo’s nose. The turtle realised he was actually quite hungry.
“The second stock of the turtle consomme should be strained off after it has boiled for two hours, and immediately boiled down into a glaze very quickly and mixed in with the turtle soup previously to putting it away in the basins, or else it should be kept in reserve for the purpose of adding proportionate quantities in each tureen of turtle as it is served.”
Leonardo stopped right before him, and stood silent for a while. Michelangelo was about to ask when his brother whispered:
“For this and several other receipts in fine cookery we are indebted to Francatelli.”
Silence ensued, disturbed only by the bubbling in the pot. And distant sounds of water. And humming of the city overhead. And Donatello’s computer.
“That’s it,” Leonardo stated matter-of-factly. “We’re done.”
“Really?” Michelangelo nearly couldn’t believe it was over.
“Yeah. The soup’s done and ready for serving.” Leonardo stepped closer, lifted his hands and undid whatever was fastening Mike’s handcuffs to the pipe. Michelangelo put his hands down, feeling as if he grew two new limbs. That hurt.
“Ow,” he complained as Leonardo unlocked the cuffs.
“Is it bad?” the turtle asked, worried.
“Not that bad,” Michelangelo shrugged. “They’re just gonna be sore, uhh,” he groaned as he worked his shoulders. “Oh yeah that feels good.”
Leonardo took his mask and settled it the right way again. Michelangelo opened his eyes and smiled.
“Hello world. Good to see you again.” His eyes wandered to Leo. His brother was standing there as if nothing had happened, relaxed, straightened, attentive. “That was awesome Leo,” Michelangelo said.
Leonardo blushed and looked away. “Did you like it?”
“Shell yeah,” Michelangelo nodded. “But man, it made me hungry! What are we having for dinner?”
“Well, turtle soup,” Leonardo explained as he followed Michelangelo toward the pot. “But without the turtle. So basically, just soup.”
Michelangelo glanced into the pot where the mess of food characteristic for Leo’s cooking was floating. “Uh-huh,” he said, wondering why the meal looked so bad if it had smelled so good. “And you know, after dinner...” he winked at Leonardo, “could you warm me when I’m wanted for use?”
“Naturally,” Leonardo nodded sagely.
While his brother was calling everybody to come and eat dinner, Michelangelo thought he should help Leo cook more often.