He worries, hoping that Donnie is more concerned about his mispronunciations than the presence of a brother who isn't exactly his brother, wondering if he's said the wrong word or botched the grammar to a point where he would have the focus on the crime of butchering this world's language.

He can't ignore the way Donnie is trying to hold it together. The scrubbing at his eyes. The weak laugh that doesn't fully pitch the way it should when trying to ease into a joking kind of atmosphere. It hits even worse when he hears the telltale thickness of choked emotion in his answer — a sound that forces itself to be normal, that fails to maintain the tone of neutrality he's so used to hearing.

Forget this. Raph's jumping the gun to bring his brother in.

A step, and big arms now wrap around Donnie, embracing him. The same way Raph does with all of his brothers. His line of sight gives in to a misted, watery state that spills a large tear out of one eye, taking a deep breath to stave off the rest of the emotional wave that threatens to wash over him.

"Raph likes it," he says softly, his voice rumbling in the back of his throat. "It's very Donnie, with all of the purples an' such. The other colors are great, too."