Chapter Text
Was he allowed to swear?
Because, if so, fuck everything. Fuck his father, fuck this house, fuck not getting to finally rest after all of that . Though he supposed this was as bad a punishment as he could have. Abuse, once again, by the hands of his father. No, not his father. That man. To survive more abuse at the hands of that man - of William Afton. Michael wanted to cry in anger, but he couldn’t. He didn't deserve to, not after what he had done.
"MICHAEL! I can't believe you, useless child. What will the police say about this? Now I have to tell them Chris is dead all because! Of! You!" His words still echoed in his ears.
Michael hated him. With everything possible, he wished that fire had killed him. It had, he hoped. But, if he was here, who knows where William was…
He glanced at the man in front of him again, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched Chris struggle to eat with his left hand. His eyes were a sunken mess, bags prominent. His build was thin, slender, shoulders and arms bony and angular, His mousy, stringy hair fell over watery icy blue eyes. William’s cheekbones sunk, as if he was malnourished.
Michael burned his eyes into him, gripping his fork tightly. His blood boiled.
He was snapped out of his brooding by his sister’s laugh.
“Mike has syrup on his face!” She exclaimed delightedly. Chris was also looking at him, trying to hide giggles. Michael blinked and looked at his fork, which had an uneaten piece of pancake, currently smushed against his cheek. Quickly, he wiped it off and stood, chair screeching against the wood flooring.
“I - I have to go.” The sentence was barely out of his mouth before he grabbed his plate, tossing it in the sink, and dashed past William and his siblings without a goodbye, leaving the man confused.
"What - Michael?"
Everything was painful. Being too close to them was painful. As much as he wished to protect them, as much as he wanted to keep both of them safe from their father (not his father, he had never been his father), right now the feeling in his stomach threatened to make him throw up. He felt lightheaded as he made his way to his room.
Of course, it had taken time to adjust. One second, Henry was burning Fazbear's to the ground and he was happily going down with the ship, the next he woke up in his childhood bedroom, rock band posters lining the walls and vinyls stacked carefully in a corner. No longer purple, no longer a corpse, no longer an adult. It had been…jarring. Especially figuring out the date. A year and six months. Long enough. Long enough to save him, to be a better brother.
They were happy, and they were fine. Everything was as it should be. But he still felt nothing but grief. Not happiness, not even relief. Guilt and the fear of what seemed inevitable swirled inside his head, running laps around his mind, which knew far more about future events than it should. Michael flopped onto his crudely made bed and curled up, gripping his gray tank top. His eyes, despite all the alarm bells warning him not to sleep, slipped closed. He would get woken up soon enough anyway.
A knock on his door interrupted his attempt at sleep. Michael flopped over, keeping his tone as neutral and bored as possible. “Yeeaaah?”
“Michael? Can I come in?” William Afton.
He suppressed a groan. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you with everything, I wish you would have burned with me, you deserve pure hell you fucking-
“...Fine.” He curled into a ball, facing the wall. The door swung on its creaky hinges. Footsteps walked closer.
“Michael?”
“What?” Snapping helped release his anger somewhat, though only for the shortest of seconds.
“Are - Are you upset with me? You were very quiet at breakfast. You seem huffy, Michael.” ‘huffy’? Was that really the best fucking descriptor he could come up with? What’s next? Grumpy?
“ Nothing. I’m just tired.” He sunk into the mattress to further accentuate his point, hoping that William would leave him alone.
“This early in the morning?” A hand laid on his shoulder, and Michael flinched, shoulders tensing. Don’t touch me, you dirty, sick, twisted, killer. Your hands are coated in blood. You’re poisoning me, infecting me with your disease. The disease you’ve spread to my siblings, to my home, leave-
You’ve got the disease, too. Ungrateful. Selfish.
Murderer.
“...aren’t getting sick. So close to my meeting with Henry, too.” His tongue clicked. Of course that was all he cared about. He never cared for anything but his own needs. Always, always, always the self-serving bastard. The fury was suffocating Michael in its iron grip. And yet, when William pulled away, he couldn’t muster up the gall to grab his arm as tight as he could and never let go. Make sure he never left his sight, did nothing more to their - his - family.
Rage burned in his throat. He wanted to scream until his lungs ran out of air. He wanted to scream until his voice gratefully gave up on him. He needed to make things better.
The footsteps departed, and the door was slowly closed. Sunshine flowed across the walls from tightly-closed blinds.
...But could he?
He had noticed, soon after, his dad - William’s manipulation. William’s gaslighting. Playing the victim.
He had forced his hand, melded his stupid teenage mind for his own gain, made him believe that some slight teasing was OK. Michael had suffered and William had played the victim.
Now would be different. Michael knew exactly how the man would try to weedle his tiny seed of hate, resentment in his mind and blur his thoughts.
Michael would be damned if he didn’t save his little brother from a fall that was his fault.