Work Text:
Henry Emily has made a lot of mistakes in his life. He feels those mistakes with every breath, every moment he spends pouring over blueprints and floor plans and eulogies. By all accounts, he’s a horrible person.
So he thinks this should hurt a little more. It's suicide, isn’t it? It should feel like it. The fire is hot, unbearably so, but he’s not in pain. In fact, he’s more at peace than he’s been in decades. His cassette tape trails off with a beep , and it tells him to lean back in his chair and let this end.
He can hear the monsters he’s trapped in the corridor with the fire that will come for them all. He knows, with a self-loathing that claws at his gut, they don't want to die. He knows also that this is for the best. For everyone.
William is the loudest of all. After everything, he’s the easiest to ignore.
“Henry?”
The voice is small, smaller than it should be, smaller than has ever suited him, and it is with a tug at his heartstrings that Henry registers who it belongs to.
Michael Afton has always bore the curse of family resemblance. Painfully like his father in every way that has ever mattered to Henry - the same chin, the same nose, the same eyes. It was a gift once, probably, but not anymore. He looked at his godson and saw a killer.
And now, rotting corpse he may be, Henry can only wonder how that connection ever crossed his mind. Michael stares at him, exhausted, among the flames and the heat and the death, but with an air of contentment that could only make him a mirror to Henry. He’s remaining here and is selfless and gracious in the smile he sends towards his uncle.
“Uncle Henry.” The words are said with a finality that promises solidarity. Henry knows, with a certainty that forces a small smile to his own face, that he won't be alone. Michael stumbles forward, and Henry holds his arms open in turn. He collapses into them like the child one could almost remember him being, before everything . Henry runs his hand through Michael’s patchy hair like it belongs to the 9 year old who stopped taking on so much to break down around him. Maybe the boy never left.
Michael holds him fiercely in return, like it's the first touch he’s felt in decades and he’s committing every feeling to memory. Maybe he is.
( “Uncle Henry?” a small voice says, young and unburdened. Michael Afton is young, tall for his age, and nearly identical to his father. He has a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and scrubs his hand across his face like he’s wiping sleep from his eyes. His father left him at Henry’s place for the night, neglectful in a way Henry will curse himself for not noticing in the future. For now, though, he simply gives Michael a smile.
“Michael. Is everything alright?” he asks, tone gentle. Always gentle around his godson, never harsh.
Michael nods, clasping his hands together and playing with his own fingers absently. No answers out of him this way, that's for sure.
With an encouraging look, Henry spreads his arms and Michael barrels into them. The care with which Henry cards his fingers through his godson’s hair is palpable and he buries himself into Henry’s shoulder.
Whatever Michael was searching for distraction from goes forgotten, and good riddance to it too. There is only love, a forbidden, familial type that would go unspoken but is felt , so strongly and so wholly. The kind an Afton isn't taught how to give.)
Michael pulls back for a moment like he’s studying Henry’s face, his intentions, and those little white pinpricks in Michael’s eyes hold worlds of experience, growth, hurt and something so undeniably human. It strikes Henry, very suddenly, that this man (boy, child, teenager) feels with a depth that his father could never hope to aspire to. Gaunt, purple, hollowed cheeks and torn skin be damned, there's a gentleness and a feeling and an age in Michael Afton. He seems to find what he’s looking for and presses his face back into Henry’s shoulder and he can feel his godson’s smile.
The fire around them is hot but Henry can only feel warm. He can’t even hear the monsters anymore.
This ends for all of us. End communication.