Chapter Text
“Do you hear that, guys?”
Hands grasp tight on the wriggling body. Tears fall onto the cotton of a worn, stripped shirt.
“Mikey.”
“I think he wants to give Fredbear a kiss.”
Haunting laughter echoes as high-pitched pleas go unheard. Muscles strain as boys stand on tip toes.
“Mikey.”
Springlocks click rhythmically. Bolts lock. Something snaps.
There is so much blood.
“MIKE.”
Eyes open wide as Michael Afton jolts upright in his bed. Beside him stands a disgruntled Max, holding up a shrieking alarm clock which is immediately thrust at him with a huff. “Welcome back to the land of the living, now shut that thing up. You’re gonna be late.”
With hands still sweaty from the dream, Michael fumbles with the screaming machine until he finally just yanks the power cord out the back and tosses it onto the floor. He looks up and gives his friend a dead eyed stare. “You could have just turned it off yourself,” he snarks back as he stands up and heads to the closet.
Max smirks and leans against the bedside table covered in empty wrappers and half-filled energy drinks. “And leave you to miss out on gruff-tastic day at Sparky’s?” she snickers, “Not a chance. Especially since you owe me two months’ rent, asshole.”
Michael sighs. He knows. He knows he’s behind, and he’s grateful Max is patient enough to deal with his dead-beat ass while he hops from job to job trying to find something that will stick. But it’s hard. Most jobs in Hurricane wouldn’t touch him. Not after the incidents in ’83 and ‘85. Which means he has work under the table and out of sight for places that will only pay sub-minimum wage. It’s better than nothing, but somedays, he just wishes he could be normal again. That he could have his life back.
But that was never going to happen, not unless he could find a way to turn back time.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says dismissively but with a softness he doesn’t often let slide. “I’ll get it to you on Friday, alright?”
Max chuckles and smacks him on the back as he finally wrangles a clean uniform out of a pile deep within the closet. “I’m holding you to that, Mike.” She says before disappearing out the door and down the hall. He’s already shucking off his shirt when he hears her call out. “I’ve got breakfast ready to grab on your way out. Go get ‘em, man. It’s gonna be a great first day.”
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It was not, in fact, a great first day. Though, it was—at least—a very memorable last day.
Michael had been onboarded by a former classmate—a tall, lanky blonde named Jeremey whom he had remembered for being particularly obnoxious for his ability to talk for hours and to not understand personal space. Traits the boy hadn’t yet grown out of it seemed. He hovered over Michael as he filled out his paperwork, doing everything he could to break his concentration. Asking a million and one questions about what he had been up to since dropping out, if he kept up with his little sketching hobby, if he had heard from his dear old daddy.
Michael had to restrain himself from punching him after that last one.
Jeremy explained to him his fairly simple roll—keep the kitchen nice and clean, assist the cook with prep when they needed it, and keep the fridge doors closed and everything within the temps provided by the inspector’s check sheet. And he’d done just that. He’d wiped up after the breakfast and lunch rushes. Mopped and swept the floors. Helped set up the toppings at the burger prep station and ran ingredients at their call.
It had all been fine until someone had to bring him up.
The dinner rush was planned to start at 5, and Matt had called him over to help chop up filets that had been pulled earlier that day to bread for tenders. Happy to assist the team, he’d stepped in and began to hack away bringing the knife down with loud clacking swings. He didn’t have the finesse for cooking, but at Sparky’s Dinner, finesse wasn’t really what they were going for. He’d been midway through his third piece of poultry when he heard a snide voice say, “Bet he gets that from his father.”
The knife had clattered out of his hand and onto the cutting board as his hands clenched in fists. His anger barely contained by the slow-paced breathing his mother had taught him long ago, he turned to face them with darkness in his cerulean eyes. “What did you say?”
A coworker probably no more than 3 years older than him raised their hands in feigned innocence while a poorly held back smile played across their face. “Nothing, man.” They claimed as their friends chuckled beside them.
Michael could hear Jeremey’s please to get back to his station as he approached the man and shoved him. “You have something to say, say it to my face.”
The other simply cackled—repeating the words in a singsong and mocking the accent that leaked into his voice each time his angry rose. “And what you going to do about it?” The man asked as he loomed closer. “You gonna kill me? Crush my skull just like you did your brother?”
If he had stopped at the first punch, he would have been cleared. No one would have batted an eye at the retaliation for the mention of the long-forgotten Afton boy whose death had haunted him all these years. However, it was the next 16 blows that really did Michael in.
He was sent home immediately. He wouldn’t be receiving his pay, which would be going to his tormentor in exchange for the whole incident going quiet. And while he was bitter, Michael was relieved he would at least be free of that asshole and of Jeremy’s trying personality.
Still, once again, Michael Afton was unemployed.
As he walks up the street to his shared place, he cannot help but think about how different his life would be if he were anyone or anything but Michael Afton. Would he be an artist out in London? New York? Or Paris? Would he have built animatronics alongside Henry? Alongside Charlie, God willing? Would he have become a schoolteacher? A doctor? A lawyer? A skateboard star?
It feels like such a long time ago that he was a child filled to the brim with possibility. With a loving mother who supported and guided him, with a brother who did not despise him, with a sister who at least tolerated him, with a father….
He shuts that train of thought down. There is no use dwelling on the past. What’s dead is dead.
And it isn’t coming back.
He climbs the stairs to the house and slams the door behind him. Max calls out has he makes his way to his room, “Hey, man! How was work?” His door slams, and he can barely make out Max’s frustrated sigh. He knows that later he will go see them and beg them to let him try this again. To just be patient and let him find a good job. To offer them anything he can. He knows they’ll accept it, more out of pity than anything else.
But right now, he can’t really seem to care.
Instead, Michael falls to the floor, curls up until his knees are at his chest, and sobs until he passes out—unable to sob anymore.
All he wants is to be normal again. But he’s an Afton, and by his father’s name, he’s cursed to never be normal again.