Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Michael’s father is dead.

His body had been discovered in the employee safe room, still dressed up in that stupid Spring Bonnie costume. There was a kid in there, too. A ten year old named “Cassidy.” It immediately became obvious to anyone with eyes and a lick of common sense who was responsible for the other “missing” kids, and journals and blueprints found in his office confirmed it all. He had killed seven children in total, one of them being his own daughter.

All those kids, dead, because Michael had been too stupid to realize the killer was his own father all along.

Apparently it was Cassidy’s blood splattering onto the suit that triggered the springlock failure. How fucking ironic.

Fredbear stares at Michael mockingly from the end of the bed, and despite how awful it makes him feel just to look at the goddamn thing, he can’t bring himself to get rid of it. He’s tried to throw it away several times, but every time he’s stopped by memories of his brother. Evan had loved that thing, and used to have full-blown meltdowns whenever he and Fredbear were separated, even if it was just for a few minutes. Michael has no idea how Evan had managed to form such an attachment to that creepy old thing in the first place, given how scared he is of everything. Well, how scared he was of everything. He’s dead now.

Evan hadn’t been Father’s kill. He’d been Michael’s.

Michael kicks the hideous yellow toy off of the bed with is foot, unable to bear looking at it any longer. He can’t fucking stand being in this room anymore. He’s been quarantining himself in here for the past month, rarely leaving, and the empty gray walls are starting to drive him insane.

He creaks open the door as quietly as he can manage, planning to go cram himself in a closet or something just for a change of scenery. But instead of heading straight down the hall, he finds himself pausing by the door nearest to the room he’s been staying in. A wooden sign hangs from the handle, decorated with green hearts and cursive letters that read Charlie’s Room. The sight of it makes him feel sick every time he sees it. Charlie had been his best friend, and supposedly, Father’s first victim. He hasn’t been in that room since she died, too afraid of how it might make him feel to step foot into that familiar space again. But…

He glances toward the staircase. He can tell Henry is still downstairs, cooking dinner by the smell of it. How pissed would he be if he found Michael in there? Despite the feeling of dread pooling in his stomach, Michael finds himself twisting the doorknob and stepping inside his old friend’s bedroom.

Immediately, he’s shocked by how…normal it looks. The walls are still the same shade of green. Her books are still organized by color. The same posters are still hung up. He even spots the same black mark on the wall from when he’d thrown a bunch of bang snap fireworks at it a few 4th of Julys ago. Her bed isn’t even made. It’s as if she’s going to come back in at any moment, and ask him what he’s staring at.

Michael gulps, daring to continue looking around. He approaches her desk, taking in the mess. It’s covered in wires and batteries and tiny metal pieces he doesn’t know the names of, and there’s a few books off to the side. Just like her dad, Charlie had loved robots, and wanted to learn how to make them herself. Anytime she completed a project, no matter how small, she’d call Michael over and show him, excitedly explaining what it was and how it worked and what she learned. He isn’t sure what she was building last, but he’ll never know now. It will never be completed.

It’s sickening. How could his father take the life of someone so young and intelligent and full of life? Did he feel nothing as he dumped her bloody body in an alley and left her there in the rain? Or did he enjoy it so much he’d go on to do kill several more? Michael’s hands shake, feeling a surge of hatred so strong he feels like he’s going to choke on it. How could anyone be such a fucking monster?

Then again, so is he.

Michael’s anger fades, and a heavy sadness seeps into his bones instead. He’d give anything just to see them all again. He sinks down against the wall to sit on the floor, putting his hands over his face and forcing himself not to cry. If he starts, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to stop. He wishes, more than anything, that Father would have just killed him instead.

“Mike?” Michael’s head snaps up as he hears Henry calling his name from downstairs. He isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting in here, but it must’ve been a good while considering the soreness in his legs. Thank God Henry had just called, rather than going and looking for him. He can’t imagine how angry the man would be if he discovered Michael in his dead daughter’s bedroom. He quickly and quietly shuts Charlie’s bedroom door and makes his way down the stairs, where Henry smiles upon seeing him. “Hey. Just wanted to let you know that dinner’s ready.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Michael says numbly. He doesn’t know why Henry makes an effort to smile at him. All he does is hide away in his room, anyway.

“You okay?”

What a stupid question. “I’m fine.” Michael takes the plate Henry had offered him. He really doesn’t feel like eating, but he’s already skipped way too many meals since coming here and he doesn’t want to worry Henry more than he already has. It’s a jarring change to be cooked meals every day, since he’s lived off of pre-packaged food, school lunches, and toast pretty much his whole life. But Henry constantly insists on this, reassuring him that he enjoys cooking for other people and it’s not a bother at all. That doesn’t make Michael feel any less guilty about it. But at least he doesn’t pester Michael about not having to wash his own dishes anymore. He isn’t sure why Henry seems so determined to let him sit around and be a useless waste, but he refuses to be one–more of one than he already is, at least. After he finishes cleaning his plate and puts it back in the cupboard, he thanks Henry again for the meal and turns around to head back to his self-made prison.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Henry asks, before he can reach the stairs. That’s another thing Henry has been pestering him about. Talking about how he feels. As if it isn’t obvious. Evan is dead, Elizabeth is dead, Charlie is dead, Father is dead. How do you think I feel, Henry?

“Yeah,” he replies shortly. “Thanks.” He turns his back on the man and continues upstairs, ignoring the sad, worried look on his new guardian’s face.

Before he returns to his room, he re-enters Charlie’s one last time and grabs her old doll, Ella. He doesn’t know why. But he hopes Henry doesn’t come in here often enough to notice.

Chapter Text

Michael wakes up to the sound of knocking at the guest room door. He sits up, rubbing his eyes blearily, and realizes he fell asleep fully dressed in his jeans. Seriously? He massages his forehead tiredly, and suddenly his eyes widen in panic as he remembers Henry literally just knocked on his door and he’s still got Ella clutched in his arms. He practically leaps out of bed to cover the stolen doll with a blanket and dashes to open the door. 

“Woah, you alright there?” Henry asks, looking startled at Michael’s disheveled appearance and facial expression. “Did you just wake up? It’s already past noon.”

“Oh,” Michael says intelligently. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Henry dismisses him, “but I did want to tell you I need to pick up groceries. Can you come with? I don’t want to leave you here all by yourself.”

Yeah, wouldn’t want to leave me to my own devices, Michael thinks privately as he nods. “Just—give me a minute. I’ll get ready.” He takes a deep breath as he closes the door again, not even bothering to get fully changed as he quickly runs a hairbrush through his curls and throws on a jacket to cover the unsightly scars on his forearms. Michael never bothered to hide them back while he still lived with Father, since he knew nobody would care or be able to do anything about it—so it’s not like Henry doesn’t already know about them. But for some reason Michael feels ashamed to be exposed around him like that now that they actually live together. He can’t imagine it’s a good feeling to see something like that on someone you’re legally responsible for the well-being of. 

He brushes his teeth with lightning speed in the upstairs bathroom before coming down to see Henry waiting for him patiently in the kitchen. “You ready?” he asks, and Michael nods, following him out the front door.  

“Okay, I want you to pick out three things that you want to eat that aren’t on my list already,” Henry informs him as they get into the car. 

“Wha—“ Michael starts indignantly, but Henry interrupts him by putting a shopping list in his hands. Michael briefly scans it over. “But I’m fine with everything on here,” he protests. Please don’t make me pick stuff for you to buy like some sort of spoiled brat.

“Great. Then pick three more things you’re fine with,” Henry smiles at him innocently as they pull out of the driveway. 

Michael looks back to the list and frowns deeply, trying to think of what kinds of food he even likes. By the time they arrive at the store, he still hasn’t come up with even one thing, and he begins to feel anxious despite how stupidly simple and unimportant the task is. 

“If you see something you want, just put it in the cart,” Henry tells Michael, as if it’s really that simple. 

And apparently it is that simple. Michael spots a box of cookies he remembers Elizabeth begging for once, and impulsively grabs it and puts it in the cart. Henry just smiles at him in approval, and that’s that. Father would have thrown a fit if Michael tried to waste his money on junk food. 

They find everything on the list pretty quickly. Michael finds and chooses two items he’s seen in Henry’s pantry, not really sure what they even are but hopefully Henry will be happy with them. As they approach the cash register, Henry surprises Michael by grabbing and buying a pack of gum off of the shelf and handing it to him. “Your lips are all bloody. Stop chewing on them,” he says simply at his baffled expression. Michael just stares at him in amazement as he continues to put items into a bag and thanks the cashier. 

“Now, did I need anything else…?” Henry murmurs to himself after they set the grocery bags in the backseat and get back in the car. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel in thought. 

“A budget?” Michael mutters under his breath, and Henry laughs. 

“Nice try,” he chuckles, shaking his head as he starts the car. “Next time you’re picking four things.” He rolls his eyes playfully when he sees Michael’s genuinely worried expression. “I’m kidding.” 

Somehow Michael doubts that. Henry has a seemingly endless determination to spoil him despite his protests. He knows it’s not really a burden for Henry money-wise—the man co-owned a pretty successful restaurant chain after all—but his guilt is less about that and more about whether Michael actually deserves these things. And he doesn’t. 

Henry notices the way Michael’s discomfort only increases at his jokes, and his tone becomes a little more serious. “Hey. I got you those things because I think you deserve them, even if you don’t think so. You’re a good kid, Mike. Don’t ever feel afraid to ask for something, got it?” 

Wow. He must be really easy to read.

Michael nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. You’re a good kid. He wonders if Henry actually means it, or if that’s just what he feels like he’s supposed to say. Either way, he hates it when Henry says things like that. Because he knows they’re untrue. Henry should know more than anyone. He was there when Michael killed his own brother. Hell, he was the one that had to drive him home afterwards, and then clean up the bloodstains Michael left on his seats. 

How can Henry not realize how much of an awful person he is?

Oh, and he also just happens to very heavily resemble the man that killed Henry’s daughter in appearance. How that doesn’t bother him is beyond Michael’s understanding. 

“Now then,” Henry says, stopping his train of thought before it can crash. “What do you say we head back home and watch a movie or something?”

Michael nods again, still not trusting his voice. Henry starts up the car and switches on the radio, the music covering up the depressing silence that would have plagued the car otherwise. Michael hates the genre, but right now he’s never appreciated it more.  

He starts to space out sometime in the middle of the third song, and by the time they get home and Henry puts on a movie he feels completely disconnected from his body. He’s only vaguely aware of responding to something Henry tells him as the film ends. Even when the older man leaves the living room Michael remains on the couch, curled in on himself. 

All he can think about is how much he hates himself. How much he hates Henry for not hating him. Which isn’t fair. Michael should be thankful that someone can stand being around him at all. Michael starts hating himself even more for being so ungrateful and self-centered. 

He’s such a parasite. 

Does he have even one redeeming quality? 

Michael starts to try to come up with an answer to that question, but quickly stops himself. He definitely doesn’t. And even if he did, he doesn’t want to acknowledge it, because that would be egotistical and arrogant. 

He stares at his reflection on the black screen of the television and watches a tear slip down his face.

Chapter Text

"Mikey? Can you help me with my hair?” Elizabeth’s voice calls from down the hall.

“Sure,” Michael calls back. He enters the living room to see Elizabeth sitting on the couch, already holding a hairbrush and her favorite red bow. Evan is sitting on the rug in front of the TV, playing some sort of pretend game with Fredbear. Elizabeth hands Michael the brush, and he gets to work helping her brush out the more stubborn tangles. He’s usually very good at this, but for some reason today he seems to be making very slow progress.

“Mike!”

Michael’s head snaps up at the sound of Charlie screaming from somewhere outside. “Charlie?” he yells back.

“Help!”

Without a second thought, Michael drops the brush and races towards the front door, telling Evan and Elizabeth to stay put. “Charlie? Where are you?” he screams, frantically running around the perimeter of the house looking for her. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

Charlie won’t respond to him anymore, and Michael continues searching every possible place. But he can’t find her anywhere. Did she manage to get inside the house?

He opens the front door again, and as he sprints through the hallway he stops short as he realizes the living room is empty now. “Liz? Evan?” he calls, panic rising in his chest. “I told you to stay put! Where are you?”

No response.

Michael starts searching the house, but to his horror every single door seems to be locked from the inside somehow. “Hello? Are you guys still here?”

Nobody answers. Michael tries to get through the front door again, but it’s locked now, too. Desperate to find someone to help, he charges at the window. He smashes the glass and successfully escapes the house, but sinks through the grass and falls into an empty void below the ground.

Michael snaps upright in his bed, a startled gasp escaping his throat. A quick look at his surroundings reveals it was only a dream, but the realization brings him no relief. The scariest part of the dream is already a reality. He wipes his wet face with his palm and tries to take deep breaths to steady his racing heart.

He pats around the bed blindly and finds Ella, pulling her against his chest and getting out of bed with shaky legs to pick Fredbear off of the carpet. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, as if the stuffed bear remembers that he had knocked it onto the floor. Hugging both toys tightly, Michael listens with bated breath for movement outside, making sure he hadn’t woken Henry, before creaking open his door and creeping down the hall towards Charlie’s bedroom. He feels absolutely wretched, and going back in there is definitely going to make him feel even worse. But he doesn’t know what else to do. It reminds him of when he used to go into Elizabeth and Evan’s rooms after they died. That is, until Father packed up their things into boxes and sold them without warning.

He shuts Charlie’s door behind him and lowers himself to the floor, back leaning against her bed. The nostalgic environment of his friend’s bedroom is somewhat nauseating, but Michael channels all of his focus onto the small amount of comfort the familiarity brings him. He rocks back and forth softly like a frightened child during a thunderstorm, combing through Ella’s hair and running his hand down Fredbear's soft head. He briefly recalls how he used to make fun of Evan for his attachment to Fredbear, but quickly casts the thought away before he can start to panic again.

Eventually his anxiety begins to ebb away, leaving behind a hollow, empty feeling of sadness. He isn’t sure which feeling is worse, but at this point he’s sick of feeling at all. No matter what emotion is at the forefront of his mind, it’s always a negative one. Anger, sadness, panic, anxiety, self-loathing, guilt. Tears start to slip down his face again. It’s shameful, really. What is he, a child?

The shadows in the room start to shift as the room grows brighter, and Michael looks up to see that the door has opened, Henry’s figure illuminated by the dim light from the hallway. His heart sinks. Henry just watches him for a few moments, taking in his frazzled state. His face is unreadable, and Michael swallows. He just knows Henry’s angry.

“Sorry, kid. I tried knocking, but you didn’t respond.”

Michael just blinks at him owlishly. “…”

“I heard you come in here, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t–” Henry cuts himself off, perhaps trying to find nicer words, “—that you were okay. You sounded pretty scared.”

Oh. He must have been a lot louder than he thought, then. Henry takes a step forward, and Michael immediately tenses as he anticipates some sort of pain, whether inflicted by fists or words. His intense reaction seems to give the older man pause. “…I’m not going to hurt you.”

The two just stare at each other for a few more seconds before Henry starts moving towards him again. To Michael’s surprise, Henry just sits down next to him on the floor, leaving a decent amount of space between them. Now that he can see his face clearly, Michael realizes the man’s facial expression looks more sad than upset.

He waits patiently for Henry to get mad, sitting completely still as the minutes tick by and they both stare ahead at the wall rather than at each other. A dog barks from somewhere outside, and after a while Michael finds himself petting Ella’s hair again, watching closely for the man’s reaction. Henry doesn’t seem to notice. Unsure of where this is going, Michael almost considers taking the risk and breaking the silence. Luckily he doesn’t have to think about it for long, as Henry finally speaks up.

“Does being in here help you?”

Michael replays the words in his mind, trying to detect a condescending undertone indicating a trick question, but he doesn’t find one. “Um…” He realizes he’s already forgotten what Henry asked him. Ugh. He really wants to slap himself in the face sometimes. “What?”

“Did you come in here because it’s comforting?” Henry clarifies. “Or is there something else I can do that will help make you feel better?”

Michael turns the question over in his head. On first thought, he hates being in this room. It brings up too many good memories that, in turn, bring up bad memories and remind him of everything that was lost. But on the other hand…comfort is what he was looking for when he came in here. But he hates it here. Why the hell did he even think this was a good idea? Oh God, I’m confusing myself. “No.”

“I get it,” Henry says. Michael notices he’s smiling a little bit now. It’s not a happy smile, though. “I have so many good memories of her, but thinking of them at all makes me sad.”

“Are you mad at me?” Michael asks without thinking. “I mean–I shouldn’t have come in here without permission, I probably woke you up, and um…I’m sorry. And I stole her doll. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m really sorry.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Henry reassures him. “I was already awake. And you can keep her if you want. If she makes you feel better.”

“But I stole it,” Michael protests.

“Not really. It’s Charlotte’s doll, not mine. Besides, I don’t think she would mind.” Michael stares down at the doll in his lap, feeling the slightest bit better. Truthfully, Charlie probably wouldn’t mind. Back then, she would’ve given you her own leg if you asked for it. She was a very generous girl.

Both of them are silent again for a few more minutes, and Michael finally begins to relax as he begins to fully register his safety. He even manages to work up the courage to ask a risky question.

“…Do you really think I’m a good person?” Henry had called him a good kid earlier, not a good person, but calling himself a kid would make the question sound less important. A kid’s mistakes can be excused much more easily than a person’s, and Michael doesn’t want his actions to be brushed off as childish naivety when he knew full well what he was doing was wrong.

“Of course,” Henry tells him. “I know you are.”

“Even after I…” Michael trails off, not even able to bring himself to finish the sentence.

“Mike, you were thirteen. You did a bad thing, but every thirteen year old does bad things. You didn’t mean for that to happen, and the only reason it did is because some inexperienced employee messed with Fredbear. You couldn’t have known.”

As always, Henry’s answer makes sense. And yet Michael is still unable to accept it. Why does he even bother to ask questions he’s just going to reject the answers to?

“Okay,” is all he says in response. He doesn’t really believe it, but he isn’t about to tell Henry he’s wrong for answering a question Michael himself asked. “I’m going to go back to sleep.” And by sleep, I mean I’m going to stare at the ceiling until it’s light outside, willing myself to stop thinking about how badly I want to die. He gets up from the floor and begins to walk towards Charlie’s closet.

“I really meant it when I said you can keep Ella. It’s okay.”

Michael pauses in his tracks, taking a long look at the doll in his hands. He genuinely considers it for a good long moment. “No thanks,” he says finally, and places her back in her proper place. “She belongs here. And I’m much too old to carry around a doll.” He turns away and starts heading back to the guest bedroom before he can regret his decision. “Goodnight, sir.”

Chapter Text

Michael had always hated church as a kid. Mostly for trivial reasons such as the long, boring lectures and scratchy dress clothes he had to wear. You look just like your father, Henry used to tell him proudly. But when Henry had asked him if he’d like to go to church one Sunday, clearly trying to reintegrate some normalcy in their lives, he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

He doesn’t really believe in God. The concept of an invisible yet all powerful being watching over the universe just doesn’t make much sense to him. Besides, how could a “perfect being” bring someone like Father into the world, and then sit back and watch as they cause pain and destruction to its “beloved” creations?

Despite his nonbelief, Michael finds himself praying often anyways, begging to keep his siblings and the other children happy and safe, wherever they are.

As Henry parks the car and begins leading them towards the building, however, Michael starts to feel very, very nervous. And okay, maybe he does believe in God to some extent, because he genuinely half expects his blood to start boiling as soon as he enters the church. He feels like a demon trying to disguise itself as it invades and pollutes a holy place.

He’s greeted by a few friendly smiles, someone even stops Henry to strike up a conversation asking how he’s doing since everything, but Michael doesn’t hear any of it, as he’s too busy trying to convince his lungs to work normally. But they can’t and won’t, because his body knows what his mind knows. You don’t belong here.

When Henry finally finds a point to end his conversation with that suspiciously friendly man, he and Michael enter the main whatever-it’s-called-room, finding seats but not yet sitting in them because there’s music playing and you’re supposed to stand up while you worship the Lord. Eventually some middle-aged pastor comes out onto the stage, and as he begins to talk about Hell and eternal damnation to sinners, Michael starts to remember another reason he hated church so much.

He wills himself to keep a straight face, hiding his shaking hands in his pockets, but he can feel his panic only getting worse and he knows he can’t keep this up for much longer. He needs to leave.

“Bathroom,” he murmurs to Henry at some point, and gets up to walk out of the room. As soon as he’s free, he’s sprinting out through the front doors and hiding on the far side of the building facing away from the parking lot.

He slumps down onto the concrete, the pastor’s voice still ringing in his ears. He reaches his hands up to grab a fistful of his hair and tries to get his mind to shut up. He recalls the Bible story of Cain and Abel, the man who had murdered his brother out of sheer jealousy. A situation almost identical to what Michael had done, just two years ago. He can still feel dried blood stretching and cracking and flaking off his hands as he bends his fingers, still hear the muffled, upbeat music that had been playing inside the bathroom he’d gone and hid in, can still smell the stench of iron and taste the blood from how hard he had been biting his tongue. All because he had been jealous of Father’s affection towards his ten-year-old brother? One stupid “prank” and a lifetime of blood on his hands. A lifetime he took away from a young child.

“Whoa, you alright there?”

Just his fucking luck.

“Yeah,” Michael gasps through a fit of wheezing, choking, and sobbing. A performance so convincing, he makes a brief mental note to consider a career in acting.

“It’s okay, you’re okay, just breathe.” The stranger is crouched beside him now, a gentle hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “You’re alright.”

Michael presses his forehead into his knees, willing the world to stop spinning. He tries to focus on the feeling of the hand on his shoulder and the hard ground beneath him. Eventually, after what might have been either five minutes or five hours, he manages to calm down enough to register how embarrassing this situation is. As his breathing begins to even out to a somewhat normal level, he notifies the unknown person next to him he’s fine with a trembling thumbs up. I’m fine, see? Now please go away.

“Oh, thank God man. Are you okay?”

“Never been better,” Michael rasps sarcastically, voice still humiliatingly shaky. He finally lifts his head from his knees, taking in the stranger’s appearance. It’s a boy his own age, with curly blonde hair that comes down halfway to his shoulders, and large dark eyes. Seeing as the person witnessing his moment of weakness is only some kid rather than an overbearing, out-of-touch adult, Michael recovers a very small bit of confidence. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”

“Nah, I came out here to smoke. It’s kind of a bummer in there.” That’s an understatement. The kid fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and holding one out. “You want one?”

Michael stares at him in disbelief for a few good, long seconds. It seems like an awfully casual gesture considering what just happened. Is he trying to de-escalate? He almost throws the rest of his dignity down the drain and says yes to the offer anyway, but then he remembers where he is and who he came here with. “Ugh, no thanks…I don’t want my…my family to smell it on me.” My single family member who isn’t even actually related to me.

“That’s fair.” The stranger squints at him. “I swear I know you. You go to Hurricane High?”

“It’s the only high school in this town. What do you think?”

“Geez, you don’t throw any punches, do you? Well, I haven’t seen you around school much.”

“Maybe because it’s winter break.” That’s unfair. Michael stopped going to school a couple weeks before that, when Father died. It’s kind of strange to mention winter break, though. Christmas and New Year’s have gone by completely forgotten this year, by both Michael and Henry.

The stranger huffs. “Come on, gimme a break, man! You know what I meant!”

Michael feels a little bit bad, considering this guy is clearly just trying to help. He decides to just go along with it. “…Fine. What’s your name, ‘man?’”

The boy in front of him lights up as Michael finally begins to cooperate with his efforts of cheering him up. “Jeremy!”

“Cool. I’m Mike.” Jeremy starts to nod slowly, but then he seems to realize something and his face pales.

“Oh, are you…”

“Yup.” Michael looks away and stares at the pavement as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. He’s been through this song and dance before. He’s surprised how calm he is, considering this exact topic was the cause of his panic attack just a few minutes ago. Maybe he used up all of his energy already.

“I’m so sorry, I mean…man. That must be–did I make it worse? Am I making it worse?” Jeremy’s face is reminiscent of a puppy when it accidentally bites too hard while playing.

“It’s fine. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Of course, of course…” Jeremy scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. They fall into a painfully uncomfortable silence for a few moments, and Michael finally decides to take the initiative and move the conversation away from his tragic life.

“Didn’t you say you were gonna smoke?”

“Oh, um, yeah…but you said something about the smell, and I didn’t wanna get you in trouble.”

If Michael had expressed that concern to his old friends, they would have laughed and told him to beat it. And he can’t even imagine what they would have done if they witnessed the breakdown he just had. Jeremy actually seems…pretty nice. He has gentle looking eyes and a surprisingly soft voice that doesn’t quite match the carefree way he talks, and despite hardly knowing him at all, Michael can’t help but trust him a little. A little.

“Oh,” Michael says. “Thanks.” On the topic of getting in trouble, Michael stiffens as he suddenly remembers he’s supposed to be in the bathroom right now. “Ah, shit,” he hisses to himself, face palming. “I’m not even supposed to be out here…I need to get back inside before he starts to suspect me of something.”

“Wait, man. Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Jeremy says. Michael turns to look at him, a little surprised by the real concern in his expression. “I mean…you looked pretty rough. Did something happen in there?”

Michael bites his lip. He doesn’t know how to explain his breakdown without sounding stupid. It is stupid. But he’s positive going back inside will just trigger another one, but what else is he supposed to do? “Nothing actually happened. I just kinda freaked out, I guess.”

“Was it the guy’s sermon?” Jeremy asks, and Michael blinks in surprise, but nods slowly. Jeremy nods back again, looking off into the distance thoughtfully. “I know the feeling, man. Sometimes the things they talk about feel kinda…directed.”

“Is that why you’re out here too?”

Jeremy shrugs. “I come here every Sunday, so I’m pretty much used to it by now. I really did just come out here to smoke.” Michael wonders what about the church’s teachings makes Jeremy feel personally targeted, but he decides not to ask. He wouldn’t want to talk about his reasoning, after all. “Hey…I know I’m a total stranger, but would it help if I went back in there with you?”

Michael’s jaw almost drops at the unexpected offer. His first instinct is to immediately reject it, not wanting to be any more of a bother to this kid than he already has been, but on second thought, he thinks going back inside alone might actually kill him. Besides, Jeremy genuinely looks like he wants to help. “…Are you sure?”

Jeremy smiles kindly. “Sure, man.”

Michael briefly wonders if Henry will question him coming back from the “bathroom” with another random teenage boy, but on second thought, fuck what Henry thinks. He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he lets go of his remaining shreds of self-preservation. “Yeah. That would be awesome.” He smiles sheepishly. “Thanks, Jeremy.”

Jeremy looks like he might explode from happiness as Michael’s facial expression finally shows something other than a negative emotion, and they walk back into the church together. Just as he thought he would, Henry raises an eyebrow as Michael comes back to their row with another person, but doesn’t say anything. Michael replays his interaction with Jeremy in his mind over and over again as the sermon continues, and to his surprise is able to completely tune out the harsh words until they end.

“Well, see ya later, Mike,” Jeremy grins at him as people start to get up from their seats and leave. “My mom will be waiting for me.”

“Yeah, um, see you later,” Michael stammers, waving an extremely awkward goodbye. He and Henry get up to leave as well, and as they exit the church and enter the parking lot Henry finally asks the question.

“Who was that?”

“Friend from school,” Michael murmurs, embarrassed. “We saw each other and um, decided to catch up.”

“Oh.” Henry smiles at him warmly and pats him on the shoulder. “Well, I’m glad you’ve got a friend, Mike.”

Michael nods stiffly. “Yeah.”

He spends the rest of the day trying to brainstorm a way of getting out of church next week without hurting Henry’s feelings.

Chapter Text

It had been decided that Michael would return to school with everyone else after the end of winter break, and he has been dreading returning every single day since. 

When the fated morning finally arrives, Michael goes through every familiar step of the routine with heavy feet. Wake up at six in the morning, get dressed, brush his teeth, etcetera etcetera. This time with the added step of breakfast, because apparently eating before school is a necessity. According to Henry, at least. 

Riding the bus is just as shitty as he remembered. 

Walking the hallways is even more shitty than he remembered. For the last two and a half years, Michael has been infamously known around the school as “the kid who accidentally killed his own brother.” Most people avoided him, some people visibly felt sorry for him, but eventually it became old news and the gossip fizzled out. But now, Michael is known as “the kid whose father is a serial killer and who might have killed his brother on purpose.” The stares are back, most of them unnerved, some of them hostile.

The school day starts off terribly. Right after first period, Michael is approached by some kid he knows from back when they shared a history class last year. “You and your family fucking disgust me,” Andrew spits at him. Then Michael gets shoved against a locker and slapped across the face. He doesn’t even consider telling a teacher as he watches Andrew stalk away, because he knows exactly why the other boy is so angry. He had a sister named Susie. Michael glares at the few kids in the hallway that are watching with wide eyes and dropped jaws, and stomps to his next class.

By the time lunch rolls around, Michael doesn’t even bother going to the cafeteria for food. He plans on just finding a classroom to hang out in with a teacher that tolerates him. 

“Mike!”  The sound of footsteps behind him catches Michael’s attention, and he turns around to see Jeremy running towards him. For a second Michael feels relieved, but the feeling quickly vanishes as he sees the anxiety in Jeremy’s eyes and wonders what has happened now. “Are you okay?” 

“Um, yeah…?”

“People are saying you got into a fight this morning. Is that real?”

Realization dawns on him, and Michael exhales in annoyance. He should’ve seen this coming. “No, but I did get slapped across the face for doing nothing,” he snaps. “Other than that, I’m just peachy.”

Jeremy’s face sinks. “I’m so sorry, dude.”

Michael’s anger quickly fades, and suddenly he feels very, very tired. “Not your fault,” he sighs. He steels himself and asks a question he doesn’t really want to know the answer to. “What else are people saying about me?”

“Well, right now it’s mainly that you got into a fight with someone, but I haven’t really heard anything else other than that and you being back in general.” Jeremy looks really upset, and Michael isn’t sure why he cares so much. “I’m really sorry. I can’t even imagine what it feels like right now.”

Michael notices a few kids down the hall staring at the both of them with very odd expressions. “You’ll find out pretty quickly if you keep hanging around me,” he says. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to—“

“I don’t care,” Jeremy interrupts him. “They’ll realize whatever theories they’re spreading around are stupid eventually. Besides, I wasn’t exactly popular myself before all this anyway.”

Michael shakes his head. “Jeremy, you hardly know me! It’s not worth risking people getting all pissed at you just for being friends with me. I’ll be fine.”

“Mike.” Jeremy looks at him very seriously. “I don’t care what other people think. I’d hate myself if I let you deal with this all alone.”

Michael almost makes some snarky remark about Jeremy assuming he has no friends, but that would be really stupid. It’s pretty well known across the school he’s a complete social outcast. “Fine. But if you start getting beat up, it’s not on me.”

Jeremy grins. “Damn right.”

-

The rest of the school day fucking sucks, to say the least. After lunch ends and Michael and Jeremy go their separate ways, Michael realizes since he’s missed so much school, he’s definitely going to have to repeat a few classes next year. 

He catches sight of Andrew walking towards the bus and impulsively decides that he won’t be taking the bus anymore. He’s about to start the thirty minute walk back to Henry’s when a familiar female voice calls his name. He looks back to see two girls coming towards him: Jessica and Marla. Two of Charlie’s best friends. Oh God…they’re going to kill him, aren’t they?

“Mike,” Marla says firmly. There’s a scarily fierce determination in her eyes. “I’m going to be real with you. I’ve heard so much shit today, I don’t know what’s true anymore.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a second. “But I know one thing for sure. Charlie loved you like a brother. She used to constantly talk about what a great friend you were, and how loyal and smart and good you were, and if there’s anything you need, I swear we’re going to back you up.” 

Michael stares at her in shock. This is not how he expected this to go at all. 

“She really did talk about you all the time,” Jessica sniffs, silent tears running down her pale cheeks.

Suddenly, Marla steps forward and scoops him into a tight hug. Michael flinches, hands stiff at his sides, but after a few seconds he tries his best to lift his arms and reciprocate the gesture. After an uncomfortably long embrace, Marla steps back, her eyes glossy with tears. “Thank you for being such a good friend to her,” she whispers brokenly. 

“She loved you guys too,” Michael responds. He’s only talked to either of them a couple of times, and it’s hard to find the correct words to say. He looks at Jessica’s tearstained face, feeling his heart break into a million pieces. “...She was going to get you a Cyndi Lauper vinyl for your birthday.”

The blonde girl bursts into a fit of sobs and pulls Michael into a second hug. This time he doesn’t hesitate to return the gesture. By the time they pull apart, all three of them are crying. 

“I mean it. I’ll kill anyone who gives you trouble, just say the word,” Jessica tells him as they part ways. “See you around, Mike.” 

-

Michael begins the walk home. Overall, the day went both better and worse than he had expected. One one hand, he has three people that openly support him. On the other hand, he’s been slapped in the face, there’s several rumors being spread about him, he’s missed so much material that he’s literally unable to catch up, and he’s not going to be taking the bus anymore. And as glad as he is that Jessica and Marla are on his side, talking to them reopened a wound that hadn’t even begun to scab over yet, and he feels like he’s drowning in fresh grief again. 

As soon as he opens the front door, Henry’s there to fuss over him. “Hey Mike. How was it?”

Michael smiles at him. “It was better than I thought. Everyone was pretty supportive about everything.” 

Henry beams at him. “That’s great! I made some soup for dinner, are you hungry?”

“Actually, I think I’m just going to take a nap,” Michael lies. “I’m kind of tired.”

“Of course, go ahead.” Michael gives him one last fake smile for good measure before trudging up the stairs and tossing his backpack on the floor of his room. He’s going to have to do this four more times this week, and he’ll bet by the time tomorrow rolls around there will be twenty more rumors about how he helped his father murder all of those children. He honestly starts to wonder if he should just drop out, but surely Henry would never let him. And even if he did, then he’d just be living at Henry’s house and being a complete waste of oxygen 24/7. He’s just going to have to deal with it until he either graduates or dies. 

Michael opens his desk drawer, digging around in hopes of finding something sharp that Henry hadn’t thought to take away. He finds a pair of scissors and sighs in relief. At least he has his old ways of coping to help him get through it.

Chapter Text

By the time Friday rolls around, Michael is covered in self-inflicted wounds and pretty much ready for death’s mercy to swallow him whole. From what he’s heard, there are about four different rumors about what happened floating around. 

1. William Afton brainwashed his son into killing his other children to keep his own hands clean, and then began doing it himself when Michael was too broken to continue.
2. Michael Afton murdered his own siblings, which pushed his father over the edge into madness and led to him becoming a child serial killer.
3. William Afton and his son Michael Afton are both violent and deranged, but due to Michael’s young age and his claim of it being “accidental” the authorities sympathized with him. William, however, did not have that privilege. 
4. Michael Afton accidentally killed his brother two years ago while coincidentally having a serial killer as a father.

Thankfully, most people seem to believe the fourth theory, although they still have their doubts and avoid Michael like the plague. Jeremy, however, has stuck by Michael’s side, true to his word.

They sit on the top of the stairs outside, a spot Jeremy had suggested they claim on Tuesday. All is going well, and Michael is starting to think he will have made it through the first week back with only one minor confrontation, when he notices two guys coming towards them. Matthew and Ryan. Two of his old friends that had been directly involved in the “summer of ‘83” incident.

“Mr. Afton,” Matthew greets as they approach. He eyes Jeremy with a hostile expression. “And you. ”

“Leave him out of this,” Michael warns, already tired of them. “What do you want?”

“To beat you to a fucking pulp, that’s what I want. You ruined our lives, you know.”

“You seem fine to me.”

“Can it!” Matthew snaps. “You killed your brother on purpose, didn’t you? People are asking about it all over again!”

“Do you really think that?” Michael snarls, rising to his feet in an instant at the accusation. “Are you stupid? It ruined my life, too!”

“ You seem fine to me ,” Ryan mimics him. “I heard you’ve got a brand new home with your dear old friend’s dad. And are you some sort of queer now, too? Or is this faggot just the only person willing to hang out with you?”

For a second Michael is taken aback by the random jabs at Jeremy, but quickly comes up with a fitting response. “Aren’t you the one who chose the ‘girl mask’?” he sneers, remembering how Ryan used to get mad whenever someone would point out the gender of the character he chose to personate.

Ryan flushes, and suddenly Michael’s doubled over in pain from a hard punch to the stomach. He thanks whoever above that he hadn’t eaten lunch, because he definitely would’ve thrown up. On instinct, he raises his arm to retaliate with a punch of his own, but then he catches sight of Jeremy’s horrified face and pauses. He can't start getting into fights again, now that he has a Henry to disappoint. What would that poor man think of him if he got suspended or expelled just a week after returning to school? 

“You’re not even going to try and fight back? You really have changed, man.” Ryan tsks. 

“Go away,” Michael rasps. “Aren’t you guys one incident away from getting expelled? Leave me alone.” 

“Fine. Have fun with your new boyfriend, Afton,” Matthew says, and he and Ryan leave before a teacher or potential snitch sees them and realizes what had happened. 

“Holy shit, dude,” Jeremy frets, helping Michael upright as soon as they’re gone. “Are you okay?! We have to–”

“I’m fine,” Michael interrupts, wincing. “Just a little winded.” Jeremy opens his mouth, and Michael holds out his hand to tell him to stop. “We’re not telling anyone. It’ll just end up becoming a big thing, and both of us will be in trouble. Just leave it.” 

The blonde boy looks deeply troubled. “This is the second time someone’s hurt you this week, Mike. Are you really just going to let it be? Not stand up for yourself?”

“Jeremy, I’m fine. Seriously.” Jeremy doesn’t seem convinced, staring worriedly at Michael with furrowed brows. “People are just scared and angry because of what happened. It’ll all blow over once they get it out of their systems.”

“And you’re just going to be a punching bag in the meantime?”

Michael winces. Jeremy is exactly correct, though. “Just drop it, okay? You’re already damaging your reputation enough by hanging out with me, so don’t even try and get involved in this. I can handle it. It probably won’t even happen again.” 

“It’s not even about that. Your whole mindset, dude…it’s kind of scary.”

“My mindset?” Michael frowns. 

Jeremy nods, biting his lip uncomfortably. “It’s like you’re just completely willing to let people do whatever they want to you, even when it’s not fair. The only thing you seem to not be fine with is people trying to help you.”

Michael is at a loss for words. He hates how quickly Jeremy figured him out. “I’ll be fine,” is all he manages to come up with, because how the hell else do you respond to someone calling you out like that? Then the lunch bell rings. Michael gratefully takes the excuse to escape Jeremy’s concerned line of questioning. 

-

Michael spaces out for the remainder of the school day, not even bothering to pay attention in math since he knows for a fact he isn’t going to pass this year. When the bell rings at the end of last period, his body begins walking home completely on autopilot. 

Fifteen minutes into the walk home, and he realizes he’s going the wrong way. The direction of his old house. He curses loudly, frustrated with himself for making such a stupid mistake. He hasn’t even seen that house in a month and a half at this point. He turns around to start going in the right direction, picking up the pace to make up for lost time. Hopefully Henry won’t care that he’s thirty minutes late. 

Chapter Text

After spending the remainder of Friday and almost the entirety of today asleep, Michael lays awake in bed, haunted by his least favorite feeling. Sadness isn’t quite the correct word to describe it. It’s like his heart has been injected with lead, pumping the thick, heavy metal through his veins and spreading its weight across his entire body. It holds him down, pressing him into the mattress, making it nearly impossible to move. It’s crushing. He wishes he could fall asleep again to escape this feeling, but ironically, his body has grown tired of resting and won’t let him. So he just continues to stare apathetically at the ceiling. 

At some point, his thoughts begin to wander towards Henry, who’s probably downstairs reading right now. If Michael went down there and told him how shitty he felt, he’s sure Henry would comfort him. Then he comes to his senses and immediately shuts down that idea, realizing with horror that he’s starting to crave Henry’s attention similarly to the way he used to yearn for Father’s. And that’s a dangerous path to go down. Unlike Father, Henry would likely give him any attention he asks for, but that isn’t right. Michael never gets what he wants. So there must be a twist to it. He would get attached or something, and then Henry would abandon him. Or die. Just like everyone else he loved did. 

Or even worse, what if Henry didn’t abandon him? What if Michael starts to get used to his kindness, and forget that he’s supposed to be miserable? What if he forgets what he did to Evan, forgets what he didn’t do for Charlie and Elizabeth and the kids? What if he starts to feel happy ? That’s not fair. He doesn’t get to be happy after what he did.

No. He will not go to Henry. He can figure out how to deal with his dumb “problems” himself. He forces himself to sit upright, wincing in pain as his unused muscles protest the movement. He looks around the basically empty room and tries to think. What did he used to do when he was sad? 

Smoke, sleep, bully his siblings, cut himself.

…Well. Three of those options are off of the table, and he really doesn’t feel like doing the fourth one. Does he seriously not have one thing that could get rid of this feeling? He tries harder, expanding what fits his definition of “coping” and tries to think of anything he used to like doing in general.

 …Drawing? He hasn’t done that in a hot minute, but maybe it’s worth a shot. He doesn’t have a sketchbook he can use, but he knows there’s some spare binder paper in the desk Henry put in here. He grabs a pencil from his backpack and sits down, staring at the paper like it’s a complicated equation he has to solve. Hesitantly, he touches the tip of the pencil to the paper and sketches out the shape of a canine’s face. He used to draw Foxy all the time. He remembers Father complaining about how “rugged” the animatronic had looked, and Michael had pitched the idea to rebrand him as a pirate or something. Initially, his suggestion had been shot down, but then Henry had said it was a great idea and Father immediately changed his mind. Of course. Foxy had been a large source of pride for Michael from that point on. Now though…not so much. He stares down at the half-drawn cartoon fox on his paper and starts to feel a little bit uncomfortable. He had been wearing a Foxy mask when–

Michael decides to fix this problem by swiftly transforming the character into another, adding some lipstick to the muzzle and circular cheeks. Toy Foxy, or as Michael liked to call him, “the mangle.” Although cute in the form of a cartoon fox on paper, the animatronic itself was a monstrosity. He remembers getting into an argument with Charlie about it once, with Charlie stubbornly insisting that he was adorable. Or she? Michael still isn’t quite sure what gender that thing was supposed to represent. Nevertheless, that memory of Charlie always puts a fond smile on his face. That girl could see the good in anything. Even in a broken mess of parts like Mangle. Or Michael.

Just like that, the joy the memory gave him disappears. He crumples up the paper and chucks it at the bin aggressively, not bothering to pick it up when he misses, and flops back down on his bed. He knows full well he won’t be able to fall asleep again. He pulls Fredbear against himself, curling into the fetal position and feeling just as shitty as before. Well, at least he tried. And managed to feel a fleeting spark of happiness for about two seconds. Why did he even bother? It didn’t fucking work, just like he knew it wouldn’t.

He remembers something Father used to say to them. “Tomorrow is another day.” Father was right about a lot of things, but that stupid little expression of his couldn’t be further from the truth. For Michael, every tomorrow is guaranteed to suck.

He wishes he'd be able to fall asleep, and he wishes he wouldn't wake up.

Chapter Text

On Sunday morning, Henry knocks on his door and asks him if he still wants to attend church. Michael thinks he would rather die, but he begrudgingly gets out of bed and pulls on some almost-nice clothes. 

He prepares himself for another miserable hour of being yelled at, but to his surprise Henry offers him another option as they get into the car. “Do you want to try going to the youth group instead of the normal service?” 

“Youth group?” Michael echoes. 

Henry nods. “You’ll be with some kids your age instead of with the adults. Probably a lot more fun.”

Michael shudders. He weighs his options. Would he rather be stuck in a room for the next hour with a bunch of judgemental teenagers or a bunch of narrow-minded adults? 

“I’m almost certain it’s not like whatever you’re thinking. It’s its own separate thing from the normal church service. Completely different.”

Completely different from regular church. That’s all Michael needs to hear. “Sure.”

Henry smiles at him. “Great. Maybe your friend will go with you.”

-

Michael ends up bumping into Jeremy in the main entrance of the church. 

“Oh, hey dude!” 

“Hey. Um, there’s a youth group or something here, right? Do you want to go with me?” Michael winces at his awkwardness, but he feels oddly nervous talking to someone else while Henry’s right next to him. 

“Huh? Oh, sure. I’ve been there a couple times. I’ll show you where it is!”

“I’ll meet you just outside the building when church ends, okay Mike?” Henry says. 

“Okay, yeah,” Michael stammers, and Henry smiles at him and walks away towards the main service area. 

“Holy shit, isn’t that Mr. Emily?” Jeremy asks once Henry leaves, starting to lead Michael the direction of their destination. “My mom works at the same college as him. He teaches robotics, right?”

“Oh,” Michael says in surprise. “Um, yeah, he does.”

“Cool! Is he nice? I’ve seen him a bunch of times, but I’ve never talked to him.”

“Yeah. He’s nice.” 

They stop in front of the entrance to a large room. “Just a heads up, the people in charge here are kind of annoying,” Jeremy warns him. “But between them and the old doomsday preacher in the other room, they’re great.”

“Oh,” is all Michael comes up with in response to that. Jesus, his social skills need some improvement. If he’s this bad at talking to Jeremy, how’s he going to survive talking to kids he doesn’t know at all?

They enter the room, and Michael cringes a little as some guy immediately notices their presence and comes over to greet them. 

“Jeremy! Haven’t seen you here in a while. And I haven’t seen you here at all before! The name’s Jonah, so you bet we’re gonna have a whale of a time together! What’s your name, new friend?”

“…Mike.” Michael stares at Jonah blankly, very tempted to take a step backwards just to give the guy a hint.

“Well, it’s just lovely to meet you, Mr. Mike!” Jonah swiftly reaches out and pulls Michael’s wrist from where it was resting by his side, giving him a very firm handshake.  Michael startles at the sudden touch, instinctively yanking his hand back, but Jonah doesn’t seem to notice. “I can tell you’re going to fit right in!”

Michael is put off by Jonah's intense friendliness, although unlike with most adults, he doesn’t feel threatened by it. He has a tendency to assume all adults are trying to manipulate him into something, but Jonah seems more like a desperate door-to-door salesman than a danger. If it weren’t so corny and cringeworthy, it might almost be endearing. “Uhm…thanks.”

Jonah pats him on the shoulder—one more uninvited touch for good measure—before scampering off to go invade some other adolescent’s personal space. 

“Sorry about that,” Jeremy says awkwardly. “I don’t think the youth leaders here understand the concept of an introvert.”

“What do we even do here?” Michael asks, looking around. A few other teenagers have come in by now, which makes him a little nervous. The large room they’re in has a few empty tables set up on one side, but not organized in a way that would make sense for a sermon to be delivered. 

Jeremy shrugs. “Usually it’s chaos for the first ten minutes, then they’ll try and get us to play a game. Then you just roll with it from there.”

“A game?” Michael asks in disbelief. 

“Yeah. Like dodgeball or cornhole or something.”

“Oh.” Michael had expected actual Christian-themed games. What would a Christian game be anyway? Pin-The-Jesus-on-the-Cross? Holy Water balloon fights? “So what’s the point of coming here?”

“Don’t worry, they’ll get all churchy in the second half. In the meantime, we can kinda just do whatever. You wanna sit down at a table or something?” Jeremy points at a table behind them. 

Michael nods and pulls out a chair, wincing at the loud screech as metal slides across the hard floor. “Sooo…” Michael says after a few moments of awkward silence. “Do you usually go to these?”

“Not often. It kinda sucks, so I usually just go to the normal service. But it’ll probably be better with you around.”

“It sucks worse than the regular one?” Michael asks. 

“Well, it only sucks if you don’t have friends with you. At that point it’s just like an extra hour of school on the weekend.”

Jeremy not having friends is both surprising and not surprising. Michael would expect such a nice kid to be popular, but at the same time it’s obvious that anyone who had another option wouldn’t be hanging around someone like Michael in the first place. 

“Alright everybody, who’s ready to play a game?” Jonah calls. Michael watches some other kids start to gather around the center of the room, and immediately decides he will not be participating. “It’s a fun one! And a tasty one!” He gestures to a few boxes of cookies stacked on the edge of the stage. 

Jeremy glances at Michael as the other teenagers in the room begin to chatter excitedly. “You gonna play?”

“Do you want to?” Michael asks, suddenly feeling guilty at the prospect he might be spoiling his friend’s fun. 

“I mean, not really…”

“Oh thank God,” Michael murmurs, sinking with relief. “I’d rather die than interact with those people.”

“Hey, Mike! Jeremy! Are you two going to join in?”

Michael side eyes the boxes of cookies on the stage. “I have a gluten allergy,” he lies smoothly. 

Jonah visibly wilts like a disappointed toddler. “Oh, that’s a bummer!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep him company!” Jeremy offers. 

Jonah smiles and quickly moves on into explaining the rules to the rest of the group, and Jeremy turns to Michael with an amused expression. “Gluten allergy?”

“Yeah,” Michael sighs, pretending to look into the distance wistfully. “Shame I spent my whole childhood in a pizzeria.” 

Jeremy giggles at his joke, and then looks thoughtful. “Oh, I totally forgot about that. Did you get like, free pizza and stuff?”

“Sometimes, but usually I had to actually help out around the stupid place.  Unbox supplies and clean up barf and stuff.” Then Michael pauses for a second and registers Jermey’s genuinely interested expression. Forgot?   He thinks of his old friends, who never seemed to forget that Michael’s dad owned a pizzeria. In fact, it was one of the only things they talked about. Free arcade tokens, free pizza. They never talked about what Michael liked or wanted to do outside of that restaurant, unless they were making fun of him for it. 

It suddenly clicks to him that Jeremy doesn’t just see him as a pity case, or someone to use, but as someone he just likes to be around. A friend. A real friend.  

His old friends never actually cared about him at all, did they?

“You okay man?” Jeremy asks, snapping Michael out of his disheartening realization. 

“Oh, um, yeah, just thinking. Anyways…” He turns his head to watch whatever the other kids are doing. Balancing cookies on their faces, apparently. Thank God he’s not over there. 

Jeremy manages to come up with random things to talk about for the rest of the time it takes for the others to finish the game. Which is a surprisingly long time, considering all they’re doing is trying to keep the cookies on the tips of their noses. Perhaps there’s some deeper significance to the game Michael isn’t aware of, since he can’t hear that well from here. Unfortunately, you can only stretch such a stupid game for so long, and before he knows it Jonah is calling over everyone to come sit by the stage.

“Finally. Just so you know, they’ll probably split us into small groups. Make us talk about the Bible and stuff,” Jeremy informs him helpfully as they regretfully stand from their chairs.

“Hopefully they’ll pick a topic my fractured mind can handle,” Michael huffs, vaguely alluding to their first meeting. He means for it to come off as a sardonic type of joke, but Jeremy just gives him a somewhat concerned glance. Michael averts his eyes, hoping Jeremy doesn’t take it too seriously. He finds himself moving a little closer to the other boy’s side when he recognizes a couple of people from school, though.

A woman introduces herself as Betsy and begins talking, starting off with a Bible verse and some shallow, unnecessary analysis of its already obvious meaning. “Colossians 3:13 says: ‘Bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.’” 

Michael already hates this lesson.

She talks at them for a while longer, going on to explain that “although it can be difficult to forgive someone, it’s always the right thing to do because God forgives everyone.” Michael thinks that’s stupid. He especially hates the word everyone in this context. Not everyone should be forgiven. He wonders how Betsy would respond if he asked her whether God would forgive his abusive, alcoholic, child-murdering father. Would she change her mind and admit there are exceptions, or double down and try to defend herself? In a morbid way, it’s almost funny to imagine either scenario.

Eventually Betsy instructs the girls to follow her and the boys to follow Jonah for small groups. Michael follows Jeremy’s lead and stands up as Jonah walks them over to a table in another corner of the room and gestures for them all to sit down. “Do we all know each other?” he asks cheerfully.

Unfortunately, they do all know each other. John, an old friend of Charlie’s, and Arty. Michael always got the feeling John never liked him, since he seemed convinced Michael and Charlie were dating or something dumb like that. And Arty’s just fucking annoying. 

“Yeah,” John says boredly. 

“Fantastic! Guess we can jump right into it then.” Jonah grabs a small stack of papers sitting on a chair behind him and hands them out, along with some cheap pencils. “I’ll give you guys some time to answer the questions, and then we’ll share our answers!”

Michael reads what’s printed on the paper and is dismayed to see it’s a worksheet of some sort with just three questions. 

1. When’s a time where you’ve forgiven someone? 
2. Have you ever held a grudge? Are you still holding it?
3. How can we forgive people when it’s difficult?

Michael picks up his pencil with embarrassingly shaky hands. The first question is easy, at least. 

I forgave Andrew for slapping me. It was very easy because

Michael was going to write “because I deserved it anyway,” but quickly realizes that answer might be a little too self-deprecating and tries to erase it. Unfortunately, the erasers are those shitty ones that blur the lead all around the paper instead of actually erasing it, so he’s forced to just cross it out in an ugly scribble. 

The second question is more difficult. An answer immediately pops into mind, but he can’t exactly write down that he hasn’t quite forgiven the literal serial killer that raised him. So who else hasn’t he forgiven for something? 

Matthew, Ryan, Jay.  

The third question leaves him stumped. If it’s easy to forgive someone, it’s easy. But if it’s difficult to forgive someone, then they probably don’t deserve to be forgiven. But that definitely isn’t the answer Jonah is looking for, so he decides to just leave it blank. It’s not like he’s being graded on this or anything, anyway. 

“Is everyone finished?” Jonah asks after some time. A resounding and unenthusiastic “yeah” echoes throughout the group, and Jonah clasps his hands together. “Sweet! How about you go first, Arty?”

Everyone’s answers are mundane and trivial. Apparently nobody feels comfortable enough to share a conflict more significant than “a friend who stole my favorite shirt” or something. 

“What’d you write for the third one, Mike?” Jonah asks after Michael provides a vague answer to the second question. 

“I didn’t know what to put for that,” Michael admits. 

“That’s alright! It’s a tricky question, for sure. Forgiving people can be difficult sometimes, but it’s the right thing to do. It gets easier when we ask God for help.”

That really pisses Michael off. This whole thing pisses him off. He imagines Father giving God a half-assed “sorry” and then being welcomed into Heaven, and his blood feels hot with anger. Some people can’t be forgiven, no matter what this stupid man tries to tell him. People like Father are proof enough of that. People like Michael are proof enough of that. 

Michael forces himself to tune out every word Jonah says after that. He doesn’t want to hear it. He refuses to let anyone try and convince him that forgiveness is always the correct answer. It isn’t. It isn't. It isn’t.

“Well, see you tomorrow at school,” Jeremy says, and Michael jolts back into reality. He’d hardly even realized, but he’d already stood up with everybody else. Apparently Jonah had already wrapped things up.

“Oh, uh, yeah, see you,” Michael responds flatly, still half-zoned out. He finds Henry waiting for him outside, just like he said he would. Henry asks him a question, and he nods in response. He’s pretty sure it wasn’t even a yes or no question but he can’t find it in him to care at the moment. He’s tired and just wants to go home and hide under his bed and not be here anymore.

Chapter Text

The moment before Father’s fist connects with his face, Michael jolts awake in a cold sweat. The leftover fear from his dream quickly fades into annoyance as he realizes his already fragile sleep schedule has been interrupted by yet another nightmare. Fredbear's soft fur brushes against his arms, and he hugs the toy bear a little bit tighter. He fully recognizes how childish it is of him to sleep with a stuffed animal and how selfish he is for sleeping with it because it’s not his but he can’t resist the amount of comfort it brings him. A surprising amount of comfort, given how creepy it looks. Maybe it’s grown on him.

Thoughtfully, he lifts his arms and holds Fredbear in front of his face, squinting to make out his features in the dark lighting. It’s then he notices an odd mark on the toy’s cheek. He blinks hard, trying to test if his eyes are playing tricks, and tries to brush away the spot with his finger. With a start, he realizes it’s actually there. A stain.

He shoots upright, scrambling to get out of bed and turn on the light. He briefly hisses in pain at the sudden assault to his sense of sight, but more importantly, confirms there is indeed a somewhat large stain on the side of Fredbear's face. A blood stain.

“Fuck…” Michael whispers, feeling his heart drop to his stomach. He glances at his arm, noticing one sleeve is rolled up a bit. One his many scabs must have opened up in his sleep. He curses again. Father had sold all of Evan’s stuff a few weeks after he died without even mentioning it beforehand, and Fredbear is the only thing Michael has left of his brother. What if it’s ruined forever? All because of his carelessness?

Maybe it’s not too late to fix it. Michael’s gotten blood stains out of his clothes plenty of times, he can do it, he just needs some hydrogen peroxide. He stumbles out of his room and rushes to the bathroom, digging through the drawers and cabinets but not finding what he’s looking for. So he checks the downstairs bathroom. But there’s none there, either. Does Henry not have any? A long whine crawls out of Michael’s throat. He even checks the cupboards under the kitchen sink, but still can’t find any goddamn peroxide. Maybe soap would be enough? Maybe the blood hasn’t fully dried yet?

Michael pumps some hand soap onto his palm and rubs it into the stain, practically hyperventilating at this point. He can hardly see if he’s making progress since his vision is so blurred with tears. Why is he panicking so hard over this? He wonders if this is how Evan felt when Michael would take Fredbear from him and hide it. Or dangle it above the bin tauntingly. Or threaten to light it on fire. Or turn his favorite thing in the whole world against him, twisting it into something frightening and then putting his head into the machine that he had grown to be terrified of all the while he was kicking and screaming and begging him to stop—

And then the kitchen lights come on, and Michael nearly falls over and breaks his ankle. He’s such an idiot. Of course he woke Henry up with all that fucking racket.

“Mike? It’s three in the morning, and you have school tomorrow.” Henry sounds exhausted, and Michael rattles out a shuddering exhale, braving a glance back at his face. Henry’s brows are furrowed in deep concern, and then his eyes fall to the item clutched in Michael’s wet hands. “…Is that Fredbear?”

Michael’s words fail him and he just stands there, shaking like a leaf and looking stupid.

Henry approaches him slowly, like he’s a frightened deer that might run away at any moment. He leans down and takes a closer look at the golden toy, and frowns deeply. Michael realizes dishearteningly that the reddish-brown color of the stain is very prominent in the new lighting. It’s not a great look for him, given his track record. For some reason Henry breezes right past the implications of that and just says, “I have some hydrogen peroxide in the laundry room. I’ll help you get that stain out, okay?”

The laundry room. Of course. Henry gently pries Fredbear from Michael’s bruising grip. “Do you want to sit on the couch for a minute? I’ll get you some water.” Michael nods again, too anxious and ashamed to even consider arguing. Henry hands him a glass and disappears into the laundry room, returning only a few minutes later with a perfectly clean Fredbear. Henry gives him the toy and stands at a safe distance as he waits patiently for Michael to calm down all the way.

“‘M sorry,” Michael murmurs as he recovers enough to regain his speech. “Didn’t mean to wake you…”

“It’s fine. Do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

Michael realizes how stupid this whole meltdown is now that he’s been asked about it. A full blown panic attack over a small stain on a plush bear? Pathetic. Father would have—No. He doesn’t let himself finish that thought. “I had a bad dream, and when I woke up, there was a stain on him, and I kind of freaked out…” he mutters softly, avoiding eye contact and instead opting to stroke the bear in question on top of his soft, slightly damp head. “Sorry. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Henry tells him kindly. Michael almost scoffs at that. Then Henry gets to the bigger question that Michael’s been dreading. “Do you want to tell me where the blood came from?”

Michael swallows with great difficulty, still refusing to look up. He doesn’t want to see the disappointment on the older man’s face. He curses his younger self for walking around so carelessly, letting everyone see the freak he’d branded himself as, because now he has no excuse or lie that could convince Henry he hadn’t done anything wrong. Couldn’t he have tried a less permanently-scarring, less addicting method of attracting a rescuer to save him from his own self-pity? One that actually worked, at the very least? 

Since Michael won’t confess what Henry already knows, Henry makes it easier. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Michael’s shoulders tense, even though he knew this was coming all along. He exhales, biting his lip and nodding reluctantly. God damn it. If it isn’t the consequences of his own actions. 

“I know this might be a lot to ask, but can I see? I’d really like to make sure you’re safe.” Michael wordlessly holds out his arm to give his permission, not daring to look himself. He feels Henry rolling up his sleeve carefully. There’s a few moments of silence as Henry inspects the damage he’d done to himself. “What did you use?”

Michael hesitates. He doesn’t want to say, because then Henry will surely take it away. But if he doesn’t say anything, Henry might get mad at him. “Scissors,” he manages to rasp out, immediately regretting it.

“Okay. Are they in your desk?” Michael bobs his head weakly. He looks back up at Henry’s face after feeling his sleeve being rolled back down. “I want you to go wash your arms carefully, and put some antibiotics on them. There’s some in the bathroom. That sound okay?”

Michael nods again silently as Henry gets up and begins making his way up the stairs to go and confiscate his last method of coping. With shaky legs, Michael creeps toward the bathroom, following Henry’s simple instructions and washing the day-old wounds with water. It burns, but not nearly as much as the humiliation in his chest. He’s so, so stupid. How could he get caught like this? Hot tears prick at the corner of his eyes, and he covers his face with his hand to try and stop them from making an appearance. He can’t cry again. He needs to get his shit together and stop being so childish.

He shuts off the water and bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood, forcing his face into a more neutral expression in hopes of tricking himself into not crying. He finds some Neosporin in a drawer and applies it messily, pushing down his sleeves as soon as he’s done so he doesn’t have to look at his ugly failures a second longer than he has to.

Henry is waiting for him in the living room. “Did you find the antibiotics?”

“Neosporin,” Michael mutters vaguely. He’s tempted to walk straight past Henry and go hide in his room somewhere, but he has a feeling this conversation isn’t over.

“Okay.” Henry takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to force you to talk about this right now if you don’t want to. But I do need to lay a few ground rules.”

Michael is mildly surprised by that, but nods tiredly to show he’s following.

“I’m going to ask you to come to me for help if you ever feel like doing something like this again. Even if you don’t end up coming to me, I’d like you to know the offer is always open.”

“Okay.” No.

“Second of all, I’m going to be putting away all of the dangerous things in the house. If you ever need to use something—scissors, knife, razor, whatever, just ask for it. But please give it back when you’re done. Is that fair?”

“Yes,” Michael mutters.

“Would you like to try to go back to sleep? Do you need anything else right now? Are–”

“I’m fine,” Michael says robotically. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure?” Henry asks worriedly.

A small amount of energy reenters Michael’s body for a brief moment. “I said I’m fine!” he snaps. His irritation vanishes as suddenly as it appeared, and he quickly pales as his eyes lock onto Henry’s. “I’m going back to sleep.” He practically chokes on the words, turning around and rushing back upstairs to get away from the situation. Did he just yell at Henry? What the hell is wrong with him? Why does he have to be such a goddamn brat all the time?

His first instinct when he gets back into his bedroom is to look towards the desk, but then he remembers that he can’t do that anymore. You never fully appreciate what you have until it’s gone, huh?

Michael places Fredbear on top of the desk, not wanting to risk another incident, and flops back down on his bed. All alone, with no blade to run across his skin, and no toy to hug. And it’s all his own fault. He shouldn’t be relying on such gross behaviors to cope with his dumb emotions in the first place. What kind of fifteen year old still needs to sleep with dolls? And no normal person should ever be cutting themselves, regardless of age. Seriously, what kind of freak does that? He rolls over on his side to glare at the wall and attempt to quiet his thoughts. It doesn’t work very well.

If he ends up double checking the desk drawers later that night anyway, that’s none of anyone else's business.

Chapter Text

In the days following the incident, Michael does his best to lay low and not cause any trouble. His random spells of anxiety, sleeplessness, and sorrow aren’t getting any better, and not having a single effective coping mechanism to deal with it isn’t helping. He’s kind of tempted to try getting drunk again, but Henry doesn’t keep alcohol in the house anymore. Good on Henry for finding better ways to deal with his problems, but god damn it, can Michael have just one thing?

His birthday is just around the corner, and after that he’ll have about three months and a couple of weeks left until summer vacation. Henry has been nagging him about what he wants for his birthday all week, even though Michael’s told him more times than he can count that he doesn’t want anything. Eventually he had given up and just said “a sketchbook.” It’s the safest option; he would get good use out of it and it would hardly cost Henry a thing.

Henry has started teaching his robotics classes again, and now every weekday Michael is home alone for about two hours after school. It’s strange. He hardly ever comes out of his room to interact with Henry anyway, and yet he still gets uncomfortable when the house is truly empty. So, he’s taken up the habit of leaving the house when Henry isn’t home to visit the abandoned playground near the school. The playground equipment itself isn’t even in too bad condition, but the whole place is terribly overgrown with grass and weeds. In fact, Michael is probably risking a snakebite every time he comes by. If only…

He used to come here with Charlie sometimes. They’d walk over here together after school, and every time they’d get into an argument over who had to use the “bad swing” that had no protective rubber covering on its rusty chains. They would settle it with a game of rock-paper-scissors, and whoever lost would insist the game should be best out of three. Then they’d just swing and talk for hours. A few times they had even met up in the middle of the night.

“You can have the good swing,” Michael says to nobody as he sits on the bad swing. He doesn’t even actually swing on it, just kind of sits there and paws at the ground with his trainers. Sneakers, he can practically hear Charlie correct him teasingly. He’s lived in the US his entire life, so his American accent is near flawless, but he’s still prone to the occasional slip up in pronunciation or vocabulary. Back then, Charlie would never miss a chance to poke fun at him whenever he accidentally dropped a “bloody hell” or something.

He continues to draw shapes in the dust with his sneaker while he hosts imaginary conversations with Charlie in his head. It’s pretty pathetic, but it’s almost kind of nice. They have dumb, stupid arguments about trivial things like the best ice cream flavor. When they can’t come to an agreement, they resort to childish insults and react to them with over-the-top theatrics. Neither of them can keep up the facade of being genuinely annoyed with each other for long, and they both end up bursting into laughter while trying to hold a very serious staring competition.

At some point, Michael’s giggles transition into hiccups, and it’s at that point he decides it’s about time he ended his pretend hang-out and went home. It’s incredible how quickly his emotions can completely flip on their heads. He was all smiley just a minute and a half ago, but now it’s like his soul is being torn apart. He knows it’s unrealistic to want her back, but he can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t stop thinking about what he would do to save her and what he’d say to her afterward, what she’d say to him. There’s no worse feeling than knowing no matter what he does, he will never see his best friend again. And it’s all because of Father.

His body is shaking from how badly he wants to punch or hit or kick something, but he’s so disoriented by the tearing sensation in his chest he can’t figure out which limb to move first. So he settles for the next best thing. Like a child throwing a tantrum, he falls to his knees and screams into his hands at the top of his lungs. He screams until his lungs burn. He screams so hard that he throws up.

He sits on his knees for a few minutes longer, panting, before standing up and wiping his mouth. “Fuck,” is the only word he can manage to think. He kicks some moldy wood chips over the spot where he’d been sick and turns away to inspect his throbbing but thankfully not bleeding knees. Gross. At least he didn’t bust his entire fist this time. He should really be going now, though.

He makes it to Charlie’s Henry’s house pretty quickly, not even bothering to go upstairs once he gets there. He knows once he shuts his bedroom door he won’t be able to do anything but fall asleep, and falling asleep just means tomorrow will be here faster and he’ll have to do this shit all over again. So instead, he slumps down onto the couch and hugs a throw pillow to his chest. Henry arrives home just minutes after he does, and Michael is relieved he at least doesn’t have to explain where he’d been.

“Hi, Mike. How was school?”

“Good,” Michael answers, eyes widening a little in surprise at the raspiness of his voice. Sure, he’d just screamed his lungs out, but he hadn’t expected to sound that bad afterwards. He rubs his neck a little, hoping Henry didn’t notice. He is not so lucky.

Henry frowns. “Do you need some water? Are you getting sick?”

“No, I’m fine.” He clears his throat painfully. “Allergies, probably.”

“If you say so…” Henry’s eyes briefly flit across Michael’s neck as if searching for evidence he’d tried to hang himself or something. “Is there anything you’d like for dinner?”

Michael hopes his wince isn’t too noticeable. The thought of eating right now makes him feel sick. “Actually, I ate a sandwich about ten minutes ago…sorry.”

Henry gives him a look, and it’s very obvious that Michael’s lie hasn’t convinced him. He doesn’t press further, though. “Alright. I’m going to make some chili; there'll be leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry later. Or tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” Henry leaves him be after that as he retreats to the kitchen, and Michael leans forward to press his forehead into the throw pillow. He wishes Henry wouldn’t worry about him so goddamn much—it makes him feel guilty. Then again, everything makes him feel guilty. Everything hurts. And unless he’s selfish enough to do that, there’s no escape.

As much as he doesn’t want to, sleep is starting to sound more and more appealing by the second. He gives into his tiredness and reluctantly trudges up the stairs. He flops down onto his bed, and of course the moment his body hits the mattress he’s no longer tired. Of course. It’s such a stupid yet common occurrence.

He stares angrily at the ceiling as he prays for his fatigue to come back so he can finally fall asleep and get away from his own mind for a while. In the meantime, he can’t help but be mad at Henry for taking away his scissors. Apparently screaming to the point of making himself sick wasn’t enough—there’s still so much pent up emotion left in him that he doesn’t know what to do with. He tries to ignore the mounting chaos growing in his brain, but in the end, he finds the only way to stop it is to scratch angry red welts into his forearms with his fingernails.

What a joke.

Chapter Text

“Mike?” Henry prompts him the next morning as he comes down the stairs.

Michael glances over at him questioningly, but the man doesn’t elaborate until he speaks. “Yeah…?” Somehow his voice is still a little fucked up. Had he really screamed that hard? Jesus, the entirety of Utah must have heard him.

“Hm, thought so. Here.” Henry hands him a warm mug. Michael takes it, blinking in surprise. “Tea—it’s got honey in it. Should help your throat.”

A few butterflies flutter around in Michael’s stomach at the kind gesture. He should be used to it by now, but there’s still something so ethereal about actually being cared about. Father would never do something like this for him. He looks up to thank Henry, but the words die in his throat. Ever since the incident with Evan’s toy, Henry has been looking at Michael like he could break at any minute. A colony of ants join the butterflies in his stomach, and now Michael feels as though he’s got a whole infestation of bugs crawling inside of him. He manages a small nod of acknowledgment instead of a verbal thank you, and tries to finish the tea as quickly as he can before scampering out the door and hurrying off to school.

Michael hates school, but he has to admit there are a few benefits to it. One of those benefits being Jeremy. Jeremy is kind, funny, and easy to talk to. He occasionally show some concern for Michael’s…shortcomings, but in general doesn’t seem too bothered by them, and doesn’t press too hard if Michael tells him to drop it.

He finds Jeremy sitting outside of his first period classroom. Lately he’s begun leaving home earlier just to meet up with him before the start of school. Jeremy smiles at the sight of him, waving him over with a flick of his wrist. “Mike, look! Look what I found this morning!”

Michael inspects the small object Jeremy has pinched between his fingers. “A LEGO?”

Jeremy nods excitedly. “Yeah! Look, it kinda looks like you! See the hair?” He points at the brown hairpiece on the LEGO man’s head.

Michael snorts. “Does not.”

“Does too!”

“Just because it has brown hair doesn’t mean it looks like me. And I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be a girl’s hair.”

“Anyone can have long hair!” Jeremy protests. “I mean, look at you!”

Michael scoffs. His hair isn’t even that long. “Whatever.” He sits down next to Jeremy and leans against the wall. “Where'd you find that, anyway?”

“Well, I was walking near where the elementary school is, and you know where all the little kids go to play soccer? I wasn’t actually on the field or anything, just the sidewalk nearby, and I saw a little black thing on the ground. It wasn’t actually a complete LEGO guy, just one leg, but I thought to look around for the body anyway…”

That’s another thing about Jeremy. He talks a lot. It’s a quality most people would probably find annoying, but Michael actually enjoys listening to him ramble. He has a soothing voice and somehow he can always manage to spin the most mundane of events into an entertaining story.

“So anyway, I’ll probably just give it to my little cousin. He loves LEGO. It’s kind of crazy how talented he is. He’s only seven—he can’t even spell the word ‘castle,’ but he can build a huge one in just a couple hours with no instructions. I swear he’s going to be an architect one day or something—” Jeremy curses as the school bell cuts off his rant. “Sorry, I was probably getting carried away, anyway. You can tell me to shut up sometime, you know.”

“Nah. Someone’s gotta take one for the team and let you get all your words out,” Michael says with a wry smile. Jeremy playfully punches him in the shoulder lightly as they split up to go their separate ways.

-

They pick up their conversation again at lunch. Michael chews the inside of his cheek as he half-listens to Jeremy rambling about a musical artist he likes. Everything’s fine, until—

“Anyways, I’m not allowed to, but I’d love to see her live—“

Cold fear rushes through Michael’s body, and before his brain even has time to fully process Jeremy’s words, his mouth moves.

“No.”

He had uttered the word so suddenly and with such intensity that both his and Jeremy’s brains short-circuit for a moment as both of them try to process what the fuck just happened. Michael’s thoughts finally catch up to him, and he realizes what had scared him so much.

“…Dude?” Jeremy asks cautiously, looking perplexed.

“I, shit—fuck. Sorry.” Michael fumbles for words as he attempts to regain his composure. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

“What just happened? Did I say something?”

“No, you just—I’m being stupid. Confused myself. You can keep talking…”

“Well…” Jeremy trails off, sounding a little bit perturbed. “I don’t just wanna keep talking if I said something that upset you…”

“I’m fine,” Michael insists, running a hand through his hair to calm his nerves, but he can’t. Hearing Jeremy say that reminded him of Elizabeth, and by extension everyone else he lost, and Michael can’t help but wonder if Jeremy is next. What if Henry is next? Jessica? Marla? Is God just going to keep taking away everyone he loves until there’s nobody left?

No, the rational part of Michael’s brain reassures him. Father caused all of those deaths, and now that he’s out of the picture everyone is safe. It won’t happen again. But that logic is getting harder and harder to believe by the second. What if they aren’t safe?

Michael quickly shakes his head as if doing so will get rid of the thoughts. “Sorry, I keep—I keep screwing everything up,” he says through his teeth. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, you just—I just—”

“Hey, it’s okay man, really. You’re not screwing everything up,” Jeremy argues gently.

“But I am,” Michael sighs. “I keep ruining the mood with my dumb little—things.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Jeremy insists. “You’ve been through a lot. Cut yourself some slack, man.”

So I did ruin the moment, is all Michael gets from that. He grates his teeth against one another anxiously, and picks at his fingernails. He hates himself. He hates that he’s such a burden on his only friend. Jeremy’s going to get sick of him sooner or later.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” Jeremy scolds him lightheartedly, picking up on his internal thought process.

“Okay, mum,” Michael says, rolling his eyes to disguise the anxiety he’s actually feeling right now.

“Mum?” Jeremy furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

Whoops. “Oh, uh. My parents are British,” Michael explains awkwardly. “I don’t really have the accent anymore, but I still…yeah.” Of all the words pronounced differently between America and Britain, “mum” is a pretty heavily ingrained one. Even though he’s never had much reason to say it often. She was never really in the picture.

For a minute, Jeremy looks like he isn’t going to believe him. Then he shrugs and shakes his head lightly. “…You have quite the backstory, Mike.” They both laugh awkwardly at that. Michael feels a little better now that the focus of the conversation is no longer his mental state, but there’s still a restlessness twinging deep inside his bones that he can’t shake off.

His jitteriness doesn’t get better as the day progresses. In fact, it only gets worse. Upon arriving home, he’s helpless to do much other than pace throughout the house, chewing on his nails and lips. A droplet of blood dribbles down his chin, and he recalls Henry scolding him for this habit a long while ago and instructing him to chew gum instead. He redirects himself to the kitchen and retrieves a pack of gum from the cabinet. It doesn’t do much to ease his nerves, and eventually he wanders back to the living room and switches on the television. Rationally, he knows he’s overreacting, and he will probably chastise himself later for being such an idiot, but in the current moment he can’t shake off the anxiety. So he sits helplessly huddled up on the floor and mindlessly listens to the dialogue of the characters on the screen.

The sound of keys unlocking the front door a few unknown units of time later shakes Michael out of his nervous daze, and he jumps up to shut off the TV and meet Henry at the door. Henry looks surprised to see him, and Michael can’t blame him. He’s usually shut up in his room at this time of day, after all. “Oh! Hi there.”

Michael’s eyes scan over Henry’s face. He’s both reassured by the man’s presence but also frightened by the nagging anxiety in his mind that insists he’s going to lose him. Indecisively, he shuffles back and forth on his feet for a moment.

You know you can talk to me about anything, right?

Is there something else I can do that will help make you feel better?

Come to me for help if you ever feel like doing something like this again. The offer is always open.

It’s not wrong for Michael to ask for a hug, right? Henry wants to help him, he says so all the time. Henry cares about him. Henry wants to help him. Henry even washed Fredbear and gave him tea this morning to help his throat. It would be fine. Henry would be fine with it. It would be fine.

Without giving himself a chance to think about it further, Michael moves forward and presses himself against the older man in a very shitty attempt at initiating a hug. Henry makes a muffled sound of surprise but quickly reciprocates the gesture, wrapping his arms loosely around Michael’s back. Henry—the entire Emily family, actually—have always been big on hugs. But this is the first time Michael’s actually gotten one since coming to stay here. It’s shockingly lovely. Warmth rushes down his spine in waves, and he’s probably never felt so safe in his life.

They kind of just stand there for a while, Henry rubbing comforting circles into Michael’s back as he shivers and overthinks. “You alright, Mike?” he murmurs, not yet breaking the hug. Michael doesn’t respond. “Did something happen at school today?” Suddenly Michael remembers that nonverbal communication exists, and he shakes his head against Henry’s chest.

He wants to stay here forever. But something about that thought feels wrong. Yes, he hugged Henry and Henry was fine with it, but that doesn’t mean Michael deserved to be hugged. He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have bothered him.

Michael quickly breaks away from the older man’s arms. Henry blinks at him questioningly, looking both shocked and thrilled at the chance Michael finally might open up to him for once. But Michael can’t. He shouldn’t.

“Thank you,” he squeaks, before turning tail and booking it upstairs. He’s a coward for running away without explanation, but he can’t talk about it right now. It felt so good to be held, but it felt so wrong to be loved. Why can’t he just let himself be happy for once?

He closes his door and squeezes himself into the space under his desk. Something about the tight space closing in on him is comforting. Not as comforting as tight arms, but it will do. He doesn’t need that. He doesn’t need anyone. He never should have tried that.

He’s fine.

Chapter Text

It’s safe to say Michael had not been looking forward to his birthday. And now it’s here, and it’s just as bad as he had anticipated. Not because anything bad had actually happened–just because his brain likes to fuck him over constantly.

He went to church despite Henry telling him he could stay home and sleep in if he wanted to, because Michael refuses to be the reason Henry misses something he cares about. Then Henry had made him his favorite meal for lunch–even though Michael doesn’t remember ever telling him what his favorite food was–and presented him with a birthday gift. Two birthday gifts, actually: the sketchbook he asked for, and a brand new set of alcohol markers. Good alcohol markers. It was too much. He somehow managed to play off his distress as surprise as he told Henry “thank you” far more many times than what was appropriate. For any normal person, today would have been a great day. But Michael is a fucking idiot, and can’t let himself enjoy things.

Anyway, Henry had said something about going to the store and left the house just a couple of minutes ago. The grocery store Henry prefers is twenty minutes away, and assuming he spends about ten minutes inside, that gives him a little less than an hour. Which is fine. He’ll make it quick. He just needs a few minutes to fall apart, so he can pull himself together again. Henry doesn’t have to find out about it. He just can’t take the stress of today anymore, and the only way he knows how to handle it is to hurt. To abuse his body’s system of releasing endorphins in response to pain.

The kitchen knives have been locked up since day one, he doesn’t have his scissors anymore, and his nails aren’t painful enough…he feels gross as he goes about the morbid task of digging around in his desk for something he could use to damage himself with. The gleam of shiny metal catches his eye, and he picks up a pencil sharpener he apparently happens to have. He inspects the small blade inside closely, stomach twisting in both anticipation and disgust with himself. He had never considered a pencil sharpener as something that could be used for any kind of–well, violence–before, but desperate times call for desperate measures he supposes. He manages to unscrew the little bit holding the blade to the plastic, and wipes off the thin coat of pencil-dust on his shirt—not the most foolproof safety measure, but then again safety clearly isn’t a priority considering what he’s about to do. He wastes no time leveling the tiny blade against his arm, pressing down hard and sucking in a breath as he slashes his skin open with as much force as his brain will allow him to.

The wound is far larger than Michael had anticipated or intended—perhaps the little piece of metal isn’t as dull as he’d thought—but he doesn’t make an effort to lessen the pressure he’s using. He doesn’t stop until he counts sixteen slashes, one punishment for each year he’s cursed this Earth with his existence. Only then does he finally allows himself to breathe, letting the tiny blade clatter to the floor. There’s so much blood. There’s something exhilarating about the sight—knowing all this blood came from him. Him and him alone.

He sways on his feet a little—the adrenaline rush is making his head spin. Or maybe it’s the blood loss. He doesn’t really care either way. He’s too unlucky to be in any real danger. The only thing left to do is hide the evidence. But there’s no point in cleaning it all up until he can get his arm to stop dripping, so he staggers to the bathroom and thrusts his arm underneath the tap, twisting the handle with his slightly less bloody hand. He hisses as the water begins to run over his shredded skin and curses loudly. He quickly turns it back off, watching uncertainly as more blood continues to pour out of him. So much for stopping the bleeding…should he just wait for it to stop on its own? Jesus. He hasn’t cut this much since he still lived in his old house. He exhales shakily, leaning his elbows on the counter and hanging his head over the sink. The brief high the pain and bleeding gave him is already long gone. What a waste. Was it even worth it?

He quickly snaps out of whatever apathetic trance he’d begun slipping into as the sound of the front door opening and closing echoes throughout the house. For a few seconds he just freezes in place and stands there stupidly, trying to figure out if he’d imagined it. Henry isn’t supposed to be here yet. The grocery store is twenty minutes away, but he hasn’t even been gone for half an hour. Why. What. The fuck.

He snaps up at the speed of light, nearly falling over as spots fill his vision. Henry is calling for him from downstairs, but his stupid arm is still bleeding and there’s a whole crime scene in his bedroom he hasn’t covered up yet. “I’ll be down in a minute!” he shouts. His heart pounds painfully against his rib cage and his breaths are beginning to sound more like gasps. He stumbles out of the bathroom and back into his room, looking around wildly for something he can use that will stop the bleeding and hide the evidence. He gets the brilliant idea to cut one end off of a sock and use it as a bandage, but with another pang of frustration and panic he remembers he still doesn’t have any damn scissors. He paws frantically through his drawers, wincing when he accidentally knocks something off of the dresser. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He’s such a goddamn idiot. Useless, worthless, disgusting—

Suddenly, there’s another presence in the room, yanking him away from the drawers he’d been sifting through. He hadn’t even heard Henry coming upstairs, but he must have gotten suspicious of his panicky voice or the loud crashing sound and caught sight of a bloody footprint in the hallway or something. “What did you–hold on. Stay right here.” Henry rushes down the hallway and returns just seconds later with a towel. He dabs away some of the blood to get a better look at the injuries, before pressing the towel over his entire arm and instructing Michael to put pressure on it. Michael obeys, too scared to do anything else, and stares up at Henry frightfully as he anticipates whatever awful thing is going to happen next. It ends up being far worse than anything he expected. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Michael’s heart nearly stops. “What?” he cries. “You can’t do that, I–”

“Yes, I can,” Henry says firmly, eyes wide with alarm. “Those are deep.”

“I’m so sorry, I s-swear I won’t do it again,” Michael sobs through gasping breaths, “if you just give me a few minutes I can stop the bleeding–”

“Michael David Afton,” Henry interrupts him, looking into his eyes with the most serious expression Michael had ever seen him wear. “Do you hear yourself right now?! You made dozens of cuts on your arm with–what is this, a razor blade?” He gestures wildly to the pencil sharpener blade lying on the floor. “I don’t even know where you got your hands on that! You’re practically bleeding out!”

Michael hesitates for a moment as Henry’s words sink in, finally beginning to register the actual severity of the situation as he notices how much blood has already soaked through the towel. He’s been doing this shit for so long, it’s almost become a normal sight to him. Through all the noise in his brain, he vaguely wonders when it got this bad.

“You clearly need more help than I can give you. You are going, and if you don’t let me drive you I will call an ambulance to come pick you up.” Henry’s voice is unyielding, and it’s clear he will not be swayed. With a surprisingly gentle grip, Henry grabs hold of his shoulder and tugs him forward, leading him down the stairs and out the front door.

“I have school tomorrow,” Michael says weakly as Henry ushers him into the front seat. His voice sounds small and detached, and he feels lightheaded. He doesn’t know why he even bothered saying that–it was hardly an attempt to convince Henry not to drive him to the hospital.

“Yeah? And if you think I’m letting you show up tomorrow in that state, you are sorely mistaken.” Henry’s words are harsh, but he doesn’t sound mad. His own voice is trembly and his face looks almost as scared as Michael feels. “Don’t move your arm,” he orders when Michael attempts to buckle his seat belt. “I’ll get that.”

“Sorry,” he whispers, nearly choking on the word.

“No. Don’t be sorry to me–just…” Henry sighs shakily, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Mike. Be sorry to yourself.” Michael can’t understand why Henry still refuses to be angry at him after pulling a stunt like this. “I think it’s about time we started looking into getting you medication, or a therapist, or something,” Henry continues as he pulls out of the driveway. “You can’t keep doing this, Mike, you’re going to–” he swallows, his voice breaking. “You’re going to end up…getting yourself seriously hurt.”

Killed, is what Henry means to say. Henry thinks Michael’s going to get himself killed. He thinks Michael is going to end up like Charlie, and he thinks he’s going to lose another kid. Michael is so fucking selfish for putting him through all of this—the poor man has been through enough. And Henry has done so much for him. First of all, he agreed to take Michael into his own home in the first place, and ever since then he’s been doing everything in his power to make sure Michael is well-cared for. But what does he do? He resists, ignores, or sabotages all of Henry’s efforts to help him. He repays Henry’s kindness and patience by being an insolent leech, stressing him out and costing him time, money, and now a medical bill. Just today, Henry had gone out of his way to make sure Michael had a lovely birthday, and Michael just threw all of it away. He is a parasitic, ungrateful wretch. And Henry doesn’t even have the sense to be angry about it.

Michael doesn’t try to hold back his sobs anymore. He hopes Henry will come to his senses and realize what a disgusting little rat he is–throw him out of the moving car, send him skidding across the road and leave him there to die or something–but Henry is too good and too stupid of a person to do something like that, and instead drives them the entire way to the emergency room. And when Michael nearly falls straight onto the concrete when he tries getting out of the car, Henry catches him and keeps a tight hold of him to ensure he doesn’t get hurt any more than he already is.

It’s like they’re playing a game of tug-of-war, but the pit the loser falls into is behind Michael rather than in between them. Henry helps him across the parking lot and through the doors of the emergency room, tugging him away from that pit yet again. Michael wishes he wouldn’t.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, the reason Henry got home so much earlier than expected was because he did not in fact go to the grocery store, but to the bakery. To pick up a birthday cake. Because of course he did. Although it’s safe to say by the time Michael and Henry get home from the emergency room, neither of them are in quite the mood for any sort of celebration. It’s nearly eight o'clock at night when they leave the ER and Henry just settles on picking up some fast food on the way home for dinner.

Anyway, after Michael had managed to eat two singular french fries and half of a cheeseburger bun, Henry gave him two options: to talk over the night’s events right then or in the morning. Michael had of course chosen tomorrow morning, since that option was further away. And all of that leads to the current moment, and also one of the most shameful moments of Michael’s life thus far: an impromptu “sleepover” in the living room with Henry, who had insisted Michael could not be left alone for the night. Which, fair enough.

His eyes drift over to the kitchen table, where Henry is sitting and writing in some sort of book and probably waiting for him to fall asleep. But he can’t–not after today. His mind and heart are racing, and he wishes he had the Fredbear doll to squeeze. He doesn’t want to risk it getting all bloody again, though. That was a disaster.

His eyes alternate between staring at the ceiling, watching Henry’s pen moving across paper, and following the gentle movements of the curtains by the window as they sway back and forth. One time, as he moves his eyes to watch Henry again, he startles as he realizes Henry is looking back. “Can’t sleep?”

Michael shakes his head softly.

“Hmm…Do you want some tea, or melatonin or something?” Henry asks.

Michael blinks. “Um…sure.” He isn’t actually that big a fan of tea–Elizabeth used to call him a traitor to their ancestors–but he’ll take anything that even has a chance of helping him fall unconscious and escaping the dreadful reality he’s stuck in at the moment.

Henry goes into the kitchen and returns a few minutes later with a steaming mug, as well as a small purple gumdrop-looking thing. Michael takes both of them with a practically inaudible “thank you.”

“What’s on your mind?” Henry asks. Michael furrows his eyebrows, because surely the answer to that question is obvious? Clearly Henry gets the hint, because he quickly clarifies,“I mean, what specifically?”

“Uhm…” This is exactly the type of conversation Michael was trying to avoid earlier. Being forced to talk about it is going to be awful, and the anticipation of the inevitable conversation has been eating him alive. Which is probably why he can’t sleep in the first place. “I’d rather not talk about it…”

“I know you don’t want to, but you’ve got to help me out here, kid,” Henry sighs. “As much as I hate to force you, there comes a point where I need to know what’s going on. It’s either gonna be now or tomorrow morning.”

Michael swallows hard, looking down at the mug in his lap before setting it down on the floor so he can cross his arms over his knees. Henry is right: they might as well get this over with. “Okay…” 

“So you wanna tell me what was going on today? What set this all off?”

Michael chews on his lip, trying to come up with a relatively inoffensive way to word his feelings. “I hate my birthday,” he says vaguely. And when Henry waits for him to elaborate, “I hate being celebrated.”

“And why’s that?”

Michael huffs through his teeth, his face hardening as he glares at the floor. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Henry considers his answer carefully. “Do you hurt yourself because you feel guilty, then?”

Here we go. “Uh, sometimes, I guess…” Michael mutters. He hesitates. There’s a billion reasons why. Guilt, anger, sadness, numbness, stress, anxiety, boredom. Sometimes he doesn’t even know why. “It just makes me feel better.”

“And you don’t have anything else you could do that makes you feel better?” Henry asks, frowning. Michael shakes his head. “Guess we need to work on that.” Then he pauses thoughtfully, clearly trying to make some sense of Michael’s perplexingly illogical mindset. “What made you start doing this in the first place?”

The honest answer to that question is painfully stupid. It’s so fucking pathetic, it just might be enough to help Henry realize what a lost cause he is. So he says it.“I just because I wanted my dad’s attention.” He glances up to check the man’s reaction, but rather than being met with the disappointment he had expected, he sees that Henry’s expression is contorted with pain.

“Oh, Mike,” he sighs sadly. “I’m so sorry.”

Michael stares in disbelief. “You’re sorry?” he repeats incredulously. “It’s not your fault I’m a wreck. What are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry for not being there sooner. It’s a parent's job to make sure their children are happy and safe. William failed you as a parent, and I failed to notice the signs. I’m sorry for that.”

Henry’s self-blame is so unbelievably frustrating. Sure, Father was a piece of shit, but in the end, he wasn’t forcing Michael to perform his stupid little self-destructive stunts. Why can’t Henry ever admit it when Michael is in the wrong? “My dad didn’t cut me,” Michael points out skeptically. “I chose to do that. So it’s my fault.”

“No,” Henry argues, sounding pained. “Mike, that’s—that’s not how it works. How old were you when you started to…you were a child! You are a child! Parents are supposed to notice when their kids are struggling, and then do something about it. Not sit back and let it happen! That’s just…negligence!”

“I don’t see why you feel so bad,” Michael mutters, picking at his nails. “You’re doing plenty, and you’re not even my father in the first place. So it shouldn’t be your problem if I’m the one choosing to be difficult.”

“As far as I’m concerned, I am your parent,” Henry snaps. Michael tenses, startled by the change in Henry’s tone. At first, it sounds like anger, but on second thought, it’s something else Michael can’t name. Whatever it is, it’s intense, and demands his full attention. “And I don’t care how many times you screw up, or how ‘difficult’ you are, or how much you think you don’t deserve it,” Henry continues. “I’m going to keep doing everything in my power to keep you safe. Because I care about you. I love you.”

His words pierce straight into Michael’s frail heart, and he’s helpless to do anything but stare back at Henry like a deer in headlights as the words echo in his mind. They hurt, but they don’t hurt like they’re intending to wound him. They hurt like they’re intending to disinfect a wound that’s already been inflicted. I don’t–” he gulps, his brain refusing to function properly. “I just don’t understand why.”

Henry relaxes his posture, lowering his tone again as if he realized he may have come off too strong. He looks like he’s about to cry. “I know you don’t,” he sighs. “Love isn’t something you need to earn, Mike, it just is. I just love you because you’re you. You can’t ‘mess that up.’ I don’t love you less when you make mistakes.”

Michael understands that, to an extent. He would never love Charlie or Jeremy less if they made a mistake. But it feels like a giant leap to apply that logic on someone like himself. Isn’t there a limit on how big a ‘mistake’ can be before it becomes unforgivable? Where is the line drawn? He wonders where Father drew the line. Father must have loved him at some point, because Michael has fond memories of them together. Like when he taught Michael how to draw a rabbit ear to look floppy versus straight. Or like when he took him to the store just to proudly demonstrate how cheap a bag of marshmallows could get if properly couponed, and then taught him how to do it himself. What about that time he helped Michael, Elizabeth, and Evan to dig a hole to make a time capsule? Surely Father had loved him during those times. When did it stop? What was the final straw? “My Father,” Michael croaks. He almost forgets Henry is sitting across from him for a second.

“William never loved anything,” Henry says quietly. Michael has not seen Henry cry in a very long time, but there are tears dripping down his face now. “He was just very good at pretending.”

Michael tries to imagine what it must have been like for Henry to find out what his best friend of who-knows-how-many-years had done. They had been best friends years before Michael was even born. He cannot even begin to comprehend how evil a person would have to be, to be able to have done what that man did. To kill your best friend’s child, the child that you had raised alongside your own for over a decade, and then show up at the funeral so you could comfort the same best friend you betrayed. All without remorse. It makes Michael feel sick. It makes Michael feel sick that he shares DNA with such a monster.

He can’t bear to think about it anymore. He leans forward to put his arms around Henry, completely unprompted, and begins to cry. Henry cries too. They cry for Charlie, Elizabeth, and Evan. For Susie, and Gabriel, and Fritz, and Jeremy, and Cassidy. For the parents. They even cry for that little golden retriever puppy that’s urn had been placed on Susie’s grave, because not even animals were safe from Father. They cry over so many things it all becomes blended together and they cry just for the sake of crying.

Henry doesn’t let him go, even when both of them have long since run out of tears, until Michael’s leg is literally screaming at him from how long he’s been sitting on it improperly and he breaks away. “You okay?” Henry asks softly.

“I’m just fantastic,” Michael sniffles dully.

Despite the heavy atmosphere, Henry cracks a smile at that. “C'mere. I bet you’ve dehydrated yourself.” Michael winces at the audible sound of his joints cracking as he gets up to follow the older man’s lead into the kitchen. Henry gives him a glass of water and instructs him to lay back on the couch. According to the clock on the wall, it’s nearly midnight at this point. “You think you can get some rest now?

Michael hums an affirmative. He feels like he’s drained all of the energy in his body and won’t be able to move again for the next ten years.

“Alright.” Henry pauses thoughtfully. “I’m glad we had this talk today, even if the circumstances weren’t great.”

Michael blinks tiredly. The conversation in question was one he had been dreading ever since hearing the front door open earlier today. He hates being vulnerable. But now that it’s already over with, there’s an odd looseness to his body he hasn’t felt in years. Like a weight has been taken off of his back. Just for that, he’s almost glad they had this conversation, too. “…Do you mean it?”

Henry nods without hesitation. “I do. I meant everything I said. I’ve said it a thousand times before and I’ll say it again: you can talk to me about anything.”

Michael appreciates Henry’s offer, but he knows for certain not to trust the word ‘anything.’ If he says something too severe, there’s a chance Henry might freak out like he did today. Then again, actually catching someone in the act isn’t quite the same as talking about it, so maybe it would be fine…

Maybe.

Chapter Text

Henry does not let Michael return to school on Monday, insisting he needs one day off at the bare minimum. Henry also (understandably) refuses to leave Michael alone in the house all day, and tells him he can work on his homework in the back of his classroom or something.

Henry has always been at his happiest when he’s around his machines, and clearly being in his robotics classroom is no different. There’s no trace of last night’s emotions on his features the entire day, and Michael is pleased to find out that Henry is actually a pretty fun teacher. Despite being surrounded by machinery his whole life, Michael can barely tell a bolt from a screw and has no idea what the hell Henry is talking about most of the time, but watching him bounce around the room and geek out over tiny pieces of metal is pretty entertaining. He can really see where Charlie got it from.

Also, he manages to actually get a lot of homework done for once. There isn’t really a point in doing so, since he’s already failing half of his classes and is guaranteed to be retaking them next year anyway, but he can’t help but feel a little accomplished.

“How are you feeling today?” Henry asks him when they get home. “Better?”

“Yes,” Michael says honestly. He isn’t sure how it’s even possible to feel the level of ‘okay’ he feels right now. Yesterday was awful, and today was a shockingly significant improvement.

“I think a good cry is just what you needed,” Henry remarks. For a moment Michael thinks he’s just teasing, but his expression is genuine.

“Oh,” Michael says smartly.

“Yeah.” Henry ruffles his hair. “You need to find a better way to express your emotions. I think I should invest in getting you a journal.”

“A journal?” Michael repeats.

Not two minutes later, an unsuspecting yellow composition notebook is pushed into his arms. “Knew I had some extra notebooks around here somewhere,” Henry says proudly.

“What do I do with it?” Michael asks.

Henry looks at him quizzically. “Uh…Write in it?”

“Oh.” Michael’s face warms. He’d meant to say ‘what am I supposed to write in it’, but the answer to that question is obvious, too. He’s clearly supposed to write down his feelings, isn’t he? “…Will you read it?”

“Of course not. It’s yours,” Henry assures him. “Write whatever you want in it.”

Michael sinks in relief, despite not actually having plans to write anything that personal in it. Maybe he’d write down one or two stupid things just so he could tell Henry he’d tried out the idea. “Thank you.”

On Tuesday, Michael is sitting on the stairs with Jeremy at lunchtime, as per usual, when a pretty blonde girl approaches them out of nowhere with a small pink box in her hands.

“Jessica?” Michael asks in surprise.

“Hi,” she says a little awkwardly. “I know we aren’t really, well, close, but I wanted to tell you happy birthday. Well, happy late birthday, anyway.” She hands him the box.

“Wha—how did you even…?”

“I know you have the same birthday as my dad, so you know. Easy to remember.” Jessica gestures towards the box, signaling him to open it.

Michael complies and is surprised to find a friendship bracelet. It seems like a bit of a childish gift to give a sixteen year old, but for some reason the little yellow bracelet invokes a slew of complex emotions. He stares at it in awe for a few moments before slipping it onto his non-injured wrist, careful not to expose any old scars. “Wow, I—thank you.”

Jessica smiles at him genuinely. “Now you’re one of the girls,” she jokes. She slides up her sleeve to reveal a similar bracelet, but in pink. “Marla wanted to come tell you happy birthday, but you weren’t here yesterday and she’s sick today.”

“Ah,” Michael contributes helpfully, his brain slightly overwhelmed by the unexpectedness of the situation. Curse him and his goddamn shitty social skills. “Sorry.”

“No prob. Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair now. Bye, Mike, and happy birthday!” Jessica’s shiny blonde hair disappears behind a wall.

“Your birthday?” Jeremy demands, sounding betrayed. “When was that? Is that why you were gone on Monday?”

Michael winces. “It was on Sunday…”

“Dude! I was with you on Sunday! Why the hell didn’t you say anything?!” Jeremy groans, palming his face.

“I don’t know!” Michael excuses himself weakly. “I just…forgot?” To be fair, his mind had been too preoccupied with anxiety and self-loathing to consider whether Jeremy might want to know the significance of the date.

Jeremy sighs. “Well, happy late birthday to you,” he huffs. “Forgot. Really? Now I feel bad. I never even said happy birthday.”

“You just did,” Michael points out, earning a heated glare. “Sorry…I didn’t know it was that important…”

“Birthdays only come once a year. That’s like, the same level of rare as Christmas. Of course it’s important!”

“The same level of rare as Christmas,” Michael repeats in bewilderment. Jeremy’s mouth truly works faster than his brain, and sometimes he says the stupidest things. Even better is his delivery, since he says everything in that gentle, softspoken voice of his. It will never not be funny.

“Okay, whatever, call me stupid for saying that, but am I wrong?” Jeremy retorts.

“No…”

“That’s what I thought.”

After enduring the rest of Jeremy’s lecture, his remaining classes, and a slow walk home, Michael finds himself back at home, staring at the new art supplies sitting on his desk. The sight of the expensive looking box still makes his stomach churn. He looks for the price sticker on the bottom, but finds Henry had scratched it off. That bastard. He inhales deeply, reminding himself it was Henry’s own poor decision to spoil him rotten, and opens the sketchbook to check out the quality of the paper. He shouldn’t be surprised to find a little note written on the first page in green pen:

Happy birthday, Mike!! Love you lots :)

“You absolute dick,” Michael mutters under his breath, shaking his head to himself. He flips to the second page, wanting to keep the message intact despite his irritation with it, and taps his forehead with his finger as he tries to decide what he should draw first. His first thought is to draw something for Henry to demonstrate his appreciation for the gift. He thinks of drawing Fredbear, Henry’s first and favorite character, but quickly scraps the idea due to the memories associated with it. The second character that comes to mind is the Marionette, an animatronic Henry had created as a gift for Charlie. That might be dangerous territory as well, although he doubts it considering Henry still has photos of Charlie posed with it hung up on the walls, but he decides to play it safe and go with a different character. He eventually settles on Chica, knowing Henry had been fond of her for her silliness. When he had first created her, he described her as having “a big heart and an even bigger appetite.” Michael honors that by giving her a big slice of pizza and stupidly cartoonish heart eyes.

He stares at the finished product for an unnecessary amount of time, wondering if he should actually get up and give it to Henry. He knows the drawing isn’t bad; as much as he likes to think he sucks at everything he does, art is undeniably something he’s actually good at. Father always called it a useless skill–which is ironic coming from a man who helped design characters for his very successful business in the children’s entertainment industry–although then again he was probably just saying that to make Michael feel bad about the one thing he had going for him. Michael knows for a fact Henry will appreciate the drawing, probably won’t shut up about how amazing it is for days, but for some reason he feels so daunted by the idea of giving it to him. Hesitantly, he rips the page out of the book and gently holds it by the edges, slowly shuffling towards his door.

Henry is sitting at the table downstairs, going through some very boring looking paperwork. Michael stands stupidly at the bottom of the stairs for a minute, debating whether to come forward or not. Eventually Henry manages to sense his presence somehow, and turns around to offer him a warm smile. “Hey there. What’s going on?”

It’s now or never, Michael decides, and he drags his feet to the kitchen and wordlessly places the drawing in front of Henry. It goes about how he expected it to.

“Wow! This is amazing–you did this all in one day?” Henry gushes, with a smile bright enough to melt snow. “I love it! Seriously, you should take an art class next year! This is brilliant!”

“Thanks,” Michael mutters, staring at the ground and trying to ignore the burning in his cheeks. Jesus, you’d think I just painted the Mona Lisa or something…

“Can I give you a hug?” Henry asks, still beaming. Michael’s entire body aches for him to say yes, but he shakes his head no. He thinks a hug might actually kill him. Henry doesn’t look hurt by his rejection of the offer, hardly missing a beat. “It’s all good. I’m going to hang this on the fridge!”

The refrigerator is already cluttered with drawings, 90% of them drawn by Charlie but a couple made by Michael’s own siblings. Somehow Henry finds room for it, and Chica fits in perfectly with all of the other pictures of Freddy’s characters.

“There we go. Right where it belongs,” Henry says proudly.

It’s pretty silly, but seeing his own drawing pinned to Henry’s obnoxiously overdecorated fridge by a crappy Mr. Hippo magnet feels…nice. Really nice. Michael isn’t quite sure why, but something is telling him that this memory will stay with him for a very long time.

Chapter Text

Henry, as it turns out, was not kidding around when he said he wanted Michael to get professional “help,” as he takes him to see a psychologist just two weeks later. Or is it a psychiatrist? Psychoanalyst? Well, whatever it’s called, it starts with psycho, which makes Michael feel very nervous.

The building looks similar to any normal doctor’s office, and even has a waiting room inside with books and toys. Michael pretends not to be tempted to fidget with those little block things as he waits anxiously for his name to be called. Henry had told him it was very lucky they’d been able to get an appointment so soon, and that usually the waiting lists are much longer. But Michael doesn’t feel lucky. He feels like a lamb who’s next in line at the slaughterhouse.

“Michael Afton?”

Michael stands slowly like it’s his turn to be executed, too scared to move until Henry gently nudges him in the direction of the door. A tall blonde woman with a clipboard greets him with a smile. “Good morning! My name is Diana Lewis. You two can follow me, okay?” She leads them down a hallway and makes Michael stand on a scale. She also makes him press his back against a wall so she can measure his height. (He resists the urge to roll his eyes when she reads the result aloud. How come Michael had to inherit every goddamn one of Father’s genes, except for tallness and flawless skin? Fucking hell. He prays he gets another growth spurt or something soon.)

Then, Ms. Lewis takes them to a smaller room, complete with small plastic chairs, and gestures for them to sit. “I’m going to ask you some questions, okay?” she tells Michael. “Try to be as honest as you can. This will help me get a better idea of what’s going on here.”

“Alright,” Michael agrees cautiously.

“This one probably sounds dumb, but what’s your full name? And do you have a name you prefer to be called?”

“Michael David Afton. Everyone calls me Mike.”

“Right on, Mike. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Great. When’s your birthday?”

She must ask him a million questions, each one getting progressively more invasive. Has he been on medication before? Does he have allergies? Has he ever been diagnosed with anything? Does he have any medical problems? How many siblings does he have? Does anyone in his family have a history of mental health issues or substance abuse? (That question in particular makes Michael wonder what sort of crazy mental illness Father had that nobody caught onto.) How’s his mood? Is he often anxious? How’s his sleep? Have there been any recent notable events that have led him here today? Michael is starting to think she’ll never stop, but then she turns to Henry. He assumes this means she’s finally done, but instead she does something that surprises him. “Okay sir, I’m going to ask you to leave the room for a moment so I can have a brief chat with Mike here.”

Michael watches Henry stand from his chair and leave the room, and Ms. Lewis turns back to him, flipping a page on her clipboard. "Alrighty. These questions are going to be a little more difficult to answer, but please be as honest as you can. This is all confidential. I will only tell your guardian if you are currently in danger. Got it?” Michael nods, frowning. He feels kind of nervous without Henry here with him. “Awesome. First question: are you sexually active?”

Michael flushes, suddenly no longer opposed to Henry’s absence. “No…”

“Alrighty. Have you ever used any substances? Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes? If so, when’s the last time?”

“Um…I’ve been drunk a few times, and I used to smoke cigarettes. But I haven’t done that in a couple of months.” He already hates where this is going. No wonder she kicked Henry out—so she could get him to talk about the hard stuff.

“Have you ever been a victim of any type of abuse? Emotional, physical, sexual…?”

You know you deserve it, don’t you? a familiar, scathing voice that is not his own sneers in his head. Michael fidgets with the edge of his shirt. “The—the first two. Not anymore.”

“Care to go into more detail?” No, he would not. He shakes his head stiffly, and to his surprise she actually moves on, not making him speak on the subject any more. “Okay. Have you ever attempted suicide?”

Michael swallows hard. “No.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, just barely enough to be noticeable. “Do you ever feel like committing suicide, or plan to?”

“No.” That’s partially true. If Michael ever does end up killing himself, it sure as hell wouldn’t be planned. Almost every bad, life-ruining decision he's ever made was a reckless, heat-of-the-moment impulse. 

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” Michael shakes his head again, and it’s silent for a moment as she looks back down at her clipboard, writing something down. Then she stands up again, giving him a soft, reassuring smile. Michael hopes this means she believes him. “That’s it for now. Thank you, Mike. I’m going to step outside and speak with Mr. Emily for a second. In the meantime, I’d like you to fill out this little paper.” She hands him a dull pencil and some sort of survey with about a trillion more questions on it.

Michael watches helplessly as the door clicks shut, extremely tempted to press his ear against the door to hear what they’re talking about. It can’t be too bad—he’d lied about a couple of the questions after all, but he’s still nervous as hell about what she had to pull Henry outside of the room for. He exhales shakily and turns his eyes down to the paper in front of him, disheartened to see a bunch of similar questions. On a scale from 1 to 5, rate the following statements on how accurately they describe you…

When Henry comes back in—alone, Michael notes—he can’t resist the urge to blurt out a question. “What did she tell you?”

Henry sighs, an expression equal parts fondness and sadness forming on his face. “Nothing I don’t already know, kid.”

“Oh.” Thank God. He notices Henry is holding some paperwork of his own, and decides to shut up and fill out his stupid little survey instead of talking. He ends up writing a lot of 5's.

Ms. Lewis returns just as he finishes answering the final question, only to leave the room again after collecting the forms. Michael props his elbows up on his knees and rests his face against his hands. Henry had already taken him to get his stitches removed a few days ago, and his arms are already nearly completely healed over now. Although…he’s noticed one of the larger wounds is starting to hurt all of the time. Michael really hopes that’s just a normal part of the healing process.

“You holding up okay?”

“I’m golden,” Michael mumbles into his sleeve. He shivers at the feeling of a hand ruffling his hair.

“Tired?” Henry teases mildly.

“What can I say? I’ve had a busy day,” Michael drawls sarcastically. That was rude. “Wait. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re not exactly wrong…” The man next to him sighs. “I hope things will start looking up for you after this.”

“I hope so, too,” Michael agrees, mainly just to appease him. He doubts things will start looking up, and isn’t even sure he wants them to. Misery is all he’s ever known, and the thought of leaving that familiarity is...scary. As dumb and nonsensical as that sounds.

The door opens for what Michael hopes is the last time. Ms. Lewis concludes that Michael certainly fits the criteria for major depressive disorder, although she suspects he has some other comorbidity that will require further evaluation. Fuck, that word sounds terrible. She also gives them a set of instructions in regards to whatever drug she’s trying to put him on:

1. Take it once every night.
2. Never take more or less than prescribed.
3. Consult a professional if he experiences severe side effects.

Then, an instruction specifically for Henry:

1. Keep the pills out of Michael’s reach, and check to make sure he doesn’t hide them under his tongue. (Michael opens his jaw indignantly at this, but Ms. Lewis pays him no mind. Henry just nods in agreement.)

“I’ll see you again soon to check in. Have a nice day, you two!” Ms. Lewis smiles brightly as if she didn’t just imply Michael would attempt to take himself out if given the opportunity. Henry thanks her with a smile, apparently also unphased by the suggestion, and they head back out to the car.

The next order of business is to pick up the medication at an actual pharmacy. Afterwards Michael finds himself staring at the little orange bottle in his hand like it’s a bomb about to go off. He can’t even figure out how to pronounce the name on the label. “I don’t like this,” he mutters.

“It’s a good first step to getting better,” Henry reminds him.

“That’s the problem,” Michael says dejectedly. “I don’t want to need to take drugs to be happy. I’m not psycho.” He just has major depressive disorder. Disorder. Disorder.

“I take medication too,” Henry says. That shuts him right up. Henry just huffs, thankfully looking more amused than offended. “You don’t have to be ‘psycho’ to take medication. It isn’t going to change your whole personality or anything like that–it’ll just give you a little help regulating your emotions.”

Regulating his emotions, huh? It would be nice if he could reduce his tendency to freak out all the time, but on the other hand, what if it makes him completely apathetic or something? What if he starts getting too dependent on these?

“You’ll be fine,” Henry reassures him. “I promise.”

Michael really wishes he could believe that.

Chapter Text

“Mike? Mike. Michael!”

Michael blinks groggily, lifting his face from the desk. He realizes he must have fallen asleep. His math teacher is glaring at him, hands on her hips. “That’s an hour of detention for you. Just because it’s the end of the day and you’re bored doesn’t mean you don’t have to participate!” She slides a pink note onto his desk.

Michael scoffs under his breath, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Most of his teachers have been quite lenient with his slacking off so far, but it seems the “grace period” he’d been given since returning to school is beginning to wear off. He takes the note, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and makes his way out of the classroom and towards where he remembers the discipline center to be. It’s an unfortunately familiar route.

Mrs. Wilson looks disappointed to see him walk through the doors. “Welcome back, Mr. Af—er, Mike.” Michael can’t bring himself to be bothered by her slip-up, although he finds it mildly amusing that she feels uncomfortable using his last name now. “What’s brought you here this time?”

He wordlessly hands her the slip of paper and she seems a little relieved after reading it. “Oh, yes, alright, well—you can sit right over there.”

Michael’s eyes lazily follow where her finger points to a row of desks on the side of the room. To his chagrin, Ryan is sitting in one of those desks, glaring at him with a murderous expression.

“Whatcha in for, Afton?” Ryan whispers scathingly at him as he walks by. Michael chooses to ignore him, plopping his stuff down a few desks in front of him and resting his cheek on his palm. He’s still so fucking tired, but putting his head down will likely just result in more hours of detention. He forces himself to pull a pencil and some binder paper out of his backpack so he looks busy. The smart thing to do would be so actually try and complete some homework for once, but Michael is not very smart. His pencil drags across the paper and lazily sketches out the shape of a head. He procrastinates actually drawing the facial features, instead adding a body and some clothes first.

A crumpled ball of paper hits him in the back of the head, and he closes his eyes for a minute and represses a sigh. It’s not an uncommon occurrence for Ryan to do shit like this—although it happens slightly less often than it did in the immediate weeks following the party. Ryan always gives Michael little reminders of how much he hates him whenever he gets the chance, whether that means writing tiny little slurs and ‘kill yourself’ messages on his locker every now and then or giving him a mean look and talking a little extra loudly about him whenever he walks by in the hallway. And of course, the time he punched him in the stomach on the first week he was back at school. Michael continues drawing, not in the mood to deal with his bullshit. Just a few minutes later, another object bounces off of his head—probably a pen based on the clacking sound and mild pain it caused— and he finally moves his pencil back to the face and etches out a cartoonishly stupid and angry facial expression. A flat Chica mask is added to the side of the head. Michael smiles childishly as he makes the final touch: a large pointing arrow with the word “BITCH” in all capital letters. Very immature, but it’s definitely enough to offend a moron like Ryan. He holds on to the drawing until detention ends, and discreetly slips it onto the desk Ryan is sitting at and speeds out of the classroom before he can get caught.

Luckily, he arrives home before Henry does, so he won’t have to explain the reason he’s late. He heads up to his room, not even bothering to take off his jacket before flopping into his bed. He’s so sleepy it hardly takes him two minutes to fall unconscious.

-

Henry wakes him for dinner. “You’ve been pretty tired the past few days,” Henry comments. “Have you been falling asleep in class a lot?”

Michael freezes, heart stuttering. “How do you know about that?” he stammers.

Henry huffs, looking slightly amused. “I got a call from the school, Mike.”

Michael looks back down at his plate, feeling stupid. “Oh. Right…”

“I’m not mad about something you can’t help. The psychiatrist said your medication might have side effects while your body adjusts, remember?” Michael does not remember. He hadn’t really been listening. But that would explain why he can hardly keep his eyes open; he thought he was just being lazy. “It should go away after a week or two, she said.”

“Oh,” Michael says helpfully.

“Have you had any other side effects?” Henry asks. “Headaches, stomach problems…?”

Michael racks his brain, trying to recall events of the past few days. “I don’t think so,” he concludes. “Except my eyes. Jeremy said they looked weird.” He omits the fact Jeremy had actually asked if he was high or something—not only because he was so tired all of a sudden, but because he had somehow managed to notice the difference in the size of his goddamn pupils. Seriously, who the hell even notices things like that? Ugh. Anyway, at least Michael had managed to convince him he had to start taking medication for some sort of mystery medical impairment, because no way was he about to admit he’s so fucked up he has to take psycho-pills. “Can I go back to sleep?” he asks sheepishly, having been able to eat most of his food for once.

“Wow, you’re that tired?” Henry asks in surprise. “Um, sure. But I’m going to have to wake you at eight to give you your pill.”

Michael nods sluggishly, and rises up from his seat to wash his plate and head back upstairs. It’s strange to be able to fall asleep so easily after years of struggling with insomnia. Although, despite sleeping so much the past few days, he still doesn’t feel rested at all. So it’s definitely not an improvement—if anything, it’s even more annoying. Michael hopes it will wear off soon.

Chapter Text

Michael is walking down the hallway with Jeremy as normal, when a hard kick to his shin causes him to stumble forward and nearly fall flat on his face. He manages to catch himself, and turns around swiftly to look for whatever asshole had just tried to trip him. He isn’t surprised to notice Ryan, who just continues to walk down the hall as if he hadn’t done a thing. Normally Michael would try to ignore him, but today he’s in a sour mood and this is the second time this week Ryan has tried starting something. Michael grabs the boy by the shoulder and pulls, effectively yanking him around to face him. Ryan narrows his eyes, looking equally pissed. “What’s the matter?” he growls.

“What do you mean, what’s the matter? You kicked me!” Michael snaps. “I’m getting really sick of this.”

Ryan’s frown twists into a small smile at this, seemingly pleased with himself for finally provoking a satisfactory reaction. “And what are you going to do about it?”

By now, a small clearing is beginning to form in the hallway as students pause to watch the scene unfold before them. Jeremy, clearly sensing the impending danger, steps between them. “Hey, this really isn’t necessary…”

“Shut the hell up, you goddamn faggot,” Ryan interrupts him, scowling and shoving him aside. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Stop fucking calling him that!” Michael snaps. “What is your issue?”

Ryan looks confused for a second, and then grins. “What, you don’t know? It’s true.”

Michael blinks, briefly glancing back at his friend. To his shock, Jeremy just stares back at him helplessly. The fearful, mortified, and guilty look on his face basically confirms what Ryan had said. Michael swallows, pushing down his surprise and turning back to Ryan. He can think about that later, when Ryan isn’t actively tormenting and humiliating his best friend in the middle of the hallway. “I said stop it, asshole,” Michael repeats, voice becoming dangerously low.

Ryan scoffs. “I’m an asshole? Didn’t you kill your brother?”

Michael clenches his jaw so hard he fears his teeth might crack and break. “Didn’t you laugh while you helped me do it?” he spits, voice trembling. “God, you’re pathetic. I’ll fucking kill you.”

Ryan laughs. “I wouldn’t be the first one.” Then he hesitates for a moment, as if debating whether or not to twist the knife further, before his grin sharpens. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your little boyfriend here ends up like Charlotte.”

Something inside Michael snaps at hearing the name of his best friend, and in that moment all rational thinking flies out of the window. Michael lunges at the boy in front of him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and landing a hard punch on his face. Within seconds they’re on the ground, hitting and punching and kicking and whatever the hell else. Michael doesn’t know if he’s winning the fight or losing, but he doesn’t really care. He channels all of his anger and focus onto the boy below him, hardly registering the pain of his own injuries or the taste of blood in his mouth as they both struggle to inflict the most damage.

The fight doesn’t last long before some adult pulls them off of each other. “What is God’s name is going on here?” he demands. “In the middle of the hall, too? Both of you are coming straight to the office.”

“Maybe you should take him to the nurse, first,” Ryan pants, wiping blood off of his face with the back of his fist. “I think he’s got some ouchies on his arms.”

Michael bristles at the jab, face heating up with anger and shame as his hatred for the boy opposite of him grows by the second. “You—”

“Enough!” the teacher shouts. “God! Both of you be quiet before you get in even more trouble!”

Both of them reluctantly shut their mouths and acquiesce to his command, and onlookers in the hall quickly spread out to make room as Mr. Whatever-his-name-is drags them behind him. He drops them off at the principal’s office, wordlessly pointing at the chairs to make them sit down. Michael sits as far away as he can from Ryan, which isn’t too far as there’s only two chairs between them. “If either of you move,” he threatens, pointing fingers at the both of them accusingly. “You will be in a lot more trouble than you already are.”

“Yes, sir,” Ryan says agreeably. Michael narrows his eyes at that. Ryan’s acting all polite now? What a joke.

Mr. Davis, the principal, is out of his office in no time, standing in front of them with his arms crossed. “This is very disappointing,” he says. He’s always had such a way with words, this man. “I’m afraid I’ll have to call and inform your guardians.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Michael would probably be terrified to hear something like that. Maybe his mind is too clouded with anger to leave room for anything else at the moment, because Michael finds himself not giving a fuck. What’s the worst Henry could do? Beat the shit out of him? Easy. Nothing he can’t handle.

“I’m very disappointed,” Mr. Davis repeats insightfully. “I thought we were finally past all the fighting.”

Michael had thought so, too. And he would be past it, if Ryan didn’t insist on provoking him every time he gets the chance. Michael hates him. He can’t help but want to split the boy’s skull open, just a little. He would deserve it almost as much as Michael does.

Mr. Davis leaves the two of them sitting there with Mr. Whatever-his-name-is as he presumably makes those damned phone calls. Michael stares down at the floor, hating every second of silence that passes. It’s hard to believe the boy next to him was his friend at one point. At least, that’s what they called themselves. Michael isn’t sure they were ever actually friends—it was merely a mutually beneficial relationship. Ryan and the other two got free entry to the “coolest” place in town, and Michael got to surround himself with allies to distract everyone else from how pathetic and abysmal at making friends he was. They just happened to share a spot at the top of the food chain. Well, school-wise, that is. Father is the one who’s really at the top. Michael wonders if Ryan’s parents are anything like his own. He isn’t sure whether that would change how he feels about the boy or not.

-

Mr. Davis decides both boys will be suspended for the rest of the week. He explains that “he understands it has been a difficult year given Michael’s situation” and that “he will get off easy this time, but next time the consequences will be more severe.” The way he had worded it implied there is guaranteed to be a next time.

As Michael gets up to finally leave with Henry, he exchanges one last look with Ryan, still waiting for his own parents to show up, and who makes one last vulgar gesture at him and causes him to tense up with anger all over again. He wants to strangle that boy’s neck until he begs for forgiveness. Does that make him like Father? Oh, well. That’s nothing he doesn’t already know. He ignores the way his stomach churns with guilt and self-hatred, instead covering it up with anger. Anger is a much easier emotion to deal with.

For the first couple of minutes, the ride home is silent. Finally, Henry just says, “So. What happened?”

“I got mad,” Michael mumbles vaguely, staring out of the window.

“You don’t say,” Henry huffs. “Any particular reason?”

Many particular reasons, actually. Ryan’s been doing his best to torment Michael ever since that day in 1983. And this time was just too far. Not only did he bring Jeremy into the whole mess, but he actually brought up Charlie. The girl who’s death had rattled the entire town—rattled Michael so badly, he’d tried to—ugh, he doesn't even want to think about that. Ryan used her name like it was nothing, just so he could get a reaction. And, well, it worked. Michael’s only regret is not punching harder. But of course, he can’t admit most of this to Henry. At best, he’d explain why ‘it’s never okay to react with violence no matter the circumstance,’ and at worst, he’d try to get involved in the school to put an end to Ryan’s antics or something else equally disastrous. He slams his head down on the glove box in front of him, reveling in the brief jolt of pain it gives him. He wants to feel it again.

“Well, don’t give yourself brain damage,” Henry chides him. “Are you going to tell me, or not?”

“If I told you, you’d want to kill him, too,” Michael mutters against the glove box.

“I doubt that.”

“He said he bet Jeremy would die like Charlie.” Based on Henry’s silence, Michael takes a guess that he finally understands his anger. He sighs quietly, trying to make his eyes stop burning.

Henry takes a long while to come up with something to say, but eventually asks: “That kid was at the party, wasn’t he?”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it,” Michael retaliates miserably. “You can just say you recognize him from the day I fucking slaughtered my little brother.”

“Language,” Henry corrects him quietly.

“Yeah, because that’s the worst part about what I just said,” Michael snaps. “I’m a fucking murderer, and instead of spending all your energy trying to convince me I’m a great person, you should just stop pretending and bash my head in already!” By the end of his little rant, he’s seething again, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. He keeps his head pressed against the glove box to hide it.

“Mike,” Henry sighs, probably rubbing his temple like he always does when he’s disappointed. “Don’t say things like that. It’s very concerning…”

“Are you going to punish me?” Michael asks bitterly. “Or are you going to let me get away with being a brat again?”

“Punish you how? Ground you? You spend all your time isolating yourself in your room, anyway.”

“Just smack me across the face or something, then.”

“And what exactly does that accomplish?” Henry is starting to sound a bit impatient. It’s about fucking time.

“It teaches me a lesson.”

“Does it?” Henry asks. “Have you been slapped in the face before, Mike? Because you still ended up starting a fight today.” Michael flushes, irritated that Henry can use his own logic against him so effortlessly. “Hitting you isn’t going to accomplish anything,” the older man continues. “That’s just meaningless violence. Actually, a better word for that is abuse.”

“It’s called discipline.”

“It’s called abuse, Mike. Do not sit here and try to argue with me why I should hit you. You’re being ridiculous.” He takes a deep breath, and softens his tone a little. “Sit up. It’s not safe to be leaning forward like that.” Michael peels himself off of the glove box and wipes the evidence of his tears away, finally getting a look at Henry’s face. The man stares straight ahead at the road, facial expression unreadable besides ‘generally displeased.’ He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Luckily, I didn’t have a class today. When we get home, you’re going to do chores, eat dinner, then go to your room.”

“Fine,” Michael growls, self-hatred manifesting in the form of an angry tone. Doing chores is hardly a punishment, and being fed dinner might as well cancel it out entirely. All of this bullshit he’s putting Henry through, only to get a light slap on the wrist. The worst part is the fact that he’s fully aware how difficult he’s being. Henry has been nothing but kind to Michael, and doesn’t deserve a fraction of the crap he’s being put through, and yet still Michael continues to be awful. And for what reason? It’s not like it feels good to cause Henry trouble. In fact, it feels terrible. And yet here he is, still doing it.

The reason is obvious, actually. Michael is just a shitty person. That’s all there is to it.

It would’ve saved everyone so much trouble if he’d just gotten killed with everyone else.

Chapter Text

“Can I leave you home alone while I’m at work?” Henry had asked Michael sternly the next morning, once again worried about him. It makes Michael feel sick. He gave a quiet ‘yeah’ in response, to which Henry pressed, “Are you sure? If you’re going to get sad being here all by yourself, I can take you to work with me again. Or I can ask Jen to come stay with you.”

“I promise I’ll be fine,” Michael had reassured him dejectedly, depressed by Henry’s lack of faith in him although he definitely could not blame him for it. Also, the last time he saw Jen was at Charlie’s funeral, and the idea of having her come over to babysit him to make sure he doesn’t kill himself or something is just sad.

“There’s a list near the house phone,” Henry reminded him. “The fourth number down is my classroom. Call me if you need anything. I’ll do my best to help.”

“I know. I’ll be fine,” Michael repeated. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be home at the same time as usual,” Henry had promised, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll see you later, Mike. I love you. Be safe.”

Then he was finally gone, and that leads to now. Michael is alone. In this stupid, empty, quiet house. He just stands and stares at the door for a few moments, before gravitating back up the stairs. He pretends not to notice the sign that reads ‘Charlie’s Room’ as he walks by, as per usual. He hasn’t been in there in months at this point, since he put Ella back in her rightful place. He’s too scared of the feelings going back in there might bring up.

He shuts his door behind him and crawls onto his bed, letting the invisible weight take its usual place on his chest. The heavy silence in the room is unbearable, and Michael wishes he had some music to listen to or something. He has a perfectly good Walkman he’d managed to nick from a music store a couple years ago under his bed, but exactly zero cassette tapes. He used to have several, but Father had smashed every last one of them when he found out Michael had been sneaking out at night. Henry probably has some around the house somewhere, but Michael isn’t sure where, and frankly he isn’t sure he trusts the man’s taste in music, anyway. So, he suffers in silence, staring listlessly at the ceiling, surrounded by blank gray walls that look straight out of a hospital. Henry has offered several times to buy him decorations for his room if he wants them, but Michael has refused every time. Owning something so…pointless, seems selfish. Posters and such don’t feed him, or shelter him, or keep him safe. They just sit there and look nice. Michael doesn’t like it when Henry spends money on him, even if the posters are dirt-cheap. Just the thought of asking for such non necessities feels wrong somehow. Michael thinks of his old room. It was certainly no sight to behold, but it at least resembled a normal teenager’s living space. He misses that house. He tries to map the entire thing out in his head, starting at the front door and walking down the hallway to peek inside each room. What color were the walls in the living room, again? He can’t quite remember the exact shade. He can’t remember what the ceiling fan looked like, either. Not that it matters. It’s just sort of depressing, for some reason. Michael wonders if anybody has bought that house yet. Did the real estate agent pretend not to know who that house once belonged to? If it sold, did the family who moved in change it at all? Maybe paint it a different color, or do something different to the front lawn? Did they paint over the notches in the wall where he’d helped Elizabeth and Evan measure their heights? 

It’s stupid how sad that thought makes him, and he forces himself to think of other things. Like school. He despises school, but it’s at least better than being stuck all alone in this empty house. And plus, he gets to see Jeremy. Jeremy…shit. That’s going to be an ordeal. Michael started a fight right in front of him, straight up ignoring his attempts at mediating. And…he’s apparently gay. Michael doesn’t really care—there are worse things to be, after all—but there’s no way Jeremy isn’t upset. Being outed in the middle of a hallway in front of everyone, including your best friend, likely isn’t a great feeling. Goddamnit, Ryan. Should Michael bring it up next time he sees him, or pretend it never happened?

He mulls over what he should do for a while, before deciding there’s no point in letting it eat him alive while he can’t do anything about it. So he forces himself to stop thinking about it, and instead tries to rack up another thought to dwell on. What’s something he can think about that’s not stress-inducing or depressing? He rolls over and sighs, mindlessly picking at the bracelet on his wrist. And—oh. That’s something. He partially rolls up his sleeve to get a better look at the bracelet, admiring the intricate golden patterns. Jessica must’ve made it herself. For a moment he wonders if she truly does want to be friends, or if this is just a courtesy. But there’s no way it’s the latter, right? She didn’t have to come up to him, let alone remember his birthday, let alone give him something. She put thought and care into it—it can’t mean nothing. And he knows her own friendship bracelet means a lot to her, because he’s seen her wearing it for years. Marla, too. And Charlie. Michael hadn’t realized it at the time, but Charlie always wore a green bracelet otherwise identical to Jessica’s. It must’ve been a friendship bracelet, too. Michael sniffs, tearing up for some reason. Not at the thought of Charlie, but at the thought of someone reaching out to be his friend, after all that he’d done. He knows Jessica didn’t used to like him. She never said anything for the sake of being polite, but it was clear she disapproved of him. And for good reason, too. She clearly didn’t understand why Charlie would even associate with a nasty person like him, and Michael didn’t either, for a while. But he’s come to the conclusion that Charlie was just too kind and pure for her own good. Perhaps that’s why Father apparently detested her enough to kill her. Michael wishes he knew the real reason he killed Charlie, but he’ll never be able to find out now. 

…So much for happy thoughts. 

-

Michael is able to fall asleep for a short while, waking up sometime around…well, he isn’t sure. It’s not dark yet, and that’s about the only clue he’s got. At some point, he hears the front door open and shut, and he figures it must be around five. 

Not too much longer after that, there’s a soft knock at his door. Michael doesn’t answer, hoping Henry will assume he’s asleep and leave him be. But to his disappointment, Henry creaks open his door to check on him. “Hey,” he greets softly, sounding completely unbothered by the revelation Michael had been willingly ignoring him.

“Hey,” Michael mumbles.

“You feeling sad again?” No response, and he sighs. “This is exactly what I was worried about, bud. You can’t just lock yourself up in here all day. It’s awful for your mind.”

“My mind is always awful.” 

“And laying here alone in the dark isn’t helping,” Henry replies. “Come on, get up. I want you to come eat dinner.”

“Not hungry.”

Henry’s eyes sharpen with concern. “Kid…have you eaten at all today?”

“Yes.” 

Unfortunately, Michael’s poker face is no match for Henry’s common sense, and he doesn’t buy it. “I’m not leaving until you come eat dinner.”

With a reluctant sigh, Michael forces himself upright, wincing as his unused muscles protest the movement. He blearily follows Henry down the stairs, sitting down at the table where a small plate of vegetables and rice waits for him. It feels like lead in his mouth, but he forces himself to eat it for Henry’s sake. He doesn’t expect to be able to finish the whole thing, but he does. He gets up to put his plate in the dishwasher, and expects Henry to allow him to return to his room and continue rotting away. But Henry stops him before he can even make it out of the kitchen. “Nope. You’re going on a walk with me.”

“A walk?” Michael repeats, surprised and confused and annoyed. “Why?”

“It’s not good for you to lay in bed all day. You need to get outside and move a little bit. We’ll just go around the block.”

“Fine,” Michael mutters. “Sure.” He reluctantly slides on his shoes and follows Henry out the front door. The sun is bright, and it’s warm out. He hopes it doesn’t get too much warmer too fast. Hot weather is his enemy. That, and adults who care about his well-being. 

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Michael answers. It’s rude, but he’s too depressed to have the decency to care. 

Despite everything, Henry gives him a lopsided smile. “Care to be a little more specific?”

Michael sighs. “I thought I was in trouble for the fight. Why are you doing this?”

“I want you to be sorry for your actions, not completely depressed and miserable.” 

“Oh,” Michael says, as if he understands the difference between those two things. 

“So what’s going on?”

Michael kicks at a small rock in front of him, huffing with satisfaction as it falls into a gutter with an audible clang! sound. “Nothing.”

Henry sighs. “I think you should start going to therapy, Mike.”

Michael blanches. “No.”

Henry side eyes him. “Yes.”

“Isn’t it enough you got me to see that dumb psycho-trist to give me drugs?”

“Antidepressants,” Henry not-so-subtly corrects him, “are useless if you still can’t figure out how to cope. They help you—but they don’t fix you. You need to learn how to express your feelings in a healthy way.”

Michael finds another rock and kicks it a few meters ahead of himself. “What, cutting myself isn’t healthy?” he snarks. 

Henry does not look amused. “No. Really, seeing a therapist isn’t the worst thing in the world. If you don’t want to talk to me, you can talk to a professional. I guarantee they have much better advice than I do.”

“…” Michael continues to dribble his little stone along the sidewalk as they walk. Henry is right about one thing—Michael has no clue how to handle his own emotions in a non-destructive way. But what simple advice could possibly help him? It’s not like Michael has never tried healthy coping mechanisms. It’s just that they don’t work. “How much money does it cost?”

“That’s not something you need to worry about,” Henry says dismissively. “If that were a problem, I wouldn’t have suggested it. Besides, I’m not giving you a choice. I don’t think you have your own best interests in mind, kid.” Michael goes silent, and Henry must understand the look on his face because he sighs again. His eyes cloud with sadness. “It’s for your own good, Mike.” 

“I know,” Michael murmurs. I just don’t want it to be for my own good. I don’t deserve good.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m trying to find a therapist for myself, too.” 

At least you have a choice, Michael thinks. He accidentally kicks his rock too far ahead, and it falls into a gutter. He wilts in mild disappointment. “Okay,” he says, unable to come up with a better response. “I’ll go.”

“Thank you,” Henry says, and pats him lightly on the back. “I really do think this is for the best.” He attempts to get Michael to open up about a few other things—school, whether he wants to try a new hobby or a sport, if he’s made any new friends. Michael mumbles out lackluster responses, feeling too heavy to talk about anything at the moment. He feels bad for shutting down the man’s attempts, but he just can’t do it today. He’ll try and be better tomorrow. Or next week. Or someday. Or whenever this horrible weight gets off of his chest next. 

“I’m sorry for making you leave work early yesterday,” Michael says quietly, despite it having nothing to do with what Henry had been trying to get him to talk about just a moment ago. “I won’t do it again.” He isn’t even sure if that’s true. He hopes not. He doesn’t want to go back to getting into fights all the time. 

“Thank you for apologizing,” Henry says, “but that’s not what I’m most worried about. I’m worried about you.” They get back to the house, and Henry opens the front door for him. “I still don’t think I should leave you alone tomorrow. I shouldn’t have even left you alone today. You’re just going to be depressed all day again, aren’t you? I don’t want that for you.”

I’m suspended, feeling miserable is the point…Michael thinks, but he doesn’t point that out aloud. He has long since given up trying to understand Henry’s ridiculous thought processes. “I’ll take care of myself this time. And eat. I promise.”

“Sorry, but I’m not buying it. Tomorrow’s Friday, and then I’ll have the whole weekend to stay here with you. How about I bring you with me to my classroom again?” Michael nods tiredly, not that he has any choice. Henry smiles at him again. “Great.”

“Can I please go back upstairs, now?” Michael mutters. “The medication’s making me tired.” It’s actually a lie. Of course, Michael is still a little bit drowsier than normal, but he’s nowhere near the same level of exhaustion he’d been when he first started taking it. But it’s still a pretty good excuse, he thinks.

Henry looks slightly displeased with this, but nods. “Of course. Thank you for at least eating dinner.”

That’s another thing Michael doesn’t understand. Why is he being thanked for something as simple as eating? In the Afton household, food was a privilege, not a right. Father would feed you, and if you didn’t like that, you were an ungrateful little twat who probably deserved to starve anyways. But Henry is the total opposite. He doesn’t see taking care of him as a courtesy, but as a duty. Michael much prefers Father’s attitude towards the matter, but of course, he will never tell that to Henry. He thinks maybe Henry sees him as a replacement for Charlie, because he can’t fathom any other reason why he cares about him so much. He’s virtually unloveable. 

“Wait. One more thing,” Henry tells him as he starts to head back up to his self-made prison. “Can you show me your arms?”

Michael looks at him with a wounded expression. “Do you think I…” he trails off. He can’t really blame the man, anyway. It’s ridiculous that it’s a concern at all, though. Not slicing your arms up when you’re sad is common sense for most people. 

“I just want to check. I’m sorry. Reluctantly, Michael rolls up his sleeves and thrusts his arms towards him, letting him make sure he hasn’t fucking ruined himself again. Thankfully Henry makes his brief little inspection quick, and signals for Michael to put his arms back down. “Thank you.”

“Yep.” Michael yanks down his sleeves again, feeling humiliated, before booking it upstairs. 

Chapter Text

“What sounds good for dinner?” Henry asks as he shuts the front door behind them.

The idea of food makes Michael feel gross, as usual. It’s not that he isn’t hungry…it’s just that his stomach feels preoccupied with that stupid metaphorical weight of misery. “I’ll eat later,” he mutters. 

Henry gives him a very not-good look, and Michael can immediately tell he screwed up. Clearly he’s tried to play the ‘not hungry’ card one too many times. “Michael…I’m getting very worried about this not eating thing. Is there something behind it?”

Uh oh. Michael spent the entire day moping in the back of Henry’s classroom, and the last thing he needs to happen today is another ‘what’s going on’ talk. Can’t be catch a break? “There’s nothing behind it,” he says. He’s not even lying. Unlike most things Michael does, not eating is never some grand, mentally ill scheme or whatever Henry thinks it is. He just feels like he can’t. “I’m just not hungry.”

“Tell me the truth.” Henry pries, his tone insistent. “You’ve been trying to avoid food for months now, and I want to know what’s going on.”

“I’ll eat, then, okay? I’m sorry,” Michael tries to backtrack. 

“That’s not what I’m trying to get you to do. I want you to give me an explanation.”

“I did! I’m just—I don’t feel like eating. I feel sick. That’s all, I swear!” Michael insists truthfully, but the man’s expression remains unchanged. Clearly it’s gotten to the point where Henry truly can’t trust anything Michael says. It stings, but it’s a natural consequence. 

“Have you even been eating lunch at school?” Well…shit. The answer to that question doesn’t help his case, either. The guilty silence tells Henry all he needs to know. “What have you been doing with the money I give you?”

“I’ve been putting it back in your wallet,” Michael admits, nearly under his breath. “Sorry.”

“Unfortunately, that I can believe,” Henry sighs. Michael frowns in confusion. What does he mean, unfortunately? Would he rather Michael be stealing the unused money for himself? “You’re thin enough as it is. You need to be eating.”

“Okay, I will, I’ll eat…” Michael repeats wearily. “Can we just not talk about this right now?”

“Mike, this is—“

”I know, it’s bad, but I just can’t right now, okay? You talk to me all the time, you talked to me yesterday, you’ve gotten me medication and a psychiatrist and you took away my scissors and you’re going to put me in therapy. It’s so much, and I can’t do it all at once!” Michael’s ramble comes out all in one breath. “I’m going to eat right now, so please just not today, okay? I’m sorry.”

Henry’s arm just barely moves, and Michael flinches back harshly, hitting his back on the kitchen island. Great, well, that’s not exactly helping prove his ‘I’m fine for now’ speech. Thankfully, Henry doesn’t even comment on Michael’s reaction, although it’s obvious he didn’t miss it based on the concerned expression he makes. “…Alright. I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I won’t force you right now. But this conversation isn’t over.”

Michael nods exhaustedly. “Can I just make a sandwich?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Henry waits for Michael to completely finish what he’s doing in the kitchen before moving to make his own dinner, which Michael feels a bit bad about. It feels like he’s scared the man into walking on eggshells around him. Despite having finished making his sandwich before Henry, it takes Michael much longer to eat it, given that it tastes like lead in his mouth. Henry goes into the other room for a bit, and returns with a handful of cash  “This is for school lunches,” he explains simply. “Don’t try giving it back to me, okay? I’m giving it to you.” 

The command is almost amusing. Rather than ordering him not to use the money to buy drugs or something, Henry is just begging him not to give it back. He puts the money in his pocket. “Thanks.” Michael glances down at the money in his hands, and notices something on the very corner of the paper. Upon further inspection, he realizes each bill has a tiny, barely-detectable green mark on it. Suspiciously, the exact shade of green as Henry’s favorite pen. He must’ve marked these up just so he could try and catch Michael putting the money back. He can’t help but feel a little smart for figuring out Henry’s plan. But also, a little guilty that the man thinks he’s anorexic or something. Good fucking grief. 

“And you know what?” Henry says after Michael finally manages to make it down to the final bite of his sandwich. “We should watch a movie.”

“A movie?” Michael repeats, slightly startled by the abrupt change in subject. “Why?”

“Well, to put it frankly, it’s been a really shitty week,” Henry huffs. “I think it’d be nice to just relax for a while, you know?”

Michael gapes at him, momentarily scandalized because Henry is one of those grown-ups that never swears. At least, not around young and impressionable brats such as himself. “Um—s-sure.”

“Fantastic. Why don’t you go pick one? I’ve got a box of VHS tapes by the TV. I’ll join you in just a few minutes.”

Awkwardly, Michael drags his feet out of the kitchen and drops down to sift through the tapes in question. Annie. Karate Kid. E.T.. Some Star Wars stuff. About a million animated movies. The NeverEnding Story. Michael’s eyes linger on that one for a while, remembering how much his sister had loved it. 

-

“Mikey!” Elizabeth knocks loudly on Michael’s bedroom door, not even waiting for a response before barging in. “Come help me build a fort! Daddy’s not home, so we can! We can watch the NeverEnding Story!”

“Again?” Michael asks, an amused smile growing on his face. “We’ve watched it like, a hundred times since it came out!”

“Because it’s amazinggg!” Elizabeth whines. “Please?”

“I never said I wouldn’t watch it with you,” Michael sighs. He grabs a blanket from off his bed, but Elizabeth slaps his hand. He raises an eyebrow at her skeptically. “Do you want a fort or not?”

“Your blankets are all drabby and gray,” she points out obviously. “We have to use mine.”

Michael scoffs in disbelief. “Fine. Whatever you like, Princess Liz.”

Elizabeth pushes a bundle of fluffy pink and purple blankets into Michael’s arms, as well as some for herself to carry, dumping them all into a messy heap on the floor. Michael helps her drag a few chairs from the dining room to drape the blankets across, leaving a gap in the front so that they can see the television. Elizabeth puts in the tape and rushes back into the fort, wrapping herself up in an extra blanket and tapping her fingers together excitedly as the movie starts. 

“Atreyu reminds me of you,” Elizabeth remarks after some time has gone by. 

“Me?” Michael laughs softly. “How?”

“Well, he sort of looks like you. And you’re brave.” Elizabeth says. 

“Brave?”

“Mm-hm. Like when you punched Billy Clarke.” 

Michael snickers at the memory. In seventh grade, he had walked over to the elementary school to pick up Elizabeth and Evan. Elizabeth pointed out a sixth grader named Billy Clarke, and said he’d been making fun of her and had called her ‘a very bad word.’ Michael hadn’t even hesitated before storming right on over and socking him in the jaw. It was well worth the consequences to see that pitiful look on his face. “Ah, yeah. That was pretty awesome, huh?”

“Yeah. His mum made him say sorry to me in front of all his jerk friends.”

“Serves him right,” Michael hums. Deep down, he knows he doesn’t have any right to be shitting on Billy Clarke when he himself used to be a bully with a bunch of jerk friends. Michael is not really like Atreyu at all. He is more like the bullies chasing Evan Bastian into the book store. 

The both of them are silent for a while longer, until Atreyu approaches the Sphinx Gate. As the boy begins to panic and the giant sphinx’s’ eyes begin to open, the both of them watch with bated breath despite knowing full well how it ends. Elizabeth sighs with relief as Atreyu dives forward and just misses the blast, making it safely to the other side of the Gate. “I bet you could make it across,” she says. 

“No way. I’m not confident enough for the sphinxes to let me through.”

“Neither was Atreyu,” Elizabeth counters. “But he still made it. ‘Cause he was brave enough to run.”

Michael stares at his sister in disbelief. “Since when did you get so philosophical?” he huffs.

“What’s philosoftical mean?” Elizabeth asks earnestly. 

Michael sighs and shakes his head clear, ruffling her hair lovingly. “Never mind.”

Elizabeth makes an irritated grumbling sound and leans against his shoulder. “You’re dumb.”

“I know.”

When the movie finally ends, Michael puts the chairs back into the right places and helps Elizabeth carry all of her blankets back into her room. “Thanks for watching the movie with me,” she yawns sleepily. “I know I’ve made you watch it a billion times already.”

“I’ll watch it a billion more times, if that’s what you want,” Michael promises. He knows how happy it makes her. Not spending enough time with Evan is his biggest regret, and he vowed to never make the same mistake with his sister. He’d do anything for her. 

“Thanks Michael.” She yawns again. “G’night.”

“Night, Lizzie.” Michael shuts off her lamp and quietly exits her room, leaving the door open a crack just how she likes it to be and returns to his own room. 

-

Yeah…maybe not that one. Henry will look at him funny if he starts crying before they even get to the swamp scene. He randomly selects a different tape from the box and sets it on the TV stand. Since he killed some time staring forlornly at a VHS tape, he doesn’t have to wait long for Henry to finish his sandwich and join him in the living room, putting in the tape and sitting down on the couch with him. 

Michael hadn’t paid much attention to what movie he even grabbed, but apparently the one he ended up taking is boring as shit. Nevertheless, Henry was right about it being kind of nice to just sit and not worry about anything for once. Just half an hour into the movie, he falls into a comfortable sleep on the couch.

Chapter Text

Michael was right about one thing—Jeremy looks pretty upset when he catches sight of him at church on Sunday. He’s in the same general location they usually meet in, but standing a few meters off to the side as if he’s unsure of whether he should be there or not. Michael waves, and Jeremy takes that as a sign he's welcome and timidly approaches him and Henry.

“H-hey,” Jeremy says, voice sounding strained. “Are you coming to the youth service today?”

“Um, yeah,” Michael agrees hesitantly. It’s off-putting to see his friend look so on edge when he’s normally so casual. It makes him feel nervous, too.

“Great, come on.”

Michael waves an awkward goodbye to Henry, who looks a bit confused by Jeremy’s abnormally anxious demeanor. Jeremy leads him down the usual route, but then suddenly and without warning, nudges him towards an exit door once they’re out of Henry’s sight. Michael winces as the sunlight hits him right in the eyes, but continues to let his friend lead him around the building and towards the farthest wall where they’d first met. “Uh, won’t they notice we’re missing?”

“Not if we never showed up in the first place,” Jeremy replies. He stops to study Michael’s face, swallowing. “That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got there…”

Michael absently reaches up to touch his face, the bruise in question throbbing lightly under his fingertips. He’d done his best to conceal it with some old, cheap makeup he had leftover from middle school, but it hadn’t worked very well. Which is unsurprising, as it had never done much to hide his acne, either. “Listen—I’m sorry I started that fight. Right in front of you. I wasn’t really thinking.”

The expression in Jeremy’s eyes doesn’t change much. “…You’re sorry?” He almost sounds confused.

“Well, yeah.” Michael runs his hand through his hair sheepishly. “You literally told me not to.”

“Oh. Well,” Jeremy huffs, eyes darting all over the place. He shuffles back and forth on his feet awkwardly. “It’s…fine?”

Based on his body language and tone of voice, Michael realizes Jeremy had been expecting to be the one apologizing. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what for. Somewhere in his head, Michael thinks that he should care, that it's wrong, but for some reason he can't find the logic within him to convince himself why he should give a damn. “I don’t care if you’re gay, Jeremy.”

Jeremy finally manages to make normal eye contact, chewing on his lip anxiously. “You don’t?”

“Not really.”

“But…I hid it from you. I knew it would make you uncomfortable, and I didn’t tell you. I should’ve told you sooner so you’d get the chance to…you know. Not be my friend anymore, if you wanted.”

That thought process sounds eerily similar to Michael’s own, and he briefly wonders if his own mindsets sound this ridiculous to other people. He also wonders if Jeremy has lost friends because of this in the past. “You didn’t know, you assumed,” Michael points out. “Seriously, it’s not a big deal. I’m not going to stop being your friend for some stupid shit like that.”

Jeremy sinks in on himself. The relief in his eyes is evident. “Oh,” he laughs breathily. “Sorry. It’s just…I don’t know. A lot of people here aren’t…cool with that.”

“Well, I’m cool. I’m just glad you don’t hate me, either.”

“Why would I hate you, man?”

“Well…for starting the fight. Like I said, you were literally right there telling me not to.”

Jeremy laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, well, I just didn’t want you to get in trouble. But to be honest…he kind of had it coming, anyway. He's always been a dick to me. It was nice to see him finally get his shit rocked."

A thought crosses Michael’s mind. “Does Ryan…actually bully you?”

“Not really."  Jeremy shrugs as he says it, but he looks down at the ground as if there's slightly more to the story. 

"...Are you sure?"

"Nobody's bullying me," Jeremy insists slightly louder than before. He quickly relaxes again, looking tired. "People are just...they...if I happen to be next to them..." He shakes his head. "Nobody's beating me up or fucking up my stuff or anything like that. I'm fine."

Michael decides to leave it at that, doubtful Jeremy is willing to share more. "Well...how’d he even find out, then?”

“Some kid from my old school..." Jeremy sighs. “I don't know. He spread shit somehow. I kind of thought you knew, too. At first. Until Ryan called me a faggot at lunch that one time a couple months ago, and you looked all confused. I’m honestly surprised you didn’t figure it out earlier…it’s kind of obvious.”

What? How was I supposed to tell? Then Michael thinks it over a bit. He recalls Jeremy’s aversion to church, and his strange obsession with Sodapop Curtis. Plus, Michael doesn’t think Jeremy has ever brought up the topic of girls once since they’ve known each other. Okay, maybe there were some signs. But nobody had been hanging around Michael at the time Jeremy had apparently been outed, let alone exchanging gossip with him, so it makes sense he never heard about it. He also hadn't realized Jeremy had moved here so recently--that means the boy was never around to witness what an asshole Michael used to be. No wonder he was so willing to be friends. And why he didn't recognize him until he said his name. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I wish I’d punched harder.”

Jeremy laughs again. "Just don't get caught next time."

They haven’t been outside for too long, and they could easily make it back to the room they’re supposed to be in before the service starts, but neither of them bring that up, fully content to just hide back here and sit in each others’ company. Eventually, Jeremy ends up pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one. “Do you want one?” he asks. 

“No thanks. If Henry found out, he would—” Michael pauses. “Actually, now that I think about it, he probably wouldn’t even be mad. He’d just freak out and tell me I’m going to get cancer.”

“Well, they are pretty bad for you.” Jeremy frowns and turns the cigarette over in his hand, before taking a long drag. “…Actually, I shouldn’t have even offered. It’s a bad influence. Sorry.”

Michael blinks, kind of surprised by that answer. His old friends who smoked used to laugh in the face of health risk warnings. Because when you’re young, it's cool to be careless and reckless. “Well then why do you smoke? If you’re against it?”

“Eh. Thirteen year old me stole some cigarettes from my dad, because I thought they’d make the anxiety go away. Turns out, it doesn’t. And now I’m just hooked for no reason.” Jeremy looks at the ground thoughtfully, flicking some ash down onto the concrete. “I try not to do it in public too often. But man, sometimes I just get stressed. Especially here.”

Michael watches him carefully as he leans back against the building, blowing out a small cloud of smoke. Jeremy hardly ever opens up about himself, and when he does, it’s only the positive things. He’s mentioned hating church a few times, but he’s never called it anxiety before. “You have anxiety?”

“It’s nothing crazy,” Jeremy explains softly. “I’m fine most of the time, just…sometimes I worry that I’m…wrong. Not even just the whole being gay thing, but sometimes I disagree with the Bible, and it scares me, because you’re not supposed to disagree with it. And I mean, I’m out here smoking instead of praying or whatever like I’m supposed to.” He takes a deep breath. “I just hope that if God’s real, he understands.”

Michael chews on the inside of his cheek contemplatively. It would seem they’re both a little afraid of church, albeit for very different reasons. “Is that why you were out here when we first met?” he asks. Jeremy nods. “Well, I kind of get it. It feels like there’s a million rules we’re supposed to follow, and I’ve broken almost all of them.”

“Yeah.” Jeremy takes another drag out of his cigarette, and exhales slowly. “Nobody else seems to feel that way. I’m glad you do. Well, I’m not glad you do—just, I’m glad you get what I mean. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one.”

Michael hums in agreement. It’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Well, we’re in this together. You distract me from how much I fucking hate it here, and I’ll distract you.” He holds out his fist, and Jeremy bumps it.

“See you tomorrow. And put some ice on that bruise, man,” Jeremy tells Michael seriously as they part ways. Michael rolls his eyes and gives his friend a thumbs up, watching him disappear into a crowd of people to go and pick up his little sister—who’s apparently just started going to Sunday school—and find his mother.

“Hey, Mike,” Henry says as he approaches. “Is Jeremy okay? He looked upset about something earlier.”

“He’s fine now,” Michael explains, voice trailing off a bit. Henry believes strongly in God and the Bible and everything. Would he hate Jeremy just for being that way? The thought makes him feel kind of sick. “Do you—” Michael immediately cuts himself off, not wanting to give the man the wrong impression. “Never mind.”

“What?” Henry asks. “You can ask me anything.”

“No. Never mind. It wasn’t important,” Michael repeats. Henry’s eyes look warm and kind and trustworthy, but Michael can’t help but be a tiny bit afraid of whether that might change if Henry found out about Jeremy. He doesn't know why that thought scares him. It’s not like he has anything to worry about. He shakes his head uncomfortably and forces the thought out of his head completely. “Sorry.”

“Okay,” Henry says, agreeing to drop it as they walk to the car. “Anyway, how about we get lunch somewhere? I’m starving.” 

Luckily for Henry, Michael feels pretty fine today, and food actually sounds appealing for once. “Sure,” he says simply.

Henry looks both surprised and pleased at how easily Michael had agreed. “Oh! Great! How do burgers sound?”

Michael nods quietly, turning his head to look out through the window and zoning out a bit to watch people outside of the church. He waits for that little voice in his head to call him a spoiled, worthless leech, but for once, it’s completely silent. Michael doesn’t know why, but he’s not complaining. It’s kind of great. 

Chapter Text

Unlike the majority of other kids, Michael isn’t looking forward to spring break, and had actually completely forgotten about it until Jeremy brought it up on Tuesday. Being stuck at home kind of sucks, if he learned anything during his suspension. Then again, it’s not like he enjoys being at school, either. Maybe he just fucking hates life.

By the time Friday rolls around, Michael still has no idea what he’s going to do with himself all week. Maybe Henry won’t get on his ass too much if he actually goes somewhere. He makes a mental note to pretend to go to the park sometime or something.

As he walks down the hall, not really paying that close attention to his surroundings, Michael accidentally catches shoulders with someone in the hallway, causing them to drop a notebook they’d been carrying. He immediately recognizes this person as Jessica.

“Oops! Sorry ‘bout that,” she says apologetically, stooping over to pick up her notebook and put it back on top of the other three she’s carrying in her arms. All varying shades of pink, Michael notes. Then he watches her eyes light up with recognition. “Oh, hey Mike.” 

“Hey,” Michael says awkwardly. 

“I heard you got suspended. What’s that all about?” Jessica inquires, pursing her lips in a somewhat disillusioned expression. It’s clear she already knows why he was suspended; perhaps she’s hoping some more context will justify the recent actions of the boy she’s been trying so hard to make amends with. Michael’s awful behavior is precisely why he was never part of Charlie’s main friend group in the first place, so hearing this news is probably very disappointing for Jessica—who must now be realizing she was right about him all along in the assumption he’s a bad kid and always would be.

“I punched Ryan,” Michael admits sheepishly. “In retrospect, it was a very bad choice.”

He expects her to respond with something along the lines of a lecture, or at least a snarky “well, you’re right about that.” But instead, she just asks: “Why?” 

“Huh?”

“I don’t really have all the information, ‘cause I wasn’t there, but I’m assuming you didn’t punch him in the face in front of everyone for nothing. What happened?” 

Oh. Right. It’s pretty reasonable to ask for some clarifying details. “Well, he did try to trip me. And he was kind of bullying my friend.” Michael picks at his fingernail. He omits the fact that Ryan had also basically spat on Charlie’s grave, even though it would probably get Jessica on his side. He just hates talking about it with her. He hates talking about Charlie with anyone. And he definitely isn’t about to use her as an excuse for how shitty he is.

“Hmm…” Jessica says, looking at him thoughtfully. “That’s what my friend told me.” She looks at least a little bit relieved the fight wasn’t completely unprovoked, but then her expression changes completely as her eyes catch on something. “Hey, wait!” she exclaims, practically beaming. “You’re wearing the bracelet I made you!”

Michael follows her gaze, and sure enough, the yellow friendship bracelet is peeking out from beneath his jacket sleeve. He forgets it’s there sometimes.

“You know, it’s kind of ridiculous. John and Carlton never wear the bracelets I made them,” Jessica complains with a huff, still smiling. “I’m so happy to see you’re wearing it!” 

“Of course…” Michael flushes with embarrassment, but he also can’t help but feel the tiniest bit smug to hear her say something negative about those assholes John and Carlton. Especially John, who always hated Michael before he even had good reason to. Fuck John. 

“I know we’re pretty old to be wearing friendship bracelets and all that, so I really expected you to throw it away as soon as you got home. Especially ‘cause you’re a boy,” Jessica continues. “I’m so glad I was wrong.”

“You thought I’d throw it away, but you gave it to me anyway?” Michael asks in confusion. Why the hell would she do that? Was all this some sort of test? 

“Well, you never know,” Jessica shrugs. “I didn’t know, and now I do.”

“Know that I don’t throw away people’s gifts?”

“No. I know that you cared enough to wear it. You didn’t have to, but you did. I feel happy that you appreciated it—even though it was a pretty stupid gift. I mean, come on. We’re in the 10th grade.” Jessica rolls her eyes, but not in a mean way. 

“Oh.” Michael hates that he never knows what to say. It’s a lot easier to interact with people by being aggressive and shutting them out—he had no idea he was so awkward until he stopped screaming at everyone and started behaving like a normal, civilized individual. Well, as ‘normal’ as he can manage. 

“Anyways,” Jessica chirps, “I’m glad to see you back. But seriously, don’t get into another fight. Don’t get any more stupid stuff put on your record.” Then she lowers her voice a notch. “I’m usually at the library at lunch. If you need a witness to help snitch on anybody, I’m your gal.”

“Uhh, thanks.”

Jessica fucking winks at him. “Anyway, we should probably hurry up and get to last period before we’re late. See you around!” And then she’s gone. 

It feels a little odd to have the blonde, pink-loving, kindness preaching, teenage girl stereotype on his side out of all people, but either way, he’s happy to be on her good side. Even if they don’t exactly hang out on a regular basis, it’s nice to know someone at this school doesn’t hate his guts. Especially someone like Jessica. Despite being pretty popular, she chooses to surround herself with a relatively small group of friends. So Michael feels a little honored to be considered one of them.

“I have some good news and some bad news,” Henry tells Michael some time after he gets home. Michael stiffens, brain immediately trying to rack up all of the worst possible outcomes. “The good news is, I found you a therapist.” Michael doesn’t consider that good news at all. “The bad news is, you won’t be able to see her until sometime in May.” Oh, well, at least that’s a bit of a relief. “She’s also all the way in Cedar City, so it’ll be a bit of a drive. But no problem.”

“Great,” Michael says, sounding about as enthusiastic as a janitor discovering a large puddle of vomit. 

“Yeah, I know. I promise you’re going to be fine.”

“Okay,” Michael says agreeably, hoping to put the kibosh on this conversation as quickly as possible so he can push it to the back of his mind and forget about it. 

“Alright.” Henry nods to himself, and then decides to switch from one undesirable topic to another. “So. You’ve got a whole week off.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Michael mumbles. 

Henry quirks an eyebrow. “What are you apologizing for?”

“…” Honestly, Michael doesn’t even know. 

“I was just going to ask if you wanted to do anything this week,” Henry says. “Why don’t you invite Jeremy over or something?”

“I don’t know where he lives. Or what number to call,” Michael says truthfully. He’s honestly glad he has an excuse not to invite Jeremy over; it would be a very depressing hangout. They’d go upstairs, walk past the old bedroom of a murder victim, enter Michael’s empty, undecorated, soulless bedroom…and then what? Well, he supposes they could just leave and walk to the park or something. That would probably be fun. But they can’t do that anyway, because Michael didn’t think ahead and ask for a number. Ugh…why does he always set himself up for failure?

“I can check the phone book,” Henry offers. Oh…he hadn’t even thought of that. “Do you know his parents’ names?”

“Uhm, not specifically. But his last name is Fitzgerald, and he said his mother works at the same school you do, so maybe you’d recognize her name?” 

“I don’t know a Mrs. Fitzgerald off the top of my head…but I can look,” Henry says optimistically. Michael stands in the kitchen awkwardly as Henry flips through the phone book. He idly pokes at the scar on his arm for no particular reason—a recently developed habit in the same ballpark as biting his fingernails—and observes the way it hurts. The thing is completely healed, and looks normal—or at least as normal as a nasty keloid scar running multiple inches down your arm is supposed to look—so it’s not like it’s infected or anything. Michael isn’t sure what’s wrong with it, but he suspects maybe he fucked up one of his nerves or something. How lame. 

After a couple of minutes of waiting, Henry closes the phone book with a disappointed look on his face. “Did Jeremy move here recently?”

“He said he moved here last summer,” Michael answers. “Did you not find anything?”

“Well…huh. It appears there isn’t a single Fitzgerald in this town,” Henry says. “Actually, I’m actually a bit surprised. I could have sworn it was a more common name…”

“Well, that’s okay,” Michael says. “Thanks for trying.”

“Yep. It’s okay, we’ll find something else to do this week,” Henry promises. 

Wonderful…

Chapter Text

Michael is sitting at the kitchen table with a sketchbook, using a pale gold marker to create a base sketch of Mangle. He used to resent the animatronic for being a “shitty pink rebrand” of his favorite character, Foxy, but the character is starting to really grow on him. Mangle’s torn-apart abomination of a body makes for some cool potential poses. He recaps the yellow marker, reaching for a dark gray one to start outlining Mangle for real.

As he makes the first stroke with the gray marker, the ringing of the landline phone directly behind him startles him, and he accidentally pushes the marker too far and creates an undesirable slash running through his sketch. He curses under his breath, staring down at his drawing forlornly.

“Mike, can you get that real quick? Tell whoever it is I’ll be there in a minute,” Henry calls from the other room. Michael complies, pushing away his chair and picking up the phone.

“Hello? Is this Mr. Emily?”

“Actually, this is Mike,” Michael replies, surprised. “Um. Hi.”

“Hi! Uh, I was going to ask you if I could have Henry’s number earlier, but I completely forgot. Luckily it wasn’t hard to find—my mom has all of her coworkers’ numbers. Anyway, sorry if this is a bad time, I was just calling to ask if you wanted to hang out. Are you busy?”

“Give me a second,” Michael tells him, covering up the speaker with his palm. “Um, Henry?” he calls timidly. “It’s Jeremy. He asked if we can hang out.”

“Oh! That’s fine. Sure you can,” Henry calls back. Michael can hear the smile through his voice.

Michael holds up the phone again. He finds himself grinning like an idiot. When’s the last time he met up with a friend? Outside of school and church, he and Jeremy haven’t actually ever hung out properly. “No, I’m not busy,” Michael tells him.

“Sweet! Where do you live again?” Michael lists off the name of Henry’s street. “Wow, that’s like a fifteen minute walk from my house. Do you want to meet up somewhere?”

“Sure, where?”

“Do you know that stop sign on Maple Drive? The one with the graffiti on it?”

“Uh, yeah. That sounds good.”

“Sick! Meet you there!”

-

Jeremy is already at the stop sign by the time Michael gets there. “Hey man!”

“Hey,” Michael greets.

“So what do you wanna do? Where you wanna go?” Jeremy asks. “We didn’t really plan that far ahead.”

The both of them think for a moment. “Well, there’s the gas station, the park, or one of our houses,” Jeremy says.

“So many options to choose from,” Michael says sarcastically. When you live in a small town, things like gas stations are considered fun. But to be fair, they actually are fun. Some of Michael’s best memories involve him and Charlie fucking around and getting slushies at a gas station in the middle of the night.

“Yeah, it’s kinda lame here, huh?” Jeremy laughs.

“It used to be awesome, back when we had Freddy’s. Everyone loved that place,” Michael says wistfully. He realizes that’s probably the first positive thing he’s said about the restaurant in…well, a long time. And—nope!! Do not get sad and angry right now, Michael. “But you know, gas stations are pretty wicked, too. I didn’t bring any money, though…I didn’t really think that far ahead.”

“That’s okay. We can still go to the park—I bet it’s crawling with kids right now, though, since it’s spring break. Or we can just go to my place.”

Michael omits his knowledge of the abandoned playground, even though it’s pretty close and is always empty. He can’t stand the thought of going there with someone who isn’t Charlie. “Let’s go to yours then. I don’t really want to get mobbed by a bunch of children today.”

“Well, sounds like a plan, then.”

As they walk, a thought comes to Michael’s mind. “Hey, didn’t you say your mom works at the same university as Henry?”

“Uh, yeah, she does. She teaches environmental science. Why?”

“Henry said he didn’t know any ‘Fitzgeralds,’ and we couldn’t find a number in the phone book,” Michael explains.

“Ohhh,” Jeremy says, “that makes sense. My mom’s last name is Johnson, dude. My dad lives in Salt Lake City. That’s where I moved from…heh.”

“Oh,” Michael says, feeling stupid he hadn’t even considered something like that. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Don’t be sorry—I never told you.” Jeremy must pick up on the slightly fearful look on Michael’s face, because he adds, “My parents just wanted different things in life. I’m okay.”

Michael’s face warms, ashamed of how easily Jeremy read his expression and embarrassed by the clear implication of why he felt the need the clarify. It’s so unfair. Jeremy can withhold whatever information about his personal life he wants, while Michael’s entire tragic backstory is practically common knowledge. People know all about the darkest times of his life before they know his favorite color.

Jeremy coughs awkwardly. He gestures towards the house they’ve stopped at. “A-anyways…here we are. You wanna come inside?”

Michael nods awkwardly, and Jeremy leads him to the front door—painted a dark green color with a dog-shaped knocker. “Do you have a dog?” Michael asks in surprise.

“No,” Jeremy says sheepishly. “My mom likes dogs, though.”

Michael snorts.

Ms. Johnson emerges from the hallway nearly seconds after the front door closes behind them—she has curly blonde hair just like her son's, and based on a couple of framed photos on a shelf, his little sister does, too. 

“Hello, there! You must be Mike! I’m so happy to finally meet you!” the woman smiles kindly, offering out her arm.

“Hello,” Michael responds nervously, tentatively accepting the handshake. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“You boys tell me if you need anything—I’ll be in the study. Have fun! Keep the door open though, 'kay?”

“Oh my God…” Jeremy mutters under his breath, his face turning red at the implication.

“And don’t use the Lord’s name in vain, either!” Ms. Johnson chimes in a sing-song voice before striding back down the hallway.

Michael, pretending the insinuation hadn’t made him extremely uncomfortable as well, opens his mouth to say something snarky, but Jeremy shushes him before he has the chance. “Don’t even,” he groans. “I hate you.”

“What'd I do?” Michael snickers innocently.

“Anyways!” Jeremy clears his throat loudly.

“Right,” Michael agrees, deciding to change the topic. “Where’s your sister?”

“Probably at her friend’s house. You wanna come to my room?”

“Sure.” Jeremy leads him down the hall and to what must be his friend’s bedroom. The space isn’t a mess, but it certainly isn’t well-organized, either. Before he has time to observe the space too thoroughly, though, a high-pitched meowing catches his attention, and a small brown cat saunters its way towards him before rubbing against his feet. “Oh, I forgot you have cats. Which one is this?”

“That’s Holly,” Jeremy informs him, eyes sparkling with affection for the animal in question. His voice raises in pitch as he looks towards the cat. “She’s usually shy, but I guess she likes you.”

“Oh.” Michael blinks down at Holly, who weaves in between his legs one last time before turning her attention to Jeremy and scratching at his legs. “Is she hungry or something?”

“No. She’s just a bitch,” Jeremy responds casually, leaning down to pet her in between the ears despite her bad behavior. “But you’re the cutest kitty in the whole world, so I have to forgive you, huh?” he coos at her. Holly turns her nose up at this and strides out of the room and down the hall with a flick of her tail. “No idea where the other one is, though. Probably hiding under some furniture. Anyway, make yourself at home, I guess.”

Michael glances around the room, inspecting the decorations on the walls. Jeremy’s room has a whole lot more personality than his own. A small portion of one wall is absolutely decked in pictures of a celebrity that Michael recognizes as an actor from The Outsiders. “…Dude.”

“Oh, whatever. Don’t act like you’ve never liked a celebrity,” Jeremy retorts accusingly.

“Not enough to have a fucking shrine of them, you weirdo,” Michael scoffs teasingly. “Doesn’t it creep you out that he watches you sleep? Actually, don’t even answer that. I don’t wanna know.”

“Damn right you don’t.” Jeremy punches him in the shoulder, and Michael punches him back.

-

They end up not doing much of anything at all—just kind of sitting on the floor and talking about nothing for however many hours. It’s lame, but somehow it’s fun. It’s kind of nice to just sit in someone’s company—no games or excitement required.

Henry didn’t give Michael a specific curfew—he just said to be back at a ‘reasonable time.’ Michael doesn’t know what counts as reasonable. Maybe he should have asked for clarification. He ends up deciding to leave before dinnertime, just because there’s something about eating with a family that isn’t his own that feels oddly intimate. He isn’t exactly sure why, but the idea makes him uncomfortable.

He does not give this explanation to Jeremy, though. He just lies and says that Henry told him to be back by six.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride home, sweetie?” Ms. Johnson asks. “It’s no trouble.”

“I’m fine, I live really close. Thank you.”

“Of course. Be safe!” Ms. Johnson smiles at him and turns back around to go into the kitchen.

Before Michael can start making his way out the front door, he feels tiny fingers tapping on his back, and Michael turns to see little Suzy standing there, hands held behind her back shyly. “Hi there. What is it?” he asks in his ‘kid voice.’

Suzy brings her hands forward to reveal a piece of paper folded in half. “For you!” she says with a sweet smile. She doesn’t wait for him to read it before scampering off into the kitchen.

Michael unfolds the paper, not sure what to expect, but it certainly isn’t “WATCH OUT” scrawled in awful, childlike handwriting. He blanches. What… He looks back up to see Suzy sending him an evil grin from the kitchen, before turning back to her mother and asking something about cookies. What?!  What did he even do? Jesus, the girl is even scarier than Elizabeth…

“I’ll see you later, Mike,” Jeremy says, apparently oblivious to his sibling's nefariousness. “Thanks for coming over. It was fun.”

“Yeah, um, you too. I mean, I had fun too. Bye.” Michael nearly slaps himself in the face at the awkwardness of that entire interaction, but damn. He’s still a bit caught off guard. Both by Jeremy’s sister and his mother. Ms. Johnson is very sweet, but she keeps glancing between him and Jeremy ‘knowingly’ and it’s pretty embarrassing. He’s not like that…

He decides not to think about that anymore and begins the walk home, arriving back at Henry’s in less than twenty minutes. “Hi!” Henry greets him as soon as he enters the front door. “Have fun?”  Michael hums, stifling a yawn.  “That’s good. Did you eat while you were over there?”

Michael nods. It was such an easy opportunity to get away with a lie, it just kind of happened automatically. Oh, well. He is pretty tired anyway. “I’m just going to take a nap, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. Long day, huh?”

Michael nods again gratefully. “Thanks.”

Chapter Text

The remainder of April passes by uneventfully—meaning Michael has managed to accomplish the bare minimum of not getting himself into any more trouble. Things were looking okay. They weren’t necessarily good, but they weren’t bad.

But then May hit, and Michael realized that once again, he was in for a rough fucking month. Mother’s Day is on May 11, and Charlie’s birthday just 2 days after that. What a horrible joke the universe has decided to play on him. Today, according to Henry’s calendar, is the former—Mother’s Day.

Michael doesn’t remember too much about his mother—after all, he was pretty young when she died. But maybe that’s the most hurtful part. He wonders, if he had just been old enough to remember, what it would have been like. He wishes he could have known her. But unfortunately, he only ‘knows’ her based on what Henry and Father have said. She was intelligent, graceful, and kind, Henry had told him. She was beautiful, broken, and sick, Father had told him. Michael wishes his parents had never gotten married. He knows they only did it because of him coming along and ruining everything. A mistake.

Michael has a few memories of Mum, but there’s only one he can recall vividly. He had been sitting in the living room on the floor, drawing pictures of pirates. Mum had come out of her bedroom for once, her pretty blonde hair pulled up into a bun—and she had come to sit beside him. “That’s very good, darling,” she had said, running a thin hand through his hair. Then she just sat there for a while, watching him quietly with a tiny smile on her face. Then Father came into the room and asked her something Michael can’t remember, and that’s where the memory ends. Michael hates himself for forgetting so much.

Now that he’s thinking about it, he’s kind of afraid he’ll forget this memory, too.

The yellow notebook Henry gave him is still sitting on his desk, completely unused. Michael opens it up, grabs the nearest writing utensil he can find, and begins to record. He tries to use as much detail as he can manage, making sure to describe the room, the drawing, Mum's clothes, and her smile. He can’t recall her voice—only that it was soft and quiet. And her accent was different from Father’s. Mum was American. Michael remembers she had found Father’s accent ‘endearing,’ so they all called her Mum anyways. Well, he doesn’t remember her saying that, but he remembers Henry mentioning it once. Michael wonders if his mother really did love Father. Maybe that’s why she was so sad. Because surely Father did not love her back. If he did, he was shit at showing it. Michael doesn’t know. He isn’t sure he knows anything about his father anymore. He used to think he knew it all, until, well. Everything happened.

Michael misses Mum, and in a way, he misses Father, too. Even if he was a piece of shit, he was still Father. Maybe Michael is just missing the idea of Father. The idea of love, safety, and care.

Michael lets his head fall against the desk with a thud, closing his eyes for a moment. He toys with the pencil in his hand idly, rolling it back and forth between his fingers. He wants to sigh, but he doesn’t. He just stares blankly at nothing.

Suddenly, Michael remembers what had got him thinking about Mum in the first place—Mother’s Day. Sunday. He groans quietly, lifting his head from the hard, uncomfortable surface of his desk and standing up reluctantly. He pulls on some semi-nice clothes and makes his way downstairs, hoping he hasn’t been moping long enough to have missed something.

Henry is lying face down on the kitchen table with his arms covering his face—a position not dissimilar to the one Michael had been in just minutes earlier. He’s been like this for the past few days, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. His daughter’s birthday is in just two days.

Michael shifts on his feet uncomfortably, not sure what to do as he doesn’t want to disturb the man. Luckily, he doesn’t have to worry about it for much longer as Henry seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to detecting his presence, and he sits up. “Hey, kiddo,” he says, voice heavy. “Do you mind if we skip church today? I’m…not quite feeling up to it at the moment.”

Michael blinks. “Oh, I don’t mind…” Truthfully, that’s actually a relief. Obviously, Mother’s Day has never been pleasant for Michael anyway, so he has no qualms with missing whatever stupid bullshit Jonah has to say about the subject today. In an awful way, Mother’s Day being so close to Charlie’s birthday has worked out in his favor.

“Thanks, kid.” Henry sighs into his palm. “Do you, uh…do you want to miss school on Tuesday? Monday, even? It’s completely alright if you do, I understand.”

Michael thinks about it. On one hand, attempting to slog through school like normal might be exceedingly difficult…but on the other hand, staying at home leaves him with no distractions—just constant reminders of what day it is. He’ll take the distractions. “No, thanks. I want to go.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright…take it easy.”

“I will.” Michael isn’t sure if that’s a lie or not. Of course, he’d like to take it easy. But knowing himself, he probably won’t.

With the original plan of church out of the way, Michael decides to retreat back into his room. Henry is already miserable enough without him there—and Michael is already miserable enough without seeing how depressed his…guardian is. It’s still hard to find the right word to call Henry. His whole life, Henry has just been ‘Father’s friend’ or ‘Charlie’s dad.’ Michael doesn’t want to say he and Henry are family…but what are they, then? Michael is ashamed to admit, even to himself, the amount of times he’s slipped up and thought of Henry as Father in his head.

He wonders if Henry has ever slipped up and thought of him as Charlie.

…Oh, God, Michael misses Charlie so fucking much. She died just about a year after Evan did. It was bad. Michael remembers exactly how he’d found out about it. Father was in the kitchen, making dinner for once in his goddamn life with some groceries he had come home with. (It disgusts him, looking back on it. Father had murdered a child in cold blood—dozens of stab wounds all over her body—and then he simply went grocery shopping afterwards. Sickening.) At some point that night, the phone started ringing. Father had called for Michael to go answer it, and he did. Only to be met with Henry’s voice, barely comprehensible through sobs unlike anything Michael has ever heard before. He could make out a few things, though— “William, you have to get over here right now—Charlotte is fucking dead! My baby is dead!”

Michael hadn’t even responded. He just stood there stupidly by the landline, listening to Henry’s sobs on the other end of the line and trying to comprehend the situation. Trying to figure out if it was really happening or if it was just a horrific, twisted nightmare. Elizabeth asked him what was wrong, and still, Michael said nothing. He didn’t even say anything when Father came in and took the phone from him. He just stood there, feeling impossibly sick. Like his heart was ripping itself to shreds.

Charlie was Michael’s best friend. At the time, she was the only person on Earth that he truly trusted. She was the only person alive that understood him. She must have been the smartest, kindest, most genuine human to exist. And then someone had murdered her in an alley. Destroying all of that within seconds.

The day after her funeral, Michael had locked himself in the bathroom, climbed into the bathtub with a knife and all of the painkillers he could find, and tried to kill himself. He ended up vomiting up the pills before they could take effect.

Maybe he would have had better luck at the Hurricane Bridge.

…Oh God. He can’t do this.

Every single time the massive wound in his heart begins to heal, something new cuts it back open. Despite any and all efforts to stitch up that wound, the thread just won’t hold it together, and it continues to bleed. Even if Michael were able to fix it, he’s sure some terrible tragedy will come along sooner or later just to come tearing everything down again.

No matter how many good days he has, something like this always happens. If something as simple as a mark on the fucking calendar is enough to set off a mental breakdown, how is he ever supposed to get over all this?

He needs help. Not from Henry, not from antidepressants that clearly aren’t working, not from a stupid therapist that will lie and tell him everything he wants to hear. He needs to go back to his own methods—the ones that actually worked.

Chapter Text

It’s Monday—May 12th. One more day until her birthday.

Since yesterday, Michael has come to realize that no, he actually can’t go to school tomorrow. Nothing there is going to be distracting enough. He still doesn’t want to be at home, though, so he decides he’ll just pretend to go. In actuality, he’ll just be staying at the park or something. Henry will surely get a phone call from the school about his absence afterward, but that’ll be future Mike’s problem to deal with. He just wants to be alone tomorrow.

Michael waits for lunch to be nearly over before asking something—purposefully giving himself an easy opportunity to escape the conversation in case it goes south. “Jeremy,” Michael asks cautiously. He feels terribly embarrassed asking. “Do you um…have any cigs on you? I can pay you back.”

Jeremy gives him an odd look. “…I thought you didn’t smoke. Why do you want to start now?”

“I don’t anymore,” Michael says truthfully. “I just stopped once I started living with Henry.”

“So why do you want to start again now?” Jeremy repeats. “You okay?”

There's no point in lying--it would be obvious something is up since he’s planning on ditching school tomorrow. “It’s, um…” Michael swallows. “It’s Charlotte Emily’s birthday tomorrow.”

Jeremy’s eyes widen in understanding. He shifts uncomfortably. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, that’s…that’s rough. I had no idea.”

“Yeah, it’s whatever,” Michael sighs, as if he hadn’t been contemplating suicide because of it earlier. “Sorry.”

Jeremy looks both ways for a teacher before reaching into his bag and pulling out a pack and a lighter, handing it over to Michael. “Here. If you really need it, I’ll help you out. But I swear to God, don’t get addicted. It’s the worst.”

“Thank you, Jeremy,” Michael says gratefully. “Um…just so you know, I won’t be at school tomorrow. I don’t want to be at home, but I don’t want to be here, either. I’m probably just going to stay at the park.”

Jeremy’s gaze is understanding, but also a little sad. “Okay.”

“…Okay.” The lunch bell rings, but Jeremy doesn’t make any motion to leave. “I’m really sorry about, um…that. Good luck. You can call me after school if you wanna talk.”

“I’ll be fine,” Michael repeats. “Just a little sad, is all. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

“Do you want—” Michael looks at his friend questioningly, but Jeremy cuts himself off. “…Never mind. Yeah. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

“Yeah.” Michael gives Jeremy the most reassuring look he can manage, before picking up his bag to head to his next class. He breathes out a sigh of relief as he walks away. Jeremy might know that Michael is screwed up to an extent—with his tragic family history and his panic attacks and all that—but he has no idea the true extent of his self-destructive nature. Michael is eternally thankful that the boy only moved here after he started wearing jackets.

Michael bears through the rest of the school day, counting down the minutes until he can fucking leave. There’s something he wants to do—and he’s honestly surprised he hasn’t done it sooner.

There’s a gas station about a ten minute walk from the park he and Charlie used to hang out at. However, she would probably be pissed at him if she saw why he was going today.

The bell on the door rings as Michael walks in, alerting the cashier of his shameful presence. A large part of him is tempted to try and shoplift. Back before Father died, he used to sometimes hide alcohol in his backpack, and then buy a soda to explain away the sound of the glass door of the cooler opening. For once in his life, Michael decides to make the wiser choice and not risk it. The old guy who used to work here was always half-asleep anyway, but he doesn’t recognize this lady. Maybe she’d call him out and get him into trouble.

So instead, he just makes his way to the tiny section of the store where they keep some random necessities for travelers. Hand lotion, toothbrushes, sunscreen…and razors.

The cashier gives him a funny look upon seeing the single item he’s purchasing. Michael hands her one of the bills Henry had given him for school lunches, biting back a bitter laugh. What the fuck is wrong with him. She asks him if he wants a receipt, and he shakes his head silently, stuffing the box into his pocket and stalking out of the store like a child. He kicks a rock on the side of the road, trying to ignore the raging guilt welling up inside him. Henry would be so upset with him. But he needs this.

Henry is home, his car parked in the driveway, and Michael has several lies ready on the tip of his tongue in case he questions him about anything. But fortunately, the man is nowhere to be found, and he simply creeps up to his room and closes the door behind him. He shoves the little box under his mattress. There, he did it. And he feels fucking awful about it. But whatever. As long as he makes sure Henry doesn’t find out this time, there’s no harm done.

Michael sinks down onto his bed and curls up on his side. He locks eyes on his brother’s old Fredbear toy, still sitting on the desk collecting dust. For a moment it feels like Evan is there instead. Watching him and hating him. If the afterlife is real—ghosts and demons and Heaven and Hell and all that—does that mean Evan and Charlie and Elizabeth have been watching him? He wonders if they saw when he tried to kill himself. Would Evan have wanted him to stop, or would he have been rooting for him to succeed? The thought makes him want to gag, and he forces it out of his mind. He can only pray that they are too distracted with whatever cool stuff is up in Heaven to care about what a worthless fuck-up he has become.

Michael wants nothing more than to roll up his sleeve and rip himself apart right now, but he’s learned his lesson from last time. He refuses to let his impulsivity and impatience cause him another hospital trip. So instead, he just hugs his pillow close to his chest and fantasizes about it. He presses on the scar on his wrist again. It hurts, but it doesn’t give him the same satisfaction as bleeding does. There’s a thrumming in his chest, pent up emotional energy that can only be released by pain and suffering and violence and it’s almost more painful not to set it free.

He’s fucking sick. Maybe he inherited these violent urges from Father.

Michael tries to avoid crying when he can, but tonight, he doesn’t bother to even try holding back his tears. He covers his face with his pillow to muffle the sounds, and he sobs his heart out.

Chapter Text

Michael leaves the house the next morning like normal, and fittingly, he ends up at the same damn playground where he used to hang out with Charlie. He feels a sense of dread approaching it, but he doesn’t really have anywhere else to go.

He climbs up one of the ladders on the play structure, hoisting himself up to the tallest platform and taking a seat. The last time he actually used the play structure like this, Charlie was alive. They had snuck out at who knows how late at night. Eventually, their hangout had been interrupted by a literal fucking coyote—clearly rabid or something as it attempted to walk up to the both of them with no signs of fear. He and Charlie had climbed up the play structure to get away from it, watching it as it walked around in circles aimlessly for a good half hour before stumbling back into the woods it came from. It’s not a good memory—not really. Charlie had started crying because she felt so bad for the animal, which had no idea it was sick and going to die. She cared so much, about everything. Even destructive pests like coyotes.

Michael swings his feet as he stares down at the ground below him, and eventually takes out Jeremy’s cigarettes. He counts seven in the box. He should probably save them since he has a long time to wait before school ends. But as per usual, Michael gives in to his lack of self-control and immediately takes one out, holding it in between his teeth as he fumbles for the lighter.

He coughs as he gets used to the smoke. He hasn’t done this in so long—the last time he did was all the way back when he still hung out with Ryan, Matthew, and Jay. He hated the feeling of smoking the first few times he did it, but he kept doing it anyway because he liked knowing that it was wrong. He especially liked reading the little health warnings on the boxes and ignoring them.

There’s just something so addicting about sabotaging himself. It makes him feel fearless. Like he’s in full control.

He finishes his first cigarette and stubs it out on his arm, gritting his teeth through the pain. His old friends used to watch him do this and laugh at him. Matthew used to call him “psycho Mike-o.” Ryan would ask him if he got off to it, or if he was “just retarded.” Jay would stare uncomfortably, but would never say anything. Jay was probably the most normal out of the group. He wasn’t nearly as aggressive as the rest of them, and Michael is pretty sure he was only there to avoid getting bullied himself.

He lights up another cigarette. He starts thinking about Charlie again. She would always tell him to stop hanging out with those three. “They’re bad kids, Mike,” she would insist. Michael would respond with: “Then that makes me a bad kid, too.” Charlie would shake her head and spin some long, worthless argument about how Michael is actually a good person, but needs to get his act together before it’s too late.

She turned out to be right. Evan died not too long after that. And somehow, despite everything, Charlie was still there for him. Somehow, she still cared about him.

Charlie had perhaps the biggest heart of anyone on the planet. She would have gone on to do great things.

Michael isn’t even finished with his current cigarette, but he presses it onto his arm anyway just for the sake of hurting himself again. It’s then that he realizes he’d put the burns right there on the side of his wrist. He can only pray Henry won’t ask him to roll up his sleeves any time soon. With a sigh, he removes the burning stick from his skin, wincing. He stares at the ugly, painful round mark left behind. It looks revolting.

He puts the pack away, for now at least, and lays back down on the platform. It’s probably dirty as hell, but he doesn’t care. He closes his eyes and begins to pray. “Lord, if you’re hearing this, please let Charlie be okay in Heaven. Evan and Elizabeth too. And Mum. And all the other kids. Please make sure they’re happy. They deserve to be happy. Amen.”

Michael has heard from many religious people over the years that the reason they believe in a higher being of any sort is because they can feel it. Deep in their hearts, they feel a connection to God that they can’t deny. However, as Michael ends his prayer, he feels absolutely nothing. If God is real, maybe He’s busy right now. Or maybe He just doesn’t care to listen to Michael’s prayers.

…He doesn’t know why he bothered in the first place. He didn’t really expect anything to happen, anyway.

-

Michael doesn’t have a clock to tell him what time he should be getting home. He ends up just finding some random coffee place near the gas station and asking for the time there—and from that point on, he just guesses.

Henry is nowhere to be seen when he gets home. He’s a little relieved about that.

Michael waits about ten minutes in his room, just to make sure Henry isn’t going to come over and check on him or something, before finally lifting his mattress and searching for the box of razors he’d gotten at the gas station yesterday. His hands are shaking from the anticipation. It’s a pretty sick thing to be excited about. This shouldn’t excite him. It should disgust him. He is disgusting.

He clumsily unwraps one of the blades, and pushes his shorts down to his knees. If Henry asks to see his arms again, he might notice the burns, but at least he won’t see this. For a while, he just stares at the unmarked skin of his thighs, debating whether it’s really worth it to ruin it forever. His hand trembles even harder as he levels the blade against his skin. He watches the first cut fill with blood, waiting for the tension to ooze out of him like it always does.

But it doesn’t.

So he tries again. And again. And one more time. And a couple more times after that. It’s not working, but he keeps trying. Because if he can’t find relief like this, how else is he supposed to?

His hand has begun to tremble so hard that the blade slips from his grasp, and clatters to the floor. He blinks, and looks back to his thigh. Seven deep cuts smile up at him mockingly. It’s gross. He feels gross. And numb.

He picks up the blade again.

Then, like a goddamn intervention, the doorbell rings. Michael jumps, startled out of his mind, and quickly pulls his shorts back up and shoves the razor into his desk drawer. With bated breath, he waits to hear what happens next. Nothing, for a while. Then Henry’s voice weakly calls from his bedroom, “Mike? Can you get that, please? I’ll be down in a minute.”

Michael doesn’t have nearly enough time to clean up after himself properly, so he simply kicks off his shorts again and pulls on a pair of thick, black pants, praying that no blood will soak through the fabric. He hurries downstairs, hoping it’s just a stupid Mormon missionary or some shit. As long as it isn’t Jen. If it’s Jen, he might actually just march back upstairs and strangle himself. Just to check, Michael looks through the peephole before opening the door. To his shock and dismay, it’s even worse than the worst case scenario he had imagined. It’s Jessica, Marla, John, and Carlton. John and Carlton! Michael exhales sharply through his teeth, thinking he’d rather open the door for a pack of starving wolves. Jessica and Marla are one thing, but John and Carlton are…well, they’re John and Carlton. Jesus Christ.

He gives himself about ten seconds to hype himself up, before forcing himself to open the door.

Jessica and Marla smile at him politely although the sadness in their expressions is evident. Carlton looks surprised to see him, as if he’d forgotten he lives here now. And John just looks cold and apathetic as usual. Michael hates him so much.

Marla is the first one to speak. “Hi. Is Henry home? We brought something for him.” She gestures to the medium-sized pink box in her hands.

“He’s upstairs,” Michael replies tensely. “…Did you want to wait inside?”

“Only if that’s okay,” Marla says quickly.

“It’s fine.” No, it’s not. But Michael widens the door to let them in anyway. Marla keeps hold of her square pink box, fingers tapping on the edges nervously.

“You look so different, Mike,” Carlton comments after a few more awkward moments of silence.

Michael side eyes him warily, trying to figure out exactly what he’s getting at. “Well, I’m not thirteen anymore,” he says shortly.

“I know. It’s just—you used to be a lot more…fashionable.” Nobody responds to that, so Carlton desperately tries to keep the conversation going. “Do you still have piercings and stuff?”

“Shut up, Carlton,” John says. Probably the first respectable thing he’s ever said or done.

The silence that follows is deafening. Michael can’t even remember the last time he spoke to Carlton, but he can remember the last time he spoke to John. Directly, at least. It was years ago–some petty, passive aggressive passing remark. Michael and Charlie had been walking together in the hall just after school ended, arms linked. John had been passing by, looked at Michael, and scowled, lip curling slightly with distaste. And Michael, of course, had just flashed him a smug grin. “Having fun together?” John asked, his tone laced with venom. Michael spat back at him: “Tons.” And then John sent him one last glare before disappearing down the hallway. Charlie had said nothing, but Michael could see on her face that the exchange had upset her. Just for that, he regretted it.

He wishes he would have tried a little harder to get along with her friends while she was alive. Just for her sake.

They all turn their heads at the sound of Henry’s footsteps coming down the stairs, the tense silence breaking. “Oh!” Henry says at the sight of all five of them standing there. “Um–hello, everyone.”

“We’re really sorry if this is a bad time, Mr. Emily,” Marla apologizes. “We just wanted to drop this off for you.” She taps her fingers on the edge of the box again.

“Oh, you know you’re always welcome here, Marla,” Henry says affectionately. His voice is wobbly, but at the same time, he looks a little touched to see them there. “You didn’t have to do all this, though…”

Marla sets the box on the counter and opens it. Michael shifts to stand on his toes, trying to peer into the box without having to get too close to everybody else. It’s a cake, he realizes. From an actual bakery.

Henry’s eyes well up with tears. “Oh…you guys…”

“We really missed seeing you,” Jessica says tearfully. She comes up to Henry to give him a hug, and Marla quickly joins in.

“I’ve missed you, too. This was so thoughtful of you…thank you.” For once, Michael, John, and Carlton have something in common. They all feel horrendously out of place.

It doesn’t last for too long. Marla once again apologizes to Henry for stopping by on such short notice, and promises they’ll get out of his hair pretty quickly. But on their way out, Jessica beckons Michael over with her hand. He doesn’t really want to, but he follows her. “Hey,” she says softly. “Hope you’re doing okay.”

Michael nods uncomfortably, acutely aware of the warm blood still dripping down his pant leg. He stands with his leg held at an awkward angle, trying to keep it from going past his knee. “You, too.”

Without warning, she pulls him into a tight hug. It startles him for a second, but in the end, Jessica is not a scary person, and Michael quickly reciprocates. And as soon as she lets go, Marla gives him one, too. It’s really nice. Something Michael has noticed about girls is that they give hugs all the time. In greeting, in goodbye, in comfort, or even just for the sake of being happy or excited. He kind of envies it. In his world, hugs are so…rare. Not that he wishes he were a girl or anything. But looking at the way John and Carlton awkwardly wait for them several feet down the sidewalk, standing at a slight distance from one another because touching hands is weird…Michael just thinks that maybe boys could learn a thing or two.

Michael exchanges goodbyes with the two of them and reenters the house—and just like that, he and Henry are alone in the kitchen together. He needs to get upstairs as soon as possible. He discreetly glances down, checking to make sure the bleeding isn’t too visible. Thank God—it isn’t.

“Was today okay?” Henry murmurs, still staring at the cake Charlie’s friends had left. His eyes are glazed over with sadness.

“Mm-hm.” Michael watches him for a few moments. He feels bad. Henry’s always doing his best to help him, and yet he has no idea how to comfort Henry. “I’m…sorry.”

Henry shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He breaks out of whatever thought he’d been trapped in and turns to Michael, offering him a sad, tight-lipped smile. His eyes are still glossy with tears. “Come here.”

Michael steps forward obediently, and Henry wraps him in a gentle hug. Half of Michael wants to melt into it, but the other half of him is stiff as a board and all too focused on the wetness on his thigh.

“I love you, Mike,” Henry says softly.

Michael gulps. It hurts when Henry says things like that. In a good way and a bad way all at once. “I love you, too.” It’s a true statement, but it feels wrong leaving his mouth somehow. It’s so strange. To be able to say something like that and have it just be…true. Not out of fear or anything. Despite everything, eventually he gives in and relaxes into the hug, letting out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

…This feels a lot better than cutting himself did.

Henry holds him like that for so long, Michael can tell that he’s no longer bleeding. And when Henry finally pulls away, he looks at Michael and smiles again. His expression is still filled with pain, but there’s a little less of it now. “I’m so glad I have you,” he says hoarsely.

Why? Michael’s brain screams, but he already knows why. Henry misses Charlie. He’s been lonely. And now he has Michael. So even though all he’s ever done is cause problems, Henry is glad to have him around anyway.

…Henry also has no idea that Michael betrayed his trust not even twenty minutes ago. A huge, painful lump forms in his throat.

“I’m going to put this away for now,” Henry says. “Afterward, do you—”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Michael blurts out, accidentally cutting off whatever Henry was about to offer. Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, he isn’t sure. Either way, he feels guilty about it.

“…Oh. Go ahead.” Henry picks up the box, eyes flashing with sadness again as he glances down at it. “…Don’t be afraid to come talk to me. I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

“I won’t. I won't be afraid, I mean.” Michael swallows, feeling the dried blood on his leg stretch and crack as he moves. He feels terrible. He’s such a liar. “I love you.” He feels even worse saying that again. What would Henry do if he knew what Michael had done today? He’d be so depressed. Even more depressed than he already is, that is. Michael always feels bad for making him worry, and yet he keeps giving him reasons to be worried. He’s so stupid. He shouldn’t have done it. It didn’t even help.

He has to stop lying. He has to stop wasting Henry’s time and efforts of helping him. He has to stop this. Maybe then, he can finally feel fucking worthy of hearing that “I love you.”

Michael hurries into his room and rewraps the razor blade back up in the paper it originally came in. He even takes the other two blades that came in the box, and dumps them into his palm. He takes them to the bathroom, hovering his hand over the garbage. A large part of him wants to keep one, just in case. But that would defeat the whole point of doing this, wouldn’t it?

He flushes all three of them down the toilet before he can start to regret it. He doesn’t trust himself not to dig them out of the trash. He scrapes the blood off of his leg in the shower, and makes sure nothing had dripped onto the floor. He makes sure to hide every last trace of what he’d done.

Afterwards, he just climbs into bed and shuts off the light. He’s ashamed. He went behind Henry’s back and destroyed yet another one of his limbs, all for nothing.

Tomorrow is another day. Hopefully it won’t be as shitty as this one.

Chapter Text

Michael tries to forget about what he did yesterday evening, but it’s difficult given he can feel the evidence on his body. It honestly makes him anxious. His shorts are long enough to cover his knees, so it’s highly unlikely anybody will be able to see anything—but with every step he takes, he feels like the cuts are going to rip open and bleed and expose him.

Wearily, he hands Jeremy his lighter and his box of cigarettes. There are only three left. It took a lot of self-control not to chain-smoke the whole pack. “Here.”

Jeremy takes the items and puts them in his pocket, before reaching for his backpack and unzipping one of the smaller pockets. “You okay?”

Michael nods. “I’m fine. It’s over now.” It’s not really over. It’s never really over. “Thanks.”

Jeremy finds whatever he was fumbling around for and pulls it out, holding it out to Michael in offering. “I got you a Snickers bar.” Baffled, Michael pauses and stares at the item. Jeremy’s expression is so earnest, and the gesture is so stupid but somehow so thoughtful because he hadn’t expected it at all, and he starts to laugh. Jeremy smiles sheepishly. “You want it or not?”

Michael takes it for the sake of courtesy, still laughing out of pure bewilderment. “Really? I mean, thank you, but--Jesus. What the hell.”

“Well, I’m glad I could at least make you Snicker.”

The joke isn’t funny whatsoever, but despite that-–and how miserable he’s feeling-–Michael giggles again. There’s something about Jeremy that always manages to cheer him up. He’s just so…sincere. He’s nice, but it never feels like it’s out of obligation. He doesn’t have to stick around, but he does anyway.

Despite his appreciation for the gift, Michael starts feeling queasy halfway through eating it, his stomach still churning with nervousness. He conveniently manages to eat exactly half of the bar, giving him a decent excuse not to finish it. He holds it out to Jeremy. “You want the other half?”

“I don’t like Snickers,” Jeremy says.

Michael sighs, mildly annoyed by the unsuccessful result of his plan. He wraps the remaining candy back in its packaging and puts it in his pocket. “That’s why you gave it to me, then, huh?”

“No. I got it from a vending machine for you. I thought they were your favorite.”

“Damn. Well, you thought right. How’d you know that, anyway?” Michael asks, trying to recall a single time he’s ever had a reason to mention something like that.

“One time you said you used to trade all of your Halloween candy for Snickers. So I guessed.”

Michael squints at him, kind of impressed. “How do you remember literally everything I say?”

Jeremy’s cheeks darken at the observation, and he looks away. “I’m just a good listener.”

“Or something.” Michael kind of wishes Jeremy wasn’t as observant as he is. He hopes his friend hasn’t also picked up on the fact that he’s pulled the edge of his shorts down three times in the past three minutes. Maybe he should have just worn long pants to save himself the trouble—he’d considered it briefly this morning, but then overthinking had got the best of him and he decided against it in favor of acting (and looking) as normal as possible. Fuck his brain. “Anyway, thanks. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

“Don’t,” Jeremy says dismissively. “It’s a gift. I still owe you one for your birthday, anyway.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “‘Kay. What about the cigarettes?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re too nice to me.”

“It cost me like, a dollar to get you that candy. It’s fine.”

“If you say so.” Even if it was just a stupid piece of candy from a vending machine, Michael still feels really touched by the gesture. Just the fact that Jeremy cared enough to bother trying to cheer him up like that. It feels like something Charlie would do. He thinks Jeremy would get along well with her. Then again, Charlie got along with pretty much anybody—as long as they were willing to sit and listen to her waffle on about her latest project for thirty minutes at a time. Michael wishes she were still around to talk his ear off. It’s oddly nice to listen to someone you like ramble, even if you have no clue what the hell they’re talking about. He grins as he gets an idea. He pretends to groan in irritation as if he suddenly remembered something. “God, they’re making us choose our own book to read for English. What should I pick?”

Jeremy scoffs, but Michael can see his eyes shining with barely concealed excitement. “Are you actually asking me that?”

“Yeah. Got any ideas?”

“Don’t even get me fucking started, man,” Jeremy warns.

Michael shrugs at him, and he gets started.

-

The anxiety comes back when he gets home—especially when Henry drops the dreaded instruction he’d been anticipating: “Mike. Come here. I want to talk to you.”

Michael nods stiffly, feeling slightly panicked as he comes over to sit across from him at the table. He stares pointedly at his lap. “What is it?” he asks, playing dumb. He prays it’s not what he thinks it is.

“You weren’t at school yesterday.”

…Oh. That’s all it is. “I’m sorry,” he says, hoping the relief in his voice isn’t obvious. “I just didn’t…um…”

“I’m not mad at you, because I get it, but you really should have just said something.” Henry frowns. “In fact, I told you I would let you miss school if you needed it. So why did you lie about it? I know you know you were going to get caught sooner or later.”

“I know. I just wasn’t thinking. It was kind of an impulse decision.”

“Okay…but then where were you?”

“I was at the playground,” Michael admits. “Not the one by the elementary school. It’s by the gas station. Nobody else is ever over there.”

Henry’s frown only deepens. “Mike, that sounds sketchy.”

“Well, I used to go there all the time,” Michael says, attempting to be reassuring. It probably isn’t.

Henry doesn’t say anything, staring at the wall in thought. Michael squirms uncomfortably, wondering if admitting to that was a bad idea. Maybe he should have been more vague and just said “the park.” Finally, Henry looks back at him, sighing heavily. “I don’t want you going there by yourself anymore. Especially if I don’t know where you are.”

Michael nods his agreement. “I won’t.”

“…Show me your arms.”

Michael freezes, eyes flickering to his sleeves nervously. There’s just two burns. And Henry isn’t looking for burns. Hesitantly, he rolls up one sleeve. Then the other. He shows Henry the backs of his arms, and then his forearms, keeping the side of his wrist angled downward. He waits with bated breath for Henry’s reaction, and nearly dies with relief when he just nods. He didn’t see them. Michael rolls his sleeves down again. But his relief quickly fades when he catches the look on Henry’s face. Despite not finding anything, he looks heartbroken. “What are you going to do with yourself this summer, Mike?” he murmurs sadly.

Michael swallows, averting his eyes again. “‘M sorry,” he mutters.

“No. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I just…I just wish you never felt bad enough to feel the need to do this in the first place. You deserve better than that.”

“So did Evan,” Michael can’t help but say. He can’t help but remind Henry that he is not the same innocent, well-deserving child that Charlie was.

“Mike,” Henry sighs. “You need to let that go, kid.”

He can feel his throat restrict with disgust at the idea. “How can I let go of it? I killed him.”

“Michael.” Henry pulls Michael’s hands—that had previously been picking at his fingernails—away from each other, grasping one of them tightly. “What you did was terrible. And there isn’t any excuse for it. But at the end of the day, it was an accident. And if you keep holding onto this weight, it’s going to drown you. You need to accept what happened and move on, or else you’re never going to get better.”

“But I killed him,” Michael repeats.

Henry furrows his eyebrows. “Are you even listening to me?”

“…” Michael bites the inside of his cheek, and nods meekly. “Sorry.” He shouldn’t have brought that up in the first place. It was bound to backfire on him, anyway.

“You know what? I think it would be a great idea to talk about this with your therapist next week,” Henry says, almost sounding smug with the way he emphasizes the word. “I don’t want to argue with you about this. Let’s just try to have a good day. I need a good day.” Michael nods in somewhat pretend agreement, hoping Henry’s definition of a good day doesn’t involve anything too extreme. “Why don’t I put on some music, and you can help me make dinner? Take both of our minds off everything.”

“Okay.”

Henry leaves the room, and Michael remains seated at the table, starting to pick at his nails again. Therapist next week. He really doesn’t want to go. He’s seen therapy in movies, but he has no idea what it’s actually supposed to be like. Is he just going to be forced to talk about the worst parts of his life he desperately wants to forget for an entire hour? How the hell is that supposed to be therapeutic? It sounds like torture.

And even if therapy did help…Michael is scared of that, too. Getting better doesn’t feel real. It feels like a false hope or a dream that will eventually shatter and make him feel even worse than before. Paradoxically, Michael can’t help but feel like he’s better off worse. At least then, he knows what to expect. For that reason…he kind of regrets throwing away his razors. He didn’t have to get rid of them completely. He could’ve just hidden them.

…No. Hiding them wouldn’t be enough. He’s not going to do that anymore. He’s tired of feeling guilty about lying all of the time. Even if he has technically been lying by omission all day today. Henry did tell him to be honest if he ever ended up hurting himself again…but what’s the point of telling him after the damage has already been done? The only thing telling Henry would accomplish is making him sad. And Michael is sick of making Henry sad.

He wants Henry to be happy. He deserves that much.

So he pushes his bullshit to the back of his mind to the best of his ability and stands up from his chair, joining Henry in the kitchen as he returns with a couple of cassette tapes and a player. “Do you care what I put on?” he asks. Michael shakes his head. He just hopes Henry won’t put on gospel music or some shit. Henry pauses, looking thoughtful. “You don’t have any music, do you?”

“I have a Walkman,” Michael offers.

“You do? I’ve never seen you using it.”

“Well…I don’t have any tapes,” he admits sheepishly. Or batteries, for that matter.

“What?! Why not? What’s the point of having one if you can’t use it?”

There’s a pretty good reason why Michael doesn’t have any tapes anymore, but he doesn’t want to spoil the moment by bringing up Father. So instead, he just says: “I didn’t think that far ahead when I stole it.”

Henry gasps. “You didn’t,” he scolds, but Michael can see laughter in his eyes. “That better not have been recent!” Michael shakes his head, unable to hold back his own smile. Henry tuts disapprovingly. “I’ll get you some music,” he says. “But no more stealing!”

For once, Michael’s bad behavior has actually lifted the mood. He doesn’t even feel bad about Henry’s promise to buy him stuff. He’s just kind of relieved that he managed to avoid the consequences of his actions yesterday, and nobody is mad at him.

As expected, Henry’s music sucks ass, but the food they make turns out good. And despite his nerves, Michael manages to finish his entire plate. Henry smiles at him proudly. It feels nice.

Today was surprisingly okay.

Chapter Text

Michael wipes the sweat from his forehead, having just walked all the way to the theater. Jeremy had asked him if he wanted to see a new movie yesterday, and Michael lied and told Henry he’d just be walking over to his house, not wanting to make the man drive him around. Jeremy is already waiting for him outside the building. “Dude, did you walk here?” he asks incredulously.

Michael nods. “It wasn’t that far. I’m fine.”

“Jesus, man.” Jeremy sighs. “You could have asked for a ride.”

“Whatever,” Michael says dismissively. “Anyway, I brought some money for a ticket. Here.”

“I still owe you for your birthday, remember?” Jeremy says. Michael rolls his eyes, but he knows he’s not winning this argument, so he stuffs his money back into his pocket as they walk towards the entrance. “I haven’t been to the movies in forever. Thanks for coming with me.”

They get two Cokes and no popcorn–because Michael’s stomach hates him, and because Jeremy thinks the price is unreasonable.

The theater is dark, but it’s hot–although maybe that’s just because Michael spent the past thirty minutes walking in the sun. Regardless, they have fun making fun of stupid trailers and ads with bad acting, and Michael finds the first half of the movie pretty entertaining. Although he starts to feel kind of uncomfortable during the second half. He feels just as hot and gross as when he’d been walking here in the heat, and his head is starting to pound. A warm layer of fuzz settles over his brain and seeps into every crevice, hindering his ability to focus properly. He isn’t sure what’s wrong with him. He was fine just an hour ago. The rest of the movie is kind of a blur, which is a real shame because he was actually kind of enjoying it. He feels disoriented as they leave the theater, the sudden bright lights making his headache a thousand times worse. “Dude…what the hell did they put in my drink? I feel like I’m dying,” he groans. To make matters even shittier, his leg throbs with each step he takes. It was hurting yesterday, too, but not quite as much as this.

“What? Are you good?”

“Yeah. I think I’ll just lie down when I get home…”

“Do you want a ride?” Jeremy asks him worriedly.

Michael shakes his head. “No, I’m okay.”

Jeremy huffs. “You’re getting a ride home, idiot.”

Michael nods tiredly, feeling too awful to protest. “Fine…let’s just go…”

They stop to wait outside the theater, standing against the wall outside. “I asked my mom to pick me up in a couple of hours. She’ll be at the front of the theater pretty soon.”

“But you didn’t tell her about me ahead of time,” Michael frets. “I feel bad.”

“That’s ‘cause I didn’t expect you to walk to the theater all by yourself. And in a jacket, dude? It’s like you’re trying to give yourself heatstroke.”

Michael stiffens, but tries to brush past that observation by ignoring it completely. “Okay, but still…”

“My mom loves you, man. She’ll be cool with it. I promise.”

Michael blinks in mild confusion. “Why would she? I’ve only talked to her like, twice.”

“Well…” Jeremy trails off, suddenly looking very ashamed. He purses his lips awkwardly and stares down at the ground. “She’s, um…happy that I finally have a friend.” His voice becomes meek with insecurity. “Christ, that sounded really pathetic. Sorry.”

“It’s not pathetic,” Michael says. Jeremy bites the inside of his cheek, and Michael can tell that he disagrees. He would know—he feels the same way all the time. Although unlike Michael, Jeremy has the self-control not to say it out loud. “You’re not.”

“Sorry for killing the mood,” Jeremy mumbles, instead of acknowledging Michael’s response. He reaches into his pocket, fidgeting with something inside.

“You didn’t.” He begins to reach out, but stops himself thoughtfully. “Aw, shit. I was gonna hug you, but I don’t want to get you sick.”

Something in Jeremy’s expression changes at that, his lips parting in shock. Michael frowns, wondering if he had done something wrong. “What?” Jeremy asks, looking at him as if he’s grown a pair of wings.

“Um…I don’t know if I’m contagious?” Michael elaborates awkwardly. “…Are you okay?”

Jeremy nods quickly. “I’m fine.” He blinks rapidly a couple of times, and sighs. “Um…anyway…” Michael has no idea what the fuck just happened, but his stomach churns with guilt. He hates seeing Jeremy upset. Especially when he doesn’t know the reason, because clearly it goes deeper than the ‘no friends’ thing. But he has a feeling Jeremy isn’t going to tell him. He rarely does tell him anything personal. Not that Michael can blame him. If he had the choice, Jeremy wouldn’t even know his last name. “Did you at least like the movie?”

Michael leans against the wall, somewhat reluctantly accepting the change of topic and Jeremy’s wish to move on. “Yeah.” He racks his brain for a way to bring the mood back up. “But my favorite part had to be the screaming baby two rows in front of us. It really added to the atmosphere, I think.”

Jeremy huffs in agreement, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Seriously. Who brings a baby to a movie about airplanes? Are you trying to blow its eardrums out?”

With the conversation salvaged and their spirits lifted, they talk about the movie and other meaningless and lighthearted things, before Jeremy points out a silver car pulling into the parking lot. “That’s my mom.”

“Are you sure she’ll be fine with—”

Jeremy pokes him hard in the shoulder, cutting him off. “How many times do I have to say it? I’m positive.”

“Oh. Congratulations.”

“Shut up!” Jeremy groans good-naturedly.

Ms. Johnson looks surprised to see the both of them, but true to Jeremy’s prediction, she just smiles at Michael warmly. “Oh, hello, Mike. Need a ride?”

“He walked to the theater himself,” Jeremy informs her, shaking his head with disapproval.

“In that jacket?” Ms. Johnson tuts. “Might be a good idea to shed some layers, hun. You look pretty red.”

“I’m okay,” he says quickly. Jeremy side eyes him dubiously, and Michael pretends not to see. “Thank you for the ride, ma’am.”

“Oh, it’s no biggie. What street are you on, dearie?”

It only takes somewhere around five minutes to get there, so maybe asking Henry for a ride in the first place would have been less bothersome than he thought. He thanks Ms. Johnson once again, and waves goodbye to Jeremy, who tells him to feel better soon. Michael feels a little glad his sickness didn’t totally ruin the day, although speaking of which, he feels much worse than he did in the theater. His head is killing him, and his heart feels like it’s working overtime. He really wants to take a nap.

“How was Jeremy’s?” Henry calls from the kitchen as Michael shuts the front door behind him.

“Fine. Good,” he calls back, wiping off his forehead again. He finally shrugs off his jacket, fanning himself with his hand. He feels sticky and gross. He should probably take a shower. But he’s way too tired at the moment. Maybe later, he decides. “I’m gonna take a nap.”

“Alright. I’ll wake you up in a few hours for dinner.”

Michael absently kicks off his shoes and limps up the stairs, stopping at the top of the staircase to catch his breath. His leg hurts like hell. Somewhere deep within his thick tangle of half-functional neurons, he makes a connection. Is he really just “sick,” or is this some sort of infection?

He hobbles to the bathroom, rolling up his shorts to check on the wounds. He pales at the sight. His skin is warm and inflamed, and a thin red stripe extends upwards from the cluster of cuts before curling around his thigh. He swallows, unsettled. He’s been doing this shit for years—so naturally he’s had dozens of infections before. And they’ve all gone away on their own eventually. But something about that faint little streak snaking up his leg feels sinister.

…But it’s probably fine, right? He cut deeper than normal, so it’s bound to hurt more. He’s young and healthy. His body can handle it. He’ll be okay. He has to be.

He rinses out the wounds with water and even applies some antibiotic cream, wincing in pain as he does so. Feeling slightly better about having taken care of the injuries, he allows himself to crawl back to bed and finally take that much needed nap. He hopes he’ll feel a little better when he wakes up.

-

That turned out to be a terrible idea. As soon as Michael wakes up, he knows that he fucked up. Badly. His leg is in excruciating pain–almost as though it’s been set on fire–while the rest of his body feels like it’s been submerged in ice water. It’s somehow so much worse than it had been just hours ago, and he can’t help but let out an involuntary whine of pain as he practically tumbles out of bed and drags himself back into the bathroom, hoping to find something to fix this. Some more medicine, maybe. He attempts to roll up his shorts to check on the wounds again, but immediately has to stop as searing agony shoots down his entire limb. The fabric seems to be stuck to his injuries. Great. Great, great, great, great. He gasps harshly, doubled over from how badly it hurts, before steeling himself and ripping the fabric upwards in one swift movement. The pain is blinding–so sudden and shocking that everything goes black for a second, and he can’t help the loud, strangled cry that escapes him. He blinks, trying to regain his vision. The cuts are even worse than they were earlier—swollen and leaking pus. The red streak he had noticed has only gotten longer, now going all the way up his leg and disappearing under the hem of his boxers.

This is not good.

Michael opens the cabinet under the bathroom sink. He has no idea what he’s looking for, and he can hardly concentrate hard enough to read the labels of things, but he digs through the contents of every container he can find anyway. His mind feels like it’s melting. His hands tremble badly from the cold.

“Mike? What’s going on in there?”

It takes a little longer than usual to find the words. “I think I’m sick,” Michael pants.

“Can I come in?”

Michael looks back at the scattered contents of the cabinet in front of him. He still can’t remember what he had been looking for. “…No.”

“How are you sick? Are you throwing up? Do you need some—” Henry stops talking, or maybe Michael just stops hearing him. A tear slips down his cheek.

“Michael?” Henry’s voice cuts through the fog in his brain again. It’s much louder now. Panicked.

"Mmph…” Michael lets his head lean against the bathroom door, somehow feeling sicker by the second.

Henry says something else, entirely incoherent. Michael doesn’t answer. He’s in so much pain, and he can barely focus on anything anymore. He slides down from the door and rests his cheek on the tile. It’s very cold. His body shakes uncontrollably.

…Control. That was the whole point of this, wasn’t it? Replacing the emotional pain he can’t control with physical pain he can. Canceling out wounds inflicted by others by inflicting them on himself. Suffering, but on his own terms. But he’s not in control anymore. He’s trembling on the floor, feverish and confused and writhing in agony and probably dying, all against his own will. He is completely and utterly powerless, and it’s terrifying. Another tear runs down his face. If his overheating body doesn’t kill him first, Father certainly will when he finds out about this.

Something hard and sharp hits him in the back, but he feels too weak to react to it other than a quiet groan. It hits him again, more softly this time, and then someone scoops a hand under him and lifts his head up. It’s Henry. How did he get in here? “Mike? Oh God, Michael, what did you take!?” he cries loudly.

What? What does he mean? And can he stop yelling? “He’ll hear you,” Michael warns faintly. A cold hand presses onto his hot face, flat against his forehead. Is Henry trying to hit him? He’s not doing a very good job. He wheezes as he feels his body lift from the ground, moaning in agony as his leg splits apart. It burns. He’s burning. He’s going to burn for all of eternity, probably. Distant, muted feelings of horror well up inside of him as blood begins trickling from the corners of the ceiling to the center of the room and down the walls. A drop of it lands on his cheek. He whimpers and drapes his arm over his eyes. He has never felt more afraid in his life, and yet he can’t bring himself to do anything about it. Every few seconds, he alternates between being on the brink of unconsciousness and being jolted back awake by pangs of agony.

His body drops onto something soft. Michael lets his arm fall from his face and attempts to reach the floor, seeking out the coolness of the tiles. He doesn’t find it. His head spins. Flies buzz all around him. Is he already dead? If not, then he’s close to it. He can feel the flames of Hell beginning to lick at his body and his soul. It’s so hot. He can’t breathe.

Something cold and wet presses onto his forehead. He cracks open his eyes blearily. It’s Henry. Henry shakes his shoulders roughly. “Michael!? Can you hear me?”

Michael’s eyes drift behind the man’s head, watching the blood slowly ooze all the way down the walls and onto the floor. It’s the most frightening thing he has ever seen, but still, he doesn’t react. He can’t react. He can’t move. He can barely even think. More blood drips onto his face. There must be a lot of blood in Hell. He doesn’t want to go. He knows he deserves it, but he’s afraid. He wants to pray one last time, but he can’t even string together a coherent enough message to send God’s way. It’s a shame. Would God even listen to him anyway? How ironic that he was named after an angel. It must be insulting. Not just to the angel in question, but to God himself. And to his mother. He was a curse. Tears and blood cascade down his cheeks like rivers, and he closes his eyes again. “‘M sorry…” he murmurs, his voice coming out in a broken slur. Sorry Henry, sorry Mum, sorry God, sorry Evan, sorry Elizabeth, sorry Charlie, sorry Father. He’s sorry for everything. He’s sorry for being this way and for dragging everyone else down with him. He’s so, so sorry. But being sorry is not enough. The flames are getting hotter.

Despite the searing agony racking his entire body, he finally manages to pass out.

Chapter Text

There’s a kid standing in the corner of the room. She has long black pigtails tied up with gold beads, and she’s wearing a brown sweater with thin horizontal stripes. She is familiar, but Michael can’t recall where he’s seen her before. He waits for her to say something. She doesn’t. She just stares back at him quizzically.

“Who are you?” Michael asks, when he can’t stand playing the waiting game any longer. “Can you hear me?”

Brown Sweater Kid doesn’t say anything. She turns her head slightly to one side and smiles, as if posing for a picture. Then, it hits him.

1̵̴̶0̶̶̷-̸̵̷Y̸̵̵E̷̶̵A̵̶̸R̸̸̴-̷̸̷O̵̷̸L̸̴̶D̵̶̶ ̴̶̴F̶̸̷O̶̸̷U̶̵̶N̵̶̵D̶̷̸ ̷̴̶D̸̴̴E̶̸̶A̶̵̴D̶̴̶ ̵̴̵W̸̶̵I̸̶̵T̴̸̵H̷̷̴ ̵̸̷C̵̵̵O̷̸̴-̵̴̶O̴̷̷W̴̷̷N̷̵̸E̴̸̸R̷̵̶ ̸̴̵O̷̵̵F̶̸̷ ̷̷̴F̷̸̷A̶̴̵Z̸̸̷B̵̴̵E̶̴̷A̵̵̷R̶̷̷ ̶̷̷E̷̷̶N̸̶̶T̸̷̴E̸̷̷R̶̸̶T̷̵̵A̶̷̴I̵̷̶N̷̸̷M̶̶̴E̴̸̸N̷̵̵T̶̵̴,̶̵̶ ̷̸̵M̶̶̴I̴̴̷S̴̸̵S̸̴̷I̸̴̶N̷̶̵G̸̸̵ ̸̵̵C̴̷̸H̶̴̶I̶̸̶L̷̴̶D̷̵̸R̸̶̵E̸̵̷N̵̵̸ ̵C̸A̷S̴E̶ ̷S̵O̵L̶V̸E̵D̷ ̵A̵T̶ ̶L̸A̸S̷T̷

Cassidy lets the smile fall from her face, becoming the real-life child behind the photograph in the newspaper once again. She continues to stare at him blankly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know!” Michael tells her through gasps. He’s hyperventilating now.

Cassidy just stares.

“Please leave me alone,” he begs. He flaps and shakes his hands in front of himself, too scared to know what else to do with them. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please get me out of here—” He shrieks as something touches his hand. It’s a woman. Why is she touching him? Is she going to hurt him? He swats her hand away. “Leave me alone!”

“I’m here to help you, hun. Let’s calm down, okay?”

Cassidy is still staring. She hasn’t moved.

Michael squeezes his eyes shut, too frightened to look, and then opens them again, because he is too frightened not to know. Cassidy is still there. She is still staring. He tries to scoot back in his bed. Who’s bed is this? This isn’t his bed.

“Honey. Focus on me.”

“Please,” he sobs. “Please! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, just please stop!” Something touches his hand again. It’s a woman. Michael stares at her, terrified. “Who are you? Did he kill you?”

“I’m your nurse. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe. I promise.”

Michael points to the corner of the room to show the woman why he is not safe, but Cassidy is gone. He looks all around, but she is nowhere to be seen. This is not reassuring. It might be even scarier. “She’s going to come back and get me. Did you see her? She was right there. She hates me. She’s going to kill me. She wants me dead.”

“Nobody is going to kill you, honey. You’re safe with me, okay?”

Michael’s entire body shakes. “No! Where am I? I want to go home!”

“You’re in the hospital, baby.” That doesn’t even make any sense. Why the hell would it be snowing in a hospital?

He swings his feet over the side of the bed, about to jump down, but the floor is moving. It’s melting. He yelps and pulls himself back up, crying out in pain as he does so. His entire body hurts, and he doesn’t know why. They’ve done something to him. They’ve put something inside him. He can feel the metal under his skin twist and squirm and breathe. It’s alive. At any moment, the wires wrapped around his vital organs could tighten, crushing him from the inside and killing him. How is that possible? He doesn’t know. He’s never been so scared and confused in his life. His hand hovers above the loose wires protruding from his arm. He’s afraid to touch it, but he knows he needs to pull it out before it manages to get all the way inside. The woman beside him tries to grab onto his hand to stop him, but Michael rips his arm free of her grasp and yanks, attempting to pull The Thing out. There’s a tiny pinch, and that’s it. The wire must have snapped. He failed to remove it. 

“Michael—!” the woman yelps. How does she know his name? Is she the one behind this? “P-please calm down. I’m here to help you, okay?”

“Then get this Thing out of me!” Michael screams. “Stop lying to me!” He curls into a ball, covering his head with his hands. He can’t run. He can’t escape. And most importantly, he can’t make sense of anything that is happening. The Thing continues to thrash around inside of him, agitated by his yelling. Michael doesn’t dare to move. What’s the point, anyway? He’s already dead. It’s won. They’ve won. Whoever put The Thing inside of him has won. He sobs into his knees, both in emotional anguish and physical pain. This is so much worse than Hell. He wishes he didn’t survive the poison. He wants his body back. He wants Henry.

Someone else grabs his arm. He knows it’s not the woman. It’s a man. His fingers are rough and firm and painful. Maybe it’s Father. Father is the only man who could be cruel enough to invent a machine like The Thing. Well, him and everyone working here. Maybe there was no good in humanity to begin with. Maybe everyone was out to get him from the very start. The man that is most likely Father presses something onto his forearm. “What is it?” Michael weeps.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe here,” Father tells him. He turns and says something to the woman.

“Why are you talking like that? I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to do this. Please take it out. I’ll do anything,” Michael begs.

Father seems completely unfazed by his pleas. “We’re just giving you some medicine. It’s going to make you feel better, yeah?”

“No,” Michael moans. “Please…” They ignore him, and lay him back down on the bed. Michael can’t see her from here, but he knows Cassidy is waiting for him outside. He can hear her breathing. “Father…why would you do this? I don’t understand…”

Father continues to ignore him in favor of talking to the woman. There is another person, too, but Michael can’t tell whether they are male or female. Father, Woman, and Person discuss him using code names he can’t understand. Then Person comes up to him and tries to hold his hand, telling him that everything will be okay. Michael doesn’t believe them. “I didn’t want this…tell her that I’m not him…” he breathes, barely audible.

“Tell who?”

Michael passes out again.

Chapter Text

Michael is exhausted. He stares blearily at an unfamiliar woman sitting in a chair across the room, who has not yet noticed that he’s awake. It’s only been about a minute since he opened his eyes. He hums to get her attention.

“Oh, good morning, Mike. How are you feeling?”

“What’s going on?” he asks slowly, shielding his eyes from the painfully harsh lighting. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Nurse Flynn. Can I ask you some questions?” Michael nods sleepily. “I know you’re probably real tired, so I’ll try my best to make this quick. Do you know where we are?”

Michael un-squints his eyes to try and get a better look at his surroundings, noticing sterile white walls with pale blue accents, and enough wires, monitors, and machinery to almost be overstimulating to look at. …Oh. This is a hospital. “Am I in the hospital?” he asks, jolting upright and suddenly feeling a lot more alert. “What happened!?”

“I’ll explain everything. But first, can you tell me your name and the day you were born?”

“Michael Afton. I was born here. Utah,” Michael lists urgently. “Where’s Henry?”

“He’s at home, sweetie. Can you tell me the months of the year?”

“How long have I been asleep?” he demands.

“This is your fourth time waking up, baby. Can you answer my question?”

“What?”

“The months of the year. Can you tell me the months of the year?”

Michael furrows his eyebrows, frustrated by the irrelevance of the question--but he tries to answer anyway in hopes that she will answer his own. “January, February, March, April, July…um…September, November, December.”

“Good job. Will a stone float on water?”

Michael’s frown deepens. What the fuck are these questions? “No. I’m not stupid.”

“Of course not,” Nurse reassures him, scribbling a few things down on a clipboard. “I’m just doing my job. I’ve got a few more questions, 'kay? Try your best.” She asks him a few more random things like that, and makes him do stuff like holding up his fingers and following a pencil with his eyes.

“What happened to me?” Michael asks again, once she finally seems to be done. His head pounds, and he rubs at his forehead. It’s then he realizes his arms are on full display, thanks to the short-sleeved hospital gown he’s been put in. A baby screams loudly from somewhere down the hall, and suddenly, his brain finally catches up to him and the full weight of this entire situation hits him like a truck. He already knew he was in the hospital...but only now has he realized the severity of that fact. There’s machines all around, an IV in his arm, and he thinks he can even feel some sort of tube in his nose.

He’s fucked up bad before. But this is just…

Without warning, he starts crying.

Nurse hurries over to his bed to comfort him, and he ignores her, just sobbing into his hands. He’s so screwed. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been here. How long has he been asleep?

“You’re gonna be okay,” Nurse tells Michael comfortingly. “You’re already doing so much better from when you first came in.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Michael cries, words muffled by his palms. “I can’t do it.”

“It’s gonna be okay, sweetie,” Nurse repeats. Michael doesn’t listen.

“Where’s Henry?” he hiccups. “Did he leave me?”

“No, sweetie. He was here with you just yesterday.”

Michael thinks hard. Trying to retrieve his memories is like trying to pull himself out from chest-high quicksand, and he can only recall broken fragments of the past however many days. A gas station, Jessica crying, a wailing cat, Henry’s arms, a metal creature with five different voices, snow pouring in through closed windows, an angry spirit watching him. His heart lurches, and he sits up, panicked. “The girl!” he cries. He presses on his forearm with bruising force, trying to feel the thick wires beneath his skin. He doesn’t find them, but a dull pain pulses through the area. “Is the girl here?”

“Do you mean Nurse Becker? She was here with you last time you were awake.”

“No, the…the little girl. She was…she had black hair…brown sweater…” Michael whispers, afraid she might hear him somehow. “Where is she?”

“I promise you there was no little girl like that in here. You were pretty delirious, sweetie.”

“Delirious?” Michael echoes.

“Hallucinating. Seeing things,” Nurse explains.

Well…Michael supposes a machine living inside of him doesn’t make much sense anyway. But…then what was real? Where did “real” end and “not real” begin? “Is Henry here? Where is he? Does he know where I am?”

“Henry was here yesterday, remember? And the day before that. He’s the one who brought you here.”

“So then how long have I been here?” Michael asks, lip quivering. “What happened to me?”

“You’ve been here for a few days. You had an infection on your leg, and you got really sick.”

Michael’s voice cracks. “Am I gonna die?”

“You’re already doing so much better than when you first came in,” Nurse reassures him, without really answering his question. “Right now, you should focus on getting some rest so you can get better and get out of here as quick as possible.”

Get out of here as quick as possible. For some reason, Michael’s foggy brain perceives that as a threat. “Why? Is she still looking for me?” he snivels.

Nurse looks at him pitifully. “No, honey. Nobody is going to hurt you. I’m just saying you should try and get better fast, so you can go back home. You want to go home, don’t you?”

Michael nods fervently.

“Can you try to relax? Deep breaths. You’re going to be just fine. I promise.”

Michael tries to follow her advice and take deep breaths, but in the end, he’s pretty sure that’s not what actually helped him calm down. He’s just fucking exhausted. He doesn’t say another word as he sinks back down onto the hospital bed, covering his eyes with his hands in an attempt to block out the painful lights.

“I’ll close the blinds for you,” Nurse offers helpfully. Michael doesn’t answer. He tries to shut out the background noise of the hospital and pretend he’s back at home. His old home. It doesn’t help.

He doesn’t think anything can help him anymore.

-

Thanks to his clouded state of mind, it takes Michael a few days to actually learn what had happened to him. And even then, he only catches bits and pieces. He doesn’t know exactly what any of it means; all he knows is that it’s very serious. He could have died. He is very lucky to be alive, the doctors tell him. Michael doesn’t feel lucky or alive. He feels completely drained of life.

He also does not see Henry for a while. The reason being—he can’t stay awake long enough to have the chance. And to be honest, he isn’t sure he ever wants to see Henry again, anyway. He can’t even bear to imagine the pain and disappointment that’s bound to be on the man’s face when he sees him. Part of him thinks he should have just killed himself before Henry got the chance to swoop in and get attached to him. It would have saved him a lot of stress. And money. Michael’s surrounded by machines—the number on the hospital bill must be never ending.

But he can’t hide forever.

One day, they inform him that Henry is here, and wants to visit. Michael gets about five minutes to prepare himself, trying to force himself into a mindset in which he will not break down into a fit of sobs, but it doesn’t end up mattering. Henry walks through the door. His eyes are framed by dark circles, and he’s wearing the same pine green button-up he had worn at Charlie’s funeral. Michael immediately bursts into tears.

Henry wraps him into an extremely loose, afraid-to-break-him sort of hug. He’s talking, but Michael is too hysterical to comprehend any of what he’s saying. He can’t stop apologizing, over and over again like a broken record. When he finally calms down from his near-psychotic episode of crying, Henry pulls away from him to look him in the face. He runs his hand through his messy, unkempt hair. “Oh, Mike…what am I going to do with you?”

“I’m sorry, sir…I didn’t mean to…”

Henry sighs. “Please don’t call me that.”

“I really didn’t mean to get sick,” Michael explains importantly, his voice choked up and rough. “I tried to fix it with—” he forgets the word, “—nitrogen? But I ended up sick anyway, and I’m really sorry. It’s not an accident, I promise, sir…”

Henry’s face remains unchanged and unimpressed. Michael opens his mouth to re-apologize in case he didn’t hear, but Henry shushes him, squeezing one of his hands tightly. “We’re not going to talk about that right now. You’re not making any sense.” Michael nods tiredly, leaning his forward to rest his forehead against Henry’s chest, and Henry rubs his back comfortingly. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” Henry doesn’t really sound that “glad.” He just sounds exhausted. Maybe he wishes that Michael had died.

“When do you think they’ll let me come home?” he asks timidly. 

Henry frowns, and he takes a long pause. “I’ve been talking to the doctors,” he admits slowly. “As soon as you’re well enough…they’re putting you in the psychiatric unit.”

Michael stills. He shouldn’t be surprised, he really shouldn’t—but he can’t help the way his heart sinks to his feet. “…What?”

Henry gently grasps one of Michael’s arms, lifting it up and holding it in front of his face. “Michael. Look at this.” Michael looks. Somehow, the scars look a thousand times worse now that someone is actually pointing them out in front of him. “This is not okay. This is—I don’t even know what this is. This is insanity.”

“I know,” Michael says weakly.

“Do you?” Henry asks incredulously.

“Well, I know it’s bad, and I’m crazy, but I’m not…like…” Michael trails off. What is he even trying to say? He’s not crazy enough to take a blade to his own skin? He’s not crazy enough to see and hear things that aren’t really there? He’s not crazy enough to hurt other people? Where is he drawing the line?

“Mike.” Henry sighs wearily. He gently pinches each of Michael’s tear-stained cheeks between his fingers, gazing at him with a sorrowful expression. “I love you, so, so much. But you need a serious fucking reality check.”

“…” It’s so bad that Henry used the f-word. Michael hangs his head in shame.

“It’s not a punishment, okay? It’s just…you need help. And honestly, I don’t know what to do for you anymore. It’s for your own good.”

Michael nods in understanding, wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry, Henry…”

“I know.” Henry’s eyes glimmer with grief. Michael’s apology must mean nothing to him. Because clearly, Michael’s past apologies were meaningless, too.

He just keeps spiraling downwards. He will likely never find his way up.

Chapter Text

The passage of time in the hospital is blurry and uncertain—the only things Michael can clearly recall being nightmares, the constant ache in his limbs, and a few select mundane interactions with nurses that his brain for some reason decided were important. Henry visits him often, but he’s the only one. Michael isn’t sure whether Jeremy even knows where he is. He probably asked Henry at some point—not that he can remember. He’s usually too tired to be able to have any semblance of a productive conversation anyway. Although, he’s gradually starting to get more coherent as more time passes. And eventually, coherent enough that they decide he’s ready to be discharged. Well—transferred. To the psychiatric ward. One day, after a short visit with Henry, a woman with shiny red hair comes into his room with an empty wheelchair. “Hi there,” she tells him kindly. “My name’s Red. Easy to remember, huh?”

“Are you moving me?” Michael asks, looking pointedly at the empty wheelchair she’s pushing.

“Yessir. I’m guessing you already know where we’re headed?”

Michael nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. “How long will they keep me in there?”

“Not too long. We just wanna make sure you’re gonna be okay on your own before you head home.” We just wanna make sure you’re not gonna fucking kill yourself, you goddamn loony idiot. “It’s nothing like in the movies, you know? You’ll be fine.”

Michael stays quiet as she helps him get into the wheelchair. A little kid being pushed around on a stretcher gawks at his exposed arms. Michael hugs himself tightly, cursing the stupid hospital clothes he’s being forced to wear. He begins to feel increasingly nervous as Red takes him up an elevator, down several hallways, and eventually through a final set of doors before stopping, leaving him by some sort of empty receptionist-looking desk and prompting him to get up. “I’ve gotta take this back,” she says, gesturing to the wheelchair. “You’ll be meeting with a psychiatrist tomorrow. For now, it’s nearly dinner time. You can wait out in the recreational area with Vanessa. I’m sure she can fill you in on how things work around here.” She points to a blonde-haired girl sitting at a round table in front of a television. Nothing is playing on it, though. “Can you get around on your own okay?”

Michael nods. He’s hardly walked at all since getting sick—only short treks down short hallways with a nurse hovering just behind him, but he thinks he can do it. It’s not like he’s going on a hike. He reluctantly acquiesces to Red’s suggestion, although he sits on the opposite side of the room as the girl. He expects sitting as far away from her as possible to send a message that he doesn’t feel like talking, but he supposes he should’ve expected a psycho not to pick up on the hint.

“Your name is Michael?” she says.

“How’d you know that?” Michael responds, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She looks to be somewhere around his own age.

The girl shrugs. “The staff was talking about you before you came in. Anyway, um, sorry you got put in here, I guess. It’s not all bad, but it’s a little boring. They don’t even let you do schoolwork.”

Michael is too tired to stay irritated. “How long have you been here?” he asks, trying to get an idea of his own sentence.

“Just a few days. Depending on what you’re here for, they might not make you stay long. You just have to act good.” The girl scratches at a spot on her neck. “If you ask, they give you crossword puzzles. Those are fun.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Um…” Michael trails off, having completely lost his train of thought. His eyes land on a bookshelf made of rounded blue plastic. Huh. How fucking hideous.

“Hello?”

Michael glances at her. “What?”

The blonde girl scratches her neck again awkwardly. “…Never mind.”

They sit in silence for the remainder of time until Red returns, this time with a little girl trailing behind her like a duckling. “Are we ready to go to the cafeteria?” she asks.

The blonde girl nods, and gets up to follow her, so Michael does the same, letting Red lead them away. Their destination is completely empty by the time they get there. It’s pretty small, too. They must have a special, separate cafeteria just for the nuts. Michael copies the blonde girl’s actions of getting a tray and receiving food from a staff member. The walk here wasn’t a long one by any means, but he feels out of breath from it. He figures he must be severely out of shape from spending so much time in a stupid hospital bed. He sits at a table at the farthest edge of the room, wanting to eat by himself, but the blonde girl follows him. The other girl does, too. How fantastic.

“This is Abby,” Blonde Girl introduces him, gesturing to the smaller girl. She’s tiny. She can’t be more than ten. A pang of sadness pulses through him briefly as he wonders what could have ended such a young child up here. He gives her a small wave, and she smiles shyly and waves back.

Then he realizes Blonde Girl is staring at him expectantly, and Michael glances around, trying to figure out what she wants. “What?”

“I thought you’d introduce yourself, too,” Blonde Girl says.

“Oh. Um, I’m Mike.” He furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “So then what’s your name?”

Blonde Girl frowns at him. “Vanessa. Didn’t you hear Red tell you that?”

“Oh. I guess not.”

Vanessa shrugs, sitting down with her tray. She picks at the crust of her sandwich. “There’s one more person here. Her name’s Juliet. You’ll probably meet her tomorrow.”

“Juliet has to eat in her room today,” Abby adds helpfully. “She’s in trouble.”

“Uh-oh,” Michael responds halfheartedly, not sure what else to say to that. He stares at a chip in the surface of the table. Fuck, his mind feels so dead. He hopes he’ll be allowed to sleep soon.

“What happened to your arms?” Abby asks him curiously.

Michael finally looks back up. A distant feeling of shame wells up inside of him. Christ, it sucks to be all exposed like this. His arms don't even resemble human skin anymore—just a grossly textured, uneven hotchpotch of thick, overlapping white and dark crimson lines. It’s so horrible just to look at. “Accident,” he mumbles vaguely, not having the brain capacity to muster up a better excuse. But luckily he doesn’t need one. Abby is too young to realize the illogicality of that statement, and she just nods simply, eyes falling back down to her tray.

Nobody says anything after that. Abby eats the center of her sandwich while somehow managing to leave the entire crust in one piece, and starts drawing on a napkin with a crayon. Vanessa does not eat at all. Michael attempts to eat, but winces with disgust and quits three bites in. He didn’t think you could screw up something as simple as bread and meat, but somehow the hospital managed to do it. It tastes like copper.

He spaces out the remainder of the time in the cafeteria until Red rounds them all back up to return to the…lobby looking area they’d been in previously. He feels somewhat self-conscious as Red has to continuously tell the rest of the group to slow down so he can catch up–despite the two girls ahead of him walking at a completely normal pace. He tries to speed up to match them, but doing so only exhausts him faster, making him even slower. “Sorry,” he huffs, trying not to sound out of breath.

“Are you okay?” Addy asks.

Michael nods. “Haven’t walked in a while…I’ve been in the regular hospital…”

“Oh.” Addy glances at his arms and her eyes brighten with understanding–clearly coming to the conclusion that Michael’s ravaged arms are a result of the same “accident” that had landed him in here. “Are you not better yet?”

“He’s all better,” Red tells the tiny girl, ruffling her hair. “He’s just recovering.”

Michael doesn’t really feel that “all better” is an accurate term to describe his current condition whatsoever–-in fact, he feels like passing out as Red herds them back into the lobby. Vanessa and Addy both wander off to different destinations, and suddenly Michael begins to worry about what the hell he’s supposed to do. “Where do I go?” he asks anxiously.

Red smiles at him reassuringly. “We’ll tell you when it’s time for meals, or group therapy, or anything else,” she explains. “Otherwise, you can sit out here—” she gestures to the empty area with the couch and the TV, “—or you can go to your room and rest.”

Michael blinks slowly, trying to decipher all of that information. “…Can I sleep?”

The tiniest flicker of something Michael is far too tired to pick up on flickers across Red’s face. “Sure you can. Your room’s in the ‘D’ hallway. There’s a door with your name on it. I’ll show you.” She takes him down the hallway in question, and there is indeed a sign with his name on it, although it’s hung on the wall next to the doorframe, because there is no door. The room itself is extremely lackluster—containing nothing but one small bed, one chair, and some sort of shelf. It’s almost as depressing as his room back at Henry’s. He practically collapses onto the bed, pulling the scratchy hospital blanket around himself. It’s terribly uncomfortable, but he has a feeling this is as good as it gets here. “I’ll see ya tomorrow,” Red tells him. “Have nice dreams, ‘kay?”

Michael doesn’t respond. He’s already asleep.

Chapter Text

It’s still dark when Michael wakes up. Or rather, is woken up. “What?” he says groggily. “Where the hell am I?”

“Language, please. You’re in the hospital.” Oh. “I need to take your vitals,” the strange guy he doesn’t recognize informs him. “Can you sit up please?” Michael irritably does as asked, despite being on the verge of passing out again. “Thank you,” the man says as soon as he’s done, and then he leaves again. Michael flops back down on his flat, thin pillow, shutting his eyes automatically.

He must be woken up again just twenty minutes later. “It’s breakfast time.”

“I’m not hungry,” Michael mutters.

“You have to come to the cafeteria anyway,” whoever is in his room tells him. “Get up, please.”

Michael attempts to sit up, breath strained as his muscles cry out in pain. He nearly falls out of bed, having to use the wall to support himself as he limps after the nurse—Midge, her nametag says—who side eyes him almost judgmentally. Michael misses the woman with red hair. She was easy to find, and easy to remember. And she seemed a lot nicer, too.

“Good morning,” Vanessa greets him politely, looking a lot more put together than he probably does.

Michael nods at her, struggling to retain a single thought in his brain. His eyes drift over to the girl behind…um…

“That’s Juliet,” Vanessa says, following his gaze.

“You look like shit,” Juliet tells Michael neutrally, as if it's completely natural to greet a stranger by insulting them. 

“Watch your language!” Midge snaps.

“Sorry,” Juliet drawls. “Can we go?”

They go. Michael tries to sit by himself again, but fails. He is informed that sitting together is protocol here. How lame. He prods at the gross hospital food with his fork, half-convinced it’s made of plastic. Abby, as a comment from Vanessa reminds him, is drawing on napkins again. At some point Michael stops eating and just watches the progress of her doodles like a zombie, waiting for his brain to wake up. Abby catches his eye and smiles at him, holding up the napkin to give him a better look. It’s some curly-haired girl in a red sweater—and it’s a pretty impressive drawing considering what it was drawn on. “This is my friend Cassie. Do you like it?” Michael nods, slightly amused. “You can have it. I’ll draw you next. Can I have your napkin, Mike?”

Michael props his elbow up on the table, resting his chin on the back of his hand. “Sure,” he mumbles in a deep exhale. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that Juliet has suddenly become stiff, looking as though she's seen a ghost. Vanessa seems to notice this, too. She gestures to him and explains, “That's Mike.”

Juliet's eyes follow Vanessa's finger to Michael, who frowns uncomfortably as she scans him over intently. After several long beats of tense silence, Juliet's shoulders relax again. She takes a deep breath before raising her chin, her usual bold expression quickly returning to her features. “I’m going to call you Eggs,” she decides, louder than before. 

“Eggs?" Michael repeats incredulously, startled by the sudden shift. “Why Eggs?"

“Because you like eggs," Juliet says in a condescending tone as though it were obvious. She points at his plate of food, which remains completely uneaten besides the eggs. 

“Well, if you aren’t going to eat yours, I’ll gladly trade you for this…” For some reason, he can’t find the word he’s looking for. But he does know one thing for certain—it doesn’t taste like what it’s supposed to in the slightest. A couple of nurses in the general hospital have already lectured him about his weight. If they want him to gain it back so badly, maybe they should try giving him something edible to eat. “I’ll gladly trade you for this cat meat.”

Juliet scowls. “Ew. That’s so fucking gross." 

“I don’t think the cafeteria is allowed to have cat meat,” Abby says earnestly. “I think they would get into trouble. People really like cats.”

“He was joking, Abby,” Vanessa says.

“Oh.” Abby shrugs and turns her attention back to the napkin she’d taken from him. “Eggs?” she asks curiously, apparently embracing his brand new name. “What’s on your face?”

He cracks an eye open at her, trying to figure out what the hell she means. Then it dawns on him. She means his acne. He sighs. “…Ouch, Abby.”

Juliet snickers, but her face is devoid of humor. She looks angry, her eyes hard with dislike. Michael isn’t exactly sure what he did to get on her bad side already, but he makes a mental note to stay away from her. Although, given their forced proximity, that might not be very easy.

-

One much needed nap later, and Red is back in his room, gently shaking him awake. “Hey there,” she greets in a soft sing-song voice. “The psychiatrist wants to see you.”

“You’re back,” Michael yawns.

“Yup. I’m here in the afternoons until night time. You mind getting up for me, Mike?”

Michael reluctantly pulls himself out of bed. Nobody is outside when they leave the room. He looks around, momentarily confused. “Dr. Fletcher is in there. He’s gonna be your psychiatrist while you’re here, okay?” Red explains, pointing at a door by the reception desk. Right. That’s what they were going to do. Michael follows her directions and opens the door in question.

A man with square glasses is waiting for him at a desk inside. He gestures to a chair across from him. Michael takes the hint and sits down. “Hello, Mike. Michael Afton?”

Michael hums an affirmative, yawning once more.

“I want to ask you some questions. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

“First off, I understand you were taking amitriptyline, correct?”

“Um…probably.”

“How was that working for you?”

“It made me really tired at first, but now it’s fine, I guess. I don’t think it’s helping.”

“You weren’t seeing any improvements?”

“I guess I had some good days after I started taking it, but I still ended up here. So.” Michael picks at his fingernails.

“Okay. Normally in that case, we’d keep you on for at least a while longer. But since your liver was too damaged to metabolize it properly, we had to cut you off—for now, at least. And we don’t want to risk the problems with introducing anything new at the moment. Sorry about that.” Doctor smiles apologetically.

“It’s fine.” Michael has no idea what any of that meant. “Is that it?”

“No, unfortunately. I also wanted to ask some other questions. More so about why you’re here.”

Oh, great. Here we go… “Okay…”

“Here, I have this form for you to fill out.”

A piece of paper and a pen is placed in front of him. Michael stares at the first question tiredly.

Have you experienced a traumatic event such as…Have you experienced a traumatic event…natural…human…? He squints his eyes in concentration. He can read the words, but they’re just not…staying. He must stare at the page blankly for an embarrassingly long time, because even Doctor feels the need to check in. “Does the question make sense?”

“The font’s weird,” Michael lies. It’s a very standard font.

“Would you like me to read the questions out loud?” Doctor offers, reaching into his desk and pulling out what Michael assumes is a spare copy of the document. He nods gratefully, although a little self-conscious. “Have you ever experienced a traumatic event such as natural disaster, assault, war, severe accident, or something outside the range of normal human experience?”

Well, severe accident probably counts. And most people’s fathers aren’t…well…yeah. Michael checks the box.

“Do you re-experience said trauma through recurring nightmares, random and intrusive recollections of the event, or feelings of distress caused by reminders?”

Check.

“Do you feel a sense of numbness or detachment since the trauma, such as loss of interest in activities or sense of detachment towards others?”

Check.

“Do you experience sleep disturbances, hyper-vigilance to your surroundings, trouble concentrating, avoidance of reminders of the traumatic event, or distress when faced with reminders of the trauma?”

“Hype what?” Michael asks.

“Hyper-vigilance. It means being extra aware of your surroundings.”

“Oh.” Michael pauses. “What was the question?”

Doctor repeats whatever the hell he’d asked before, and although he still has no idea what hyper-vigilance means, he checks the box. He hands the paper back. Doctor scans over it briefly, before nodding lightly to himself. “Hmm…alright. Do you mind telling me about this traumatic experience?”

Michael frowns. “Do I have to?”

“It would be extremely helpful to me.”

“Didn’t anyone else tell you?”

“I’d like to hear it from you, if you’d be willing.”

Michael clenches and unclenches his fists. “I…he...” Can Michael even call killing his brother a 'traumatic event?' He’s the one who did it, for Christ’s sake. He isn’t the fucking victim. He’s a murderer. He can feel his already scattered thoughts growing even further apart as he starts to spiral, disconnected memories of blood and pain and Father and funerals blurring together into one terrible picture.

“Take your time,” Doctor says, attempting to be helpful. “I know it can be difficult to talk about.”

Michael sets his jaw, making up his mind. “No.”

“...So you aren’t going to talk about it?”

Michael shakes his head.

“Okay,” Doctor says, surprisingly agreeable. “Then…hmm.” Michael watches him twirl a pencil around in his fingers thoughtfully. “You said you feel distressed when you’re reminded of the things you don’t want to talk about. Can I ask what kinds of things ‘remind’ you?”

Michael thinks. “Um…birthdays. Those are always terrible.”

“All birthdays, or specific ones?”

“My brother’s. My friend’s. Mine.” Michael swallows, folding his arms over his stomach. He hates this.

Doctor makes a note of something. “What other kinds of things?”

“Nightmares. Sometimes they scare me really bad, and sometimes I can just forget about them.” He tries to think for more examples, but it’s perplexingly difficult. His train of thought falls off the rails. “…What?”

“You were talking about things that trigger you,” Doctor reminds him.

“Oh.” He pauses. “…Trigger?”

“I meant remind. Things that remind you.”

“What? Remind me of what?” Michael grits his teeth, frustrated by his inability to—no, Doctor’s inability to be fucking concise. His body hurts, and his brain is foggy, and he can hardly keep up with any of these stupid questions. “Can’t you just ask Henry about all this? Or anyone else? Ask anyone in Hurricane. They’ll tell you all about me.”

Doctor’s expression remains patient. “Do you need a break?” he asks kindly.

“No, I don’t! I’m too tired for this shit. I just want to go back to sleep.” Michael doesn’t realize that sleeping and taking a break are literally the same thing until the words have already left his mouth. Good God, he’s a mess today.

“That’s fine. We can continue this tomorrow. Is that alright?”

Michael nods and tries to stand up, but one of his legs gives out from underneath him, and he yelps as he topples over and hits his head on the back of the chair. Embarrassed, he pulls himself back up, leaning against the wall to support himself as he tries to leave the office again. “Are you okay?” Doctor calls after him.

“I'm fine,” he grits out. “Sorry.”

Red turns her head as he pushes open the door and leaves the office. “That was quick,” she says, looking surprised.

“Taking a break,” Michael informs her wheezily. He wants to go back to his room, but he can hardly stand. He collapses down onto the ugly plastic chair by the reception desk. “‘M doing it tomorrow.”

“Oh, no. Are you okay? Do you want some help getting back to your room?” Michael nods, face hot with shame. Red hoists him up by the armpits and lets him lean on her side, guiding him back to his room. Michael is glad she does, because honestly, he’d forgotten the way. Red helps him get back into his bed. She frowns with concern, crossing her arms. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get Mr. Clark.”

“He said I could take a break,” Michael protests weakly.

“Hm? Oh, Mr. Clark isn’t your psychiatrist, lovebug. That’s Dr. Fletcher.” Then who the hell is Mr. Clark? Is he supposed to know who that is? Everything in this goddamn place is so confusing, and way too much to process. “You just hang tight for a sec, ‘kay?”

Michael shuts his eyes as soon as she’s gone, dying of exhaustion. But she returns just minutes later with some guy towing a machine behind him. Michael cracks one eye open, eyeing the thing warily. “Fuck’s that?”

Red sighs. “Do you kids ever stop swearing? He’s just gonna take your vitals.”

They force him upright and fasten a tight strap around his arm, that Michael vaguely recognizes as one of those blood pressure things. They must not find anything too abnormal, because they leave him alone after that, although not after forcing him to drink some water.

They don’t wake him for dinner. Or maybe they do. He can’t recall.

-

The next couple of days, Michael spends most of his time sleeping. Sometimes, they force him to get up and do stuff. Eat, walk around, take pills, take his blood pressure. Some sort of therapy that isn’t actually therapy, because it’s just stupid shit like drawing in a group and listening to someone talk at them. He feels like a dog following commands.

One day, Michael lies awake in the scratchy hospital bed, staring at the ceiling listlessly. He wants to sleep, but he can’t. Maybe because he’s already slept for so long—or maybe it’s the constant dull ache in his legs that’s keeping him up. Either way, it’s bothersome. His mind feels completely blank. He thinks being stuck in this hospital is starting to really fuck with his head.

Someone knocks on the wall, because there's no door to be shut, before poking their head in. “Hey,” the guy says. “I’ve gotta do some cleaning in here. Mind stepping out for a while?”

Michael sighs and gets up, wandering out to the recreational area compliantly and wincing with each step. Abby, Vanessa, and Juliet are already there too, sitting at the table with a large puzzle set out. “Hi,” Vanessa says, nodding in his direction. “Want to do a puzzle with us?”

“Sure,” Michael agrees, not having anything better to do—or anywhere else to go. He sits down at the table next to Abby. The image on the box is some sort of bird in a rainforest. The girls have already finished the outer edges of the puzzle, and some parts of the bird.

They work on it silently for a while. Michael manages to find one piece for the bird’s beak, but he notices everyone else is working a lot faster than him. He’s trying his best to concentrate, but his brain keeps misremembering which colors go in which areas and what piece he’s even holding at what time. He feels stupid. It says on the box that the puzzle is recommended for ages eight and up. How is this so hard?

“Hey Mike, can you pass me that blue piece? I think I know where it goes.”

Michael looks down to where Vanessa is pointing. “This one?”

“No. The one by your left hand.” Michael goes to grab the piece she’s talking about. “That’s your right hand.”

Oh. Of course…he should have known that. “Sorry.” Michael finally finds the correct goddamn piece, and hands it to her. She thanks him quietly.

“Are you even doing the puzzle?” Juliet says suddenly.

“I’m trying,” Michael mutters, cheeks burning. 

“You’ve been holding that piece for like, ten minutes,” she points out, sounding almost spiteful. “Even Abby’s done more than you.”

Michael grits his teeth. No matter what he does, Juliet always seems to have some sort of issue with him. And she always insists on calling him 'Eggs,' despite how fucking ridiculous it makes her sound. Why does she care so much about the stupid puzzle, anyway? Is she just trying to humiliate him? Because she's doing a damn good job. Everyone at the table has stopped to look at them. "What’s your problem? Just shut up and leave me alone.”

Juliet narrows her eyes, her lip twitching in the beginning of a snarl. “Are you retarded or something?”

Michael’s breath hitches. “Shut up!” he yells, voice rough with genuine hurt. “I told you to shut up!” Abby tenses next to him, and Vanessa’s eyes widen.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Juliet screams back at him. “I fucking hate you!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Red’s voice interrupts, as she hurries into the room. “What’s going on in here?” Another doctor, a man, follows behind her.

Michael freezes, afraid of getting into trouble, but Juliet doesn’t seem to care, instead getting out of her seat and turning her outburst onto the staff. Abby gets out of her seat, then, too, and flees back into the direction of what Michael assumes are the girls’ rooms.

“Juliet, calm down,” Red warns, “or we’re going to have to—”

“I don’t care!” Juliet shouts. “Fuck all of you!” She storms right past the both of them and takes off in the same direction Abby went. Red and the other guy quickly hurry after her, leaving Vanessa and Michael alone in stunned silence.

Michael’s throat feels tight, his breathing somewhat restricted. “…What are they going to do to her?” he asks quietly.

Vanessa swallows, and shakes her head. She scratches her neck. “I don’t know. Depends on whether she listens or not.”

“Are they going to punish me, too?”

Vanessa finally tears her eyes from the hallway to look back at him. “I don’t think so. Juliet is…always like that.”

“Oh.” Michael stares at his lap, and digs his fingernails into his palm. “Do you think they’re done doing…” He recalls being kicked out of his room, but he can’t even remember why. There’s a lot he hasn’t been remembering lately.

“Cleaning?” Vanessa finishes for him. “I think so. It’s been a little while.”

“Thanks. I’m going to…I don’t want to be out here anymore. Tell Abby I’m sorry for scaring her. I feel…really bad about it.”

“I will. Um, Mike? Don’t take what she said personally. She didn’t mean it.”

Michael nods, but says nothing. He retreats into the D hallway once more, finding the floor shiny and slightly sticky from cleaning solution, and his bed made. He sinks down on top of the sheets, curling up into a ball and covering his ears, trying to ignore the sounds of sobbing from the other side of the unit.

He wants to go home.

Chapter Text

For a place purposed to help the mentally ill, the psychiatric unit is not very effective. For every day that Michael spends here, the more depressed he feels.

It’s just him and Vanessa now. The two of them have taken to hanging out together often, having developed a small unspoken bond of loneliness and boredom. Abby went home the morning after Juliet’s outburst, and Juliet herself isn’t allowed near other patients anymore. At meal times, she sits on the other side of the cafeteria with a staff member who’s been assigned to monitor her 24/7. Michael isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone look so miserable. He can’t help but feel a little sorry for her.

Michael is sitting in front of the TV with Vanessa one day after lunch, having been kicked out of his room by the janitor again. She is sitting on the couch with her knees pulled to her chest, while he rests his head on the table. He imagines he looks like a passed out drunkard. He imagines he looks like Father.

He looks up at the sound of Red greeting him in a sing-song voice. “Good news, Michael--you get to go home today!”

Despite how much he hates it here, the announcement does not evoke any reaction from him at all. He isn’t really looking forward to going home, either. “When?”

“Well, first, Dr. F wants to see ya one last time. Then it'll be a matter of hours. You excited?” Michael nods numbly. He could not look less excited if he tried. He glances back at Vanessa. She looks sad. He feels guilty for leaving her all alone. “Follow me; he’s waiting for you right now. This way!” Red always sounds oddly cheerful despite her shitty job. Surprisingly, it's more comforting than annoying.

Doctor Fletcher is indeed waiting for him inside the office. Michael wonders if there was a secret third part to the interrogation he’d conducted the other day. “Hello, Michael. You ready to get out of here?”

Michael shrugs. “Why did you call me in here?”

“Well…I wanted to update you on the evaluation we did.” For some reason, it never clicked that there was a deeper purpose to all those questions besides “going in his file” or whatever bullshit he had narrowed it down to in his mind. His heart sinks with dread as he wonders what terrible news Doctor Fletcher is about to throw at him. “We think you have something called PTSD. Have you heard of it before?”

You’ve got to be fucking joking. “Um…for veterans. Not me.”

“That’s not true. For the longest time it’s been called things like ‘shell-shock’ or ‘soldier’s heart,’ but really, it can be caused by all types of trauma,” Doctor Fletcher explains. “We’re still learning about it.”

Michael thinks of a story one of his old ‘friends’ told once. Matthew said his uncle was deathly afraid of fireworks because they reminded him of Vietnam, and that one time, he locked himself in the pantry on New Years, refusing to come out for two entire days. The whole group had laughed at the story mockingly, of course, but Michael would be lying if he said he had never done nearly the exact same thing. Once, during his first week coming to stay with Henry, he saw a bottle on the kitchen counter, mistook it for alcohol, and locked himself in the upstairs bathroom for so long he ended up going to sleep in the tub. It turned out to be olive oil. God, did he feel stupid afterwards. “…Oh.” His voice is small.

It's not like he's suddenly a different person than he was prior to receiving this information. Obviously, he must have had PTSD this whole time. But honestly, the diagnosis feels like a slap in the face. A "gotcha!" moment to prove that none of Michael's thoughts and feelings have been real all along--it's all just been the work of some disorder. And Michael doesn't want to be controlled by some disorder. He wants his thoughts and feelings to be his own.

Doctor Fletcher does explain things further, probably to reassure him, but Michael only listens to his words halfheartedly. He doesn’t really want to hear them. He mumbles a soft thanks and quietly wanders back out of the office as soon as he’s dismissed. Vanessa is still sitting on the couch. She hasn’t even changed positions. “Are you leaving now?” she asks.

Michael shakes his head. “In a little.” He chews on his lip. He feels as though he should say something, but he doesn’t know what. So he just sits back down at the table. They resume what they had been doing earlier. Sitting in silence.

Until: “I forgot to tell you,” Vanessa blurts out suddenly. “Abby wanted me to give you something.” She jumps off of the couch and darts down a hallway labeled “E,” returning with a slightly crumpled piece of lined paper. She hands it to him. It takes him a while to read, and the bad handwriting isn’t helping.

Its ok I know how you feel becase I dont like that word either. Also Im sorry I didnt mean to hurt your feelings. I just thought your freckles looked like rubys. Your very cool. Ill miss you. I hope we are still friends. -Abby S.

Abby’s name is signed in graceful cursive, while the rest of the note is written in the typical scribbles you’d expect from a child. Below her words is a surprisingly decent crayon drawing of a pale green, white-haired horse, surrounded by what appear to be clovers. Michael has no idea how that’s supposed to relate to her message at all, but it makes him smile, despite the numb feeling in his chest. “Rubies?” he says out loud. That’s certainly a new one.

A small smile appears on Vanessa’s face, too. “She’s so cute.” Michael folds the note carefully and slips it into the pocket of his scratchy hospital-issued sweatpants. Vanessa’s smile fades again, and she looks at him with an equally sad and anxious expression. “Hey um…good luck. Going home, I mean. I hope that…things are better.”

Michael hesitates, but nods slowly. “You, too. I hope you get better, too.” His eyes briefly flit over the welts on the side of her neck, but they don’t linger. He doesn’t need to stare, because he gets it. Michael has no idea what Vanessa got put in here for, and she doesn’t know anything about his own life, either, but there’s a quiet solidarity between them. He wonders if there’s a chance he’ll ever see her again. “Vanessa? Where do you go to school?”

“Pine View.”

“Oh.” Well, that’s too bad. Or maybe it’s a good thing. It's probably for the best they never see each other outside of this place.

“What about you?”

“Not Pine View.”

Vanessa absently scratches her neck again. “That’s okay.” 

“Mike! Are you ready?” Red calls.

“Bye, Mike,” Vanessa says softly.

“Bye. I’ll miss you.” Michael casts one last regretful look at his friend before limping off in Red’s direction, where she waits with a wheelchair. She smiles at him brightly. “Is Henry waiting for me?” he asks nervously.

“Mm-hm. And look! You finally get these back!” Red pulls a small plastic container out of her pocket and hands it to him. Michael examines it and realizes Jessica’s bracelet and his earrings are inside. He reaches a hand up to his ear to confirm, and sure enough, they’re gone. He hadn’t even noticed they were missing. He pockets it and gets in the wheelchair, grateful to at least not have to walk. Red takes him all the way down to the first floor, where Henry is indeed waiting for him outside.

Jen is standing right next to him.

…God fucking damn it.

“Hi!” Red says for him. “You signed everything already? Are we all set?” she asks Henry.

“We’re all set,” Henry confirms. “Hi, Mike.”

“Hi,” Michael mutters, refusing to make eye contact with either of them. This is so humiliating. The first time Jen sees him in years, and he’s a fucking wreck.

Henry waits for him to stand up before pulling him into a gentle hug. “I’ve missed you.”

Michael mumbles out a sound that somewhat resembles “me too.”

Henry pulls back to look at him, eyes round with worry. “Was it okay? Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

Michael glances between him and Jen and Red, feeling slightly overwhelmed. “How about we talk in the car?” Jen proposes wisely. Michael's shoulder sag with both relief and gratitude.

Once they get outside, Jen and Henry start walking down the sidewalk in front of the parking lot, away from all the other cars. Michael goes along with it for a while, but he can feel himself tiring quickly. He starts to panic a little. “Where are we going?” he asks, trying to mask his heavy breathing and doing a terrible job. He then realizes why they’re heading away from all the other cars in front of the hospital—they’re going towards one of those big car parks with multiple stories. He hasn’t been in one of those in years, but he does remember once having to climb several sets of stairs to get to the top level. He feels dizzy just thinking about it.

“Do you need me to carry you?” Henry asks him. Michael’s face is hot with shame, and he shakes his head.

“What…” he starts, trailing off as he realizes he can’t find the word he’s looking for. “What number are we?” Close enough.

“We’re on the second floor,” Jen informs him. “They have an elevator in there.”

“Oh…” Michael’s legs burn, and he caves. “I don’t think I can walk all the way up an escalator,” he admits.

“Oh, Christ,” Henry mutters under his breath, sounding perturbed. “I’ll carry you.” Despite his protests just seconds earlier, Henry scoops him up like he weighs three pounds and carries him the rest of the way to the car. Turns out, they didn’t have to go up a single set of stairs.

The air conditioning in the car feels like a blizzard against his skin, and Michael can’t stop shivering. Jen notices and hands him the cardigan she was wearing. He thanks her wearily. His brain is all fuzzy from exhaustion, and he can hardly keep his eyes open. He falls asleep against the window.

-

Michael wakes up to Henry gently prodding his shoulder. He looks around blearily, trying to figure out where he is. The couch, apparently. “Hey. Dinner’s ready. You wanna come eat?”

Michael hums in assent, wincing as he gets up and hobbles to the table where Jen is already sitting. It looks like Henry made his favorite. He doesn’t feel all that hungry, though. He pokes at a piece of broccoli, relieved at least to have normal food after all of the garbage the hospital was feeding him. He takes a bite.

It tastes like coins.

Michael stares at his fork numbly. So it wasn’t just the hospital food, he realizes. It’s him. He bites his lip. He can feel tears forming in his eyes, and he does his best to stop them. But he can’t.

“Oh, dear. What’s wrong?” Jen asks.

“Nothing,” Michael says quickly. He wipes his eyes furiously, and forces another forkful into his mouth and continues eating out of pure spite. Henry and Jen must think he looks really stupid right now, but it’s not really the broccoli he’s crying over. It’s the fact that he can no longer deny that since he got sick, everything is different. He's different. He can’t remember shit, he can’t concentrate, he can hardly walk across a couple of rooms without running out of breath, his muscles ache, he’s so, so tired, and now even his tongue’s not working right. And he can’t blame all of these things on the hospital anymore, because they’ve followed him home.

Henry and Jen exchange concerned glances, and Michael pretends not to see them. He pretends the broccoli in his mouth tastes like broccoli. He pretends he just got home from school, not the hospital. He pretends he isn’t traumatized and ill and disordered and sick. He pretends that he’s a normal fucking boy with two parents who love him, and a brother and a sister who are alive and well, and friends, and good grades, and an amazing goddamn life that he’s never once thought about ending. He pretends he pretends he pretends he pretends he pretends he pretends.

“Mike,” Jen says carefully. “Remember what we were talking about in the car?”

Does he remember?  How hilarious she should ask. He shakes his head, taking another bite of food that doesn’t taste right and pretending there isn’t salt beginning to mix in with the flavor of metal. Of course his tears still taste normal. Pain is the only constant in his life, after all.

“We were talking about how you need to start being honest about your feelings?” Henry reminds him.

Michael swallows, wiping his eyes again uselessly. “I don’t know,” he hiccups truthfully. “I don't know what's wrong with me...”

Jen shakes her head. “You know what I think? I think you really need a good night’s sleep. You’re exhausted, honey.”

Michael nods. She’s probably right. He hopes she’s right. He finishes his plate of metal, and Henry helps him up the stairs, giving him a hug and kissing his forehead and telling him that everything is going to be alright. Does he really believe that? “I love you, Henry,” he manages to get out through the tears that continue to fall. He really has no dignity at all anymore.

“I love you too, Mike.”

“And I’m really sorry—” he swallows, “that I got sick. I’m really sorry—”

Henry shushes him softly. “I know you’re sorry,” he says gently. “Don’t worry about that. You need to focus on getting better. And right now, that means getting some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Michael hopes so.

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, Michael is not better in the morning. He doesn’t even get up until the clock downstairs says it’s past two in the afternoon. He drinks three glasses of water and then, too tired to go back upstairs, he drags himself into Henry’s office where a futon has been laid out for Jen. He makes up some bullshit excuse to himself about his circuitadium rhythm(or whatever Charlie had called it once) to cope with his shame and falls asleep. By the time he wakes again, it’s dark outside. The analog clock reads 6:00, which can’t be right, so Michael begrudgingly forces himself up, wanting to check the digital one on the microwave. He quietly opens the door. That’s when he hears Henry and Jen talking in hushed voices. And he listens. Because why wouldn’t he want to know what they truly think of him?

“Yeah.” There’s a long pause, and Michael thinks he might be unfortunate enough to have only caught the end of their conversation. But then Jen starts talking again. “But you’re doing everything you can. He’s pretty messed up. And stubborn as hell. You can’t put the blame on yourself for that.”

Henry huffs shakily, and sniffs. Michael thinks he’s crying. “Whether it’s my fault or not…I’m still so scared…I don’t know what to do anymore. I thought he was starting to do better, and then it turns out he was doing it again and hiding it from me. It’s like nothing gets through to him. I’m terrified I’m going to lose him…”

“That’s not going to happen,” Jen promises. “Everything’s going to be fine. I’m here for you, okay?”

There’s a soft thump, and a quiet sob. “…I miss her so much, Jenny.”

“I know. I do, too.” Michael clasps a hand over his mouth, trying to hold back his own tears. Both Henry and Jen go silent again, presumably to bask in grief for a child much more deserving of life than Michael, and he quietly creeps past the kitchen and up the stairs, hoping they can't hear him. He can’t repress his sobs any longer. As soon as he's back in the safety of his bedroom, he flops down and cries into his pillow. He’s angry, heartbroken, and depressed. He wants them to tell him those things upfront. No more “it’ll be okay”’s and no more “don’t worry about me, worry about you”’s. Michael knows he is a burden and a leech, and Henry and Jen know it too. They just won’t say it to his face.

He lies awake, shaking and already afraid of whatever nightmare is bound to be waiting for him when he falls asleep.

-

Today is the day. Apparently, Michael is going to therapy.

“Some warning would have been nice,” Michael growls, angry and in pain. He’s been out of the hospital for what, three days? Four days? He’s still fucking exhausted, not to mention probably drugged up from whatever weird antibiotic pills they sent him home with. He tried explaining this to Henry, but it was pointless. The man’s making him go anyway.

“I told you yesterday. Multiple times,” Henry sighs. “Please don’t be difficult.”

Michael looks away, glaring at the ground instead and shoving his feet into his shoes ungracefully. He slept practically all day yesterday. Does Henry really expect him to remember shit while he’s half-conscious?

“Go put down your blanket, and then we’ll go. You can sleep in the car.”

“I’m taking it,” Michael informs him.

Henry’s eyebrows crease. “You’re taking that whole big blanket with you?”

“Yes.” An involuntary shiver racks through his body, as if to prove his point.

“Alright,” Henry relents. “If that’s what you want.”

Michael almost feels bad for being snappy, but at the same time, he's too mad to care. His mind is already foggy, and he bets it’ll be complete mush by the time he gets to the therapist’s office. He usually can’t stay awake for more than a few hours, and the fuzz is always worse when he’s tired.

But, he ends up falling asleep in the car anyway. Who would have thought?

Henry gently shakes him awake when they arrive. Michael gets out of the car with his blanket, much to Henry’s chagrin, and they enter the building to finally have Michael’s first therapy appointment. Only a few weeks late. Or months. Michael doesn’t know how long it’s been since he actually got sick. “Henry, what’s today?”

“It’s Thursday.”

That’s not helpful. That tells him nothing. There could have been ten Thursdays that have already passed and he wouldn’t know the difference. But what does it matter? He probably won’t even remember asking in the first place. He nearly falls asleep again in the waiting room. Henry nudges him awake as a kindly sounding woman’s voice calls his name. “Michael?”

“That’s us,” Henry says.

“Hello, you two! My name is Aisha Lakhani. You can call me whatever you’d like. I don’t mind.” Lakhani. Michael repeats the name in his mind, over and over again. Dr. Lakhani, Dr. Lakhani, Dr. Lakhani. How embarrassing would it be if he forgot her name? “Follow me, I’ll show you to my office!”

Dr. Lakhani’s office is cool and air conditioned. Michael is glad he brought his blanket, despite how ridiculous it must make him look. There’s a small couch to sit on, at least. “Hello, Michael. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Sorry I postponed my visit for so long,” Michael deadpans.

“Mike,” Henry warns.

Dr. Lakhani doesn’t look bothered. “Oh, would you prefer I call you Mike?” Michael nods. “Okay. So, first of all, I just want to go over some things, and explain what we’ll be doing here. Anything you say here is completely confidential. The only time I’ll ever tell Mr. Emily something you said is if someone is hurting you, or if you are planning to hurt yourself or someone else. Got that?”

Michael nods again, not really sure what he just agreed with. He’s trying to pay attention, but she’s talking much too fast. His head pounds.

“Great. You can choose whether you want Mr. Emily to leave the room so you can speak to me one on one. Or he can stay here. It’s up to you.”

Michael nods a third damn time, but she doesn’t say anything else. Just looks at him expectantly. It’s very uncomfortable.

“…Mike?” Henry says.

“What?”

“Are you going to answer?”

Michael blinks. “Answer what?”

“Do you want Mr. Emily to leave the room?” Dr. Lakhani asks.

Michael chews on his fingernail anxiously. “Why?”

“Some kids don’t feel comfortable talking with their guardians in the room. Would you rather talk to me alone?”

Henry's conversation with Jen echoes through Michael's mind briefly. He's been thinking about that a lot. “…Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll be right there in the waiting room when you’re done, alright?” Henry says, without protest.

The door clicks shut, leaving Michael alone with this woman he hardly knows. “So…why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

“Um…I’m Mike. And I’m sixteen.” Wow. Profound.

Dr. Lakhani does not look off put by his awful nothingburger of a response. She’s probably dealt with crazier people. “That's a good start,” she says, seemingly without an ounce of sarcasm. “Anything you like to do, Mike?”

“Uh…draw.”

“Cool, cool…what else? You like music? Movies?”

Michael’s confusion and discomfort grows with each question, and a few meaningless questions later, he gets fed up with it. “Why are we talking about this,” he asks, sort of rhetorically but also sort of genuinely. “Aren’t you supposed to…”

“We can talk about anything you’d like. Most kids don’t like getting into the personal stuff straight away. It can be kind of hard to talk to a stranger, yeah?”

“I guess…” Michael trails off, not sure where he’s supposed to go with the conversation, anyway. He still has a terrible headache. He wishes he’d asked for an aspirin or something before coming here. But after what he heard the other night, he’s not sure if he ever wants to ask Henry for anything ever again. A lump grows in his throat just thinking about it. Henry never should have taken him in. All he ever does is cause problems. Henry should just get rid of him, and if not, he should just get rid of himself. He should have done it a long time ago. Father should have done it. His own depressed musings, paired with the frustration with his body, paired with the horrible throbbing in his skull, are quickly becoming dangerously overwhelming.

“Are you alright?” Dr. Lakhani checks, because right, he’s still in a therapist’s office. What a joke. He can’t help himself. The dam breaks, and he starts crying.

Something colorful enters the edge of his vision. His therapist is holding a box of tissues and offering it to him. Without thinking, Michael thwacks it out of her hand like a child throwing a tantrum, sending it falling to the ground. His face glows with embarrassment at his own outburst, and he starts crying even harder. Just as he predicted, this is not therapeutic at all. He feels even worse than before. At least Dr. Lakhani kicked Henry out so he wouldn’t have to see this.

His therapist makes several attempts to communicate with him, but Michael ignores every single one of them.  Just like he ignores all of his problems. Because that's never come back to fucking bite him. Eventually, she concedes that he is not listening. Then she just lets him cry. And cry he does. By the time he finally stops, their session is over.

Michael glares daggers at the floor as Henry reenters the room to discuss their next meeting and who knows what else, keeping his head down to shield his face with his hair. Michael doesn’t even say goodbye as Henry leads him out of the building and back into the car. He doesn’t say anything at all until Henry asks him: “How was it?”

“It was terrible,” Michael mumbles, his voice thick. “I hated it.”

Henry purses his lips. “And why’s that?”

“I don’t want to talk to some random stranger. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Well, you wouldn’t talk to me,” Henry says, mild frustration evident in his voice.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone!” Michael spits, Henry’s condescending tone suddenly making him very mad. “Nobody understands what’s wrong with me, so nobody can help me.”

“Oh, stop it. That woman specializes in trauma. She talks to people like you all the time.”

“I’m not talking about my stupid goddamn ‘trauma!’” He emphasizes the word with a hostile venom. He hates that word. “I’m still sick! I told you I couldn’t do this, and you wouldn’t believe me!”

“Why would anyone believe you when all you’ve done the past few months is lie to me?” Henry retorts angrily. “Stop feeling so sorry for yourself. You’re going back next week, and I’m not listening to your excuses.”

“I hate you!” Michael snarls. “I hate you!”

“Fine!” Henry shouts. “Hate me all you want, Michael! You’re still just a delusional child with no fucking sense of reality. You’re going to do what I tell you!”

Michael shuts his mouth, glaring tearfully at his lap. He’s so angry and devastated that he wants to bang his head against something and crack his skull open. Henry does not take back what he said, and the rest of the car ride home passes in complete silence. Michael nearly trips and falls flat on his face trying to get out of the car, his legs aching brutally. He can feel Henry’s eyes on him as he limps back into the house. He pretends not to care. He wants to storm right up to his room and slam the door, but he can’t even do that. He’s forced to just collapse onto the living room couch, fighting to catch his breath.

“How was it?” Jen asks. Michael doesn’t respond. He crosses his arms over his knees and buries his head in them, utterly ashamed of himself. He can hear Henry whisper something to her, and she lets out a quiet “oh,” before whispering something back. Michael can’t hear what they’re saying, nor does he try to. He already knows what they think.

Henry goes upstairs after that—Michael can tell because he’s learned to distinguish his footsteps from Jen’s—and Jen presumably remains downstairs with him. He doesn’t look up. He hates her. He hates everyone. Most of all, he hates himself. He hates his useless body and his broken brain. He hates his ungrateful, horrendous personality and his god-awful attitude. He hates everything he’s ever said and every bad decision he’s ever made. He hates, hates, hates.

“Michael,” Jen says after some time.

“Don’t call me that,” Michael sniffles. Nobody calls him that. Not unless he’s in trouble. Or unless Father was speaking to him. Father always called him by his real name. Nicknames are loving and affectionate, and Father did not love him.

“Okay. Mike,” she tries again. “Do you want to talk about what happened back there?”

“No.”

Jen sighs. “Nobody can help you if you don’t help yourself.”

“…Go away.”

Jen is silent. Then, her footsteps retreat into the kitchen. A light switch flicks on. Or maybe it flicks off. Michael doesn’t care either way.

He wants to kill himself.

Chapter Text

Pros: 

-Gone forever 

-Deserve it 

Cons:  

-Henry jesica jeremy Marla jen 

-Hospital if it doesent work 

…Yeah. This is probably not how Henry intended Michael to use the notebook he gave him. But there are a lot of things Henry didn’t intend for him to do. It never stops him, though. Parasites typically don’t care too much about what their hosts want. 

Michael has felt suicidal before. For fuck’s sake, he’s tried it before. But it’s been a while since he actually considered it as a viable option. He just can’t take this any goddamn longer. He could do it. He could kill himself, but he can’t risk failing. He’d need something big. Something foolproof. Like a gun. He could shoot himself in the head. Or he could jump in front of a train. Or he could throw himself off of the bridge. But how could he do any of those things? He has no idea if Henry even owns a firearm, and it’s not like he can just ask. He can’t drive, and there’s no way in hell he’d be able to walk far enough to get to the train tracks by himself. Maybe he could find something dangerous to eat. Maybe Henry has some bleach or rat poison or something in the shed outside. Would that be enough?

He’s thinking like he’s already made up his mind. He hasn’t even finished his list. His pros and cons are even with each other. He just needs one more. A tiebreaker. He racks his mind for pros. But what he ends up coming up with isn’t a pro. It’s a con. He’s not just risking the hospital if he fails. He’s risking Hell if he succeeds. And that thought scares him shitless.

Michael slams the notebook shut, eyes welling up with tears. He wants to die so badly, yet he’s too scared to actually do it? How pathetic. Hell is what he deserves anyway, isn’t it? He’d written it right there on the “pro” side. 

Perfectly timed as always, there’s a knock on the office door. Quickly, Michael chucks the notebook across the room, letting it hit the wall and fall behind the desk. It lands open, the pages smashed against the ground. “What?” he calls out, a little too harshly. 

“What was that?” Henry asks, looking around the room. “You okay?”

“‘M fine,” Michael lies. “What is it?”

Henry sits down next to him on the futon. “Just wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m fine.” Michael picks at his nails, skin prickling with shame. If Henry knew what he’d just been plotting in here…

“So you’ve said.” Michael doesn’t answer. “Hey. Is there anything I can do for you right now? Anything that would make you feel better?”

Michael shrugs. He refuses to meet Henry’s eyes. 

“Is this about what happened the other day?”

Well, not necessarily. Henry already came in yesterday to apologize for the fight they’d had in the car, but honestly, Michael has already ceased to care at this point. He shakes his head. 

“Then can you talk to me? What’s going on?” Henry’s eyes drift over to the notebook lying open on the floor. “Were you writing in that?”

Michael’s heart skips a beat. He shakes his head, attempting to look casual. Henry gets up and makes a move to retrieve it. Panicked, Michael lurches forward and grabs Henry’s leg. “Please don’t,” he pleads, voice cracking. 

Henry raises a concerned eyebrow, raising his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t going to read it,” he promises. “I was just going to move it. The pages are getting bent.” Michael watches with bated breath as Henry resumes his movement, exhaling in shaky relief as the man does as promised and simply sets it down on top of the desk. Henry looks back to him, eyes still round with worry. And sadness. A lot of sadness. “Are you really not going to tell me anything?”

“You’d get mad.”

“No, Michael.” Henry sighs, pulling at the skin under his eyes. “I won’t get mad. I’m stressed because I need you to tell me what’s happening and you aren’t doing it. Do you understand?”

Michael does understand. He’s understood this entire time—he just figured that solving the problems himself would mean Henry wouldn’t have to worry about it at all. Although clearly, that strategy didn’t exactly work out for him. "Yes..."

“Then tell me.”

Michael exhales through his teeth, hugging himself tightly. “I–um.” God, where does he start? Does Henry want the entire rundown, or just the current moment? Probably best to start with the shorter option. He tries to sugarcoat it as best as he can to minimize the chances of Henry getting upset. “I feel really depressed.” Henry keeps watching him expectantly, obviously waiting for more details. Michael swallows, his mouth dry. He doesn’t know what else to say. 

“Depressed how?”

Michael drums on his sides with his fingertips. “Like I don’t want to live anymore.” He waits nervously for Henry’s reaction. He watches the man straighten with alarm, then relax with a deep breath, as if remembering his promise not to get upset. 

“…Are you going to hurt yourself?”

“No.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Yeah.” As depressed as he feels right now, Michael doubts he’d be able to successfully kill himself right now even if he tried. And as for cutting…Michael has no desire to do that again. Not after what happened last time. 

“What’d you use to cut your legs?”

“It’s gone now.”

“Tell me what you used.”

Michael winces, feeling guilty. “I got razor blades from the gas station. But then I felt bad, so I threw them away.”

“Good Lord,” Henry mutters. “Why?”

Haven’t they had this conversation before? Michael rests his face in his hand, trying to come up with an answer that doesn’t make him sound like a complete masochistic lunatic. “I don’t know. I thought it’d make me feel better.”

“Why would doing that to yourself make you feel better?”

“Well, it usually does. So I just thought maybe…” he trails off. “I don’t know.”

“Okay…” Henry runs his hand through his hair. “And you’re not going to do it again?”

“I said I wouldn’t.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Well…” Michael can’t really refute that one. He goes silent again. 

“I was thinking about taking your door off.”

Michael blanches. “What?”

“I don’t know if I trust you anymore.” Henry looks stern, but sympathetic. “I know it’s kind of an invasion of your privacy, but I’m not sure what else I can do at this point."

“Oh…” As much as the thought makes him uncomfortable, Michael is willing to let him do that if it somehow makes up for everything he’s put the man through, even a little bit. “Okay.”

“Really?” Henry asks. “I thought you’d be a little more against it.”

“I don’t care.” Michael rubs his eyes tiredly. “Just do it.”

Henry looks really reluctant all of a sudden, and Michael wonders if he’s accidentally but successfully managed to utilize reverse psychology. Then he clears his throat, sitting up tall again. “One more thing,” he says. “I think you need to get up. You’ve been cooped up in here all day.”

Michael feels disheartened. “Um…and do what?”

“Literally anything. You need to move.”

“Moving hurts.”

“Really?” Henry looks sad. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I did. You didn’t listen.”

“I’m sorry.” Henry sighs. “How does it hurt?”

“I feel sore all over. And my head hurts. And I’m really tired.”

“Well, I suppose that makes sense. After your body went through all that. I doubt it will get any better if you stay in here all day, though. You need to get used to moving around again.”

Michael hesitates, before rising to his knees, getting to his feet with the help of the wall. “I’m up,” he declares lamely.

“Good. Come with me into the kitchen. You should eat something, too.” Michael feels nauseous at the idea, but he doesn’t want to make things more difficult than he already has. He follows Henry and sits down at the table, laying his head down on the wood. “What do you want? Macaroni?”

So much for not being difficult. Michael gags involuntarily. “Can I have eggs?” he asks quickly, trying to play off his disgust as a cough.

“Eggs?” Henry repeats. “Uh, alright. What kind?”

Michael can’t remember what kind of eggs the hospital had given him, so he stalls with sarcasm. “From chickens.” 

Shockingly, Henry actually laughs a little at that. “Okay, then.” 

Before Michael knows it, a plate is placed in front of him. He finishes all of it, but slowly. “Where’s Red?” he asks. “I mean–fuck. I mean, Jen.”

“You want some soap with those eggs?” Henry scolds mildly. “And Jen’s at work.”

“Oh.” Michael prods at his empty plate with his fork. 

“You need something from her?”

“No.”

Henry takes the fork from Michael’s hand, much to his disappointment, placing his dishes in the sink. “You still haven’t called Jeremy back.”

Michael slumps. “I know,” he murmurs guiltily. Jeremy called a couple of days ago, and when Henry asked Michael if he wanted to answer the call, he’d denied. He usually feels far too exhausted (and depressed) to get up, let alone bothering to hold a conversation. Today is a good day by his standards. 

“You should probably talk to him soon. He’s really worried about you.”

“I feel bad for him.” Michael tries stabbing the air with his fork, only to remember it’s no longer in his hand. He rolls his eyes in annoyance. “He probably thinks I’m crazy.” A thought crosses his mind. “Did you ever tell him where I was?”

“I only talked to his mom. I just told her you were sick in the hospital,” Henry him. “Why would he think you’re crazy?”

Michael laughs to himself. “I was crying the first time I met him.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause of church.” Michael stutters the last word of his sentence, realizing too late what he had admitted. 

“You were crying because of church?”

“…”

Henry sighs. “You don’t tell me anything, do you?” The man sits down at the table across from him. “Why were you crying because of church?”

Michael kicks at the leg of his chair with his foot. Henry taps his fingernail on the surface of the table, gently reminding him of his agreement to be honest. “I just don’t like it. It…it makes me feel…bad. Like God hates me.”

“God does not hate you.”

“God hates—” Michael cuts himself off. “Well, the pastor says God hates a lot of people. Like gay people.”

Henry’s eyebrows raise at that. He looks unhappy. Well, unhappier than he already was. “…Are you gay?”

Michael scowls, slightly angered by the look on his guardian's face. “No. It was just an example.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, that’s why I hate church. Everyone in there just hates on each other. And then they all pray to make themselves feel better. Because they don’t want to go to Hell.” Henry’s reaction has made Michael feel a lot bolder all of a sudden. He can’t help but feel defensive on behalf of his best friend. Henry clearly has no idea how much the church hurts people like Jeremy, either. It's easy to say "God loves everyone" when you've never been the target of the church's fear mongering.

“You’re not going to Hell.”

“And they also pick and choose what they want to believe.”

Henry sighs again. “Mike…”

Michael decides to stop being combative. The last thing he wants is to have started two arguments with Henry in just one week.  “…”

“Jesus forgives everyone. You’re taking away the wrong message.” Michael still doesn’t reply.  “I’m serious. I don’t want you to feel like God hates you. That’s—that’s not at all what church is supposed to be.”

“Well, it does. That’s what it feels like. So I’d rather just not.” Michael’s neck jerks, and he rolls his shoulder blade to shrug it off. “Sorry.”

“I won’t make you go if you don’t want to,” Henry says, still frowning, “but I do wish you’d see it differently.”

“…Thanks. I’m sorry for arguing with you.”

Henry reaches out across the table and grasps one of Michael’s hands, giving it a small squeeze. “Hey. No matter what, I’ll always love you. You know that, right?”

A tingly discomfort floods through Michael’s chest, but he nods. It’s still a somewhat difficult statement to accept, but he at least believes that Henry means it. After all, it must take a lot of love to forgive someone like him. 

“Good. And I’m sorry for making you do things you weren’t ready for. I should’ve guessed you’d still be recovering from how sick you were.” There's a brief pause while Michael tries to come up with a response, but Henry starts talking again before he can. "Can I give you a hug?" Michael nods again. Henry gets out of his chair and comes to stand by him, holding him in a warm, gentle embrace. Michael decides to just accept the gesture for once instead of brainstorming a list of reasons about how undeserving he is, and he leans into the hug. "I missed you, kid. It's too quiet without you here."

Michael isn't exactly a loud or talkative person, so Henry must mean "quiet" in some sort of figurative way. As he mulls over the man's words, he begins to think about the yellow notebook still sitting in the office again. Dread runs down his spine. What if he had actually gone and killed himself today? Or any other time, for that matter? He wouldn’t be here with Henry right now. He’d be dead. Rotting in the ground somewhere. Normally those kinds of dark, violent thoughts bring him comfort, but right now, it just frightens him. He realizes that he doesn’t want to die. At least, not in this moment. But if he had done it, he wouldn’t even be here to be able to come to that conclusion. 

Maybe sometime in the near future, he’ll scoff at himself for this impulsive burst of self-preservation. But in the current moment, Michael really wants to live. “I want to go back. To therapy,” he decides suddenly. 

Henry pulls away to look at his face, blinking in surprise. “You do?”

“Yeah. I want to get better.”

Henry looks stunned for a few seconds, but then, a smile finally returns to his face. “Oh, Mike,” he says. “I’m very glad to hear that.”

Chapter Text

Michael’s door is gone. Henry did indeed end up taking it away, leaving it propped up against the wall opposite of its frame, presumably to reattach later once he earns the man’s trust back again. 

Currently, Michael can’t take his eyes off of the empty space where the door once was. It’s honestly making him feel really anxious. He keeps thinking about the stupid hallucinations he’d been having in the hospital, wondering if they’ll reappear one day when he’s least expecting them. What would he even do? It’s not like he can escape something created and controlled by his own mind. There’s also the concern of Henry himself. Henry has never hurt Michael, but it’s still unnerving not to have the ability to hide from him if it really came down to it. 

Plus, then there’s the more obvious issue of his privacy. He doesn’t want to be caught crying his eyes out by Henry. Or staring blankly at the wall like a psychopath for hours at a time. Or hitting himself in the head with a hairbrush while hiding under the desk. Or any other goddamn disturbing behavior having a bedroom door usually allows him to get away with. But hey—on the bright side of things, lately he’s been feeling too sick, depressed, and miserable to jack off. So at least he doesn’t have to be concerned about that. 

Michael sighs. There’s only so much sarcastically downplaying all his troubles can do for him. He wishes that deciding not to kill himself could have had some sort of instant effect on his mental health. How long is it going to take to repair the cracks in his mind? Years? Decades? Will he ever be truly “better?” Probably not. You can stitch up a bone-deep gash, but it’ll leave a nasty scar. And the tissue will be much weaker. He stares at his forearm, the physical manifestation of his not-so-figurative analogy, and runs his thumb over it. The largest scar still pulses painfully every time he pushes down. Michael isn’t sure whether he wishes the scar were gone or bigger. 

He rolls his sleeve back down as he hears footsteps begin walking up the stairs, and he pulls his blanket up, pretending to be asleep. Even though he knows damn well that tactic won’t work on Jen. She knocks on his door frame to grab his attention before coming in, just as the nurses did in the mental hospital. “Time to eat,” she tells him. 

“I will later,” Michael murmurs. He pulls his blanket even higher over himself. 

“Sorry, but you’re going to get up now. And you need to shower, too. No offense, kiddo, but you stink. Come on.”

Unlike Henry, Jen rarely beats around the bush with these kinds of things. Michael’s face flushes with shame. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry. Just come on and get up. You’ll feel better once you’re clean.”

Michael doubts that, but he doesn’t want to be told a third time, so he complies. Jen hands him a towel she’d apparently brought with her, and he haphazardly grabs some random clothes from his dresser. 

The hook on the bathroom door is broken, and Henry still hasn’t replaced it, so Michael just leaves all his shit on the counter and kicks his dirty clothes on the floor. Normally, Michael feels a little better once he’s actually in the shower. Not today. He just feels heavy and sad. Charlie told him once rainclouds weigh more than a million pounds. That’s what Michael feels like. She always knew so much about the randomest things. 

Once Michael’s mostly sure he’s scrubbed all of the filth away, he turns off the water, ringing out his hair and making a grossed out expression as several strands come away on his fingers. He tries to retrieve his towel, but while doing so, accidentally knocks something else off of the counter. He instantly recognizes it as an eyeliner pencil. The impact has smashed the tip on the ground, rendering the entire thing useless. And probably contaminated, anyway. Well, there’s only one person that makeup could have belonged to. His already-heavy heart sinks further with guilt. 

He puts on his clean clothes—black shorts and a worn out gray sweater, and picks up the pencil, examining it forlornly. He creaks open the door. “Aunt Jen?” he calls out tentatively. 

He can hear footsteps on the staircase, and he braces himself, feeling incredibly shitty. “Hm?”

“I’m really sorry, I—I broke this.” Michael holds out the pencil to show her the broken tip. 

Jen huffs, hardly looking disappointed. “Oh, thank God. I should’ve thrown that out ages ago.” She plucks the eyeliner out of his hands, glaring at the thing. “At least now I finally have an excuse to get a new one.”

“What?”

“It hardly works. It takes so much effort just to get it to show up.”

“Then…why do you still have it?”

“Women don’t throw their makeup away, Mike. Not if it’s expired, not if it’s ugly. Only when it’s completely and utterly unusable.”

“Oh.”

Jen flicks the pencil into the trash can with impressive accuracy. “Anyway, no harm done. Just be more careful next time. You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Nice try. Come on. What do you like to eat?”

“Eggs.”

“Something other than eggs and bread, please.”

Michael grunts, annoyed. “Aren’t eggs healthy?”

“Not if it’s the only thing you ever eat. Seriously, you’re going to give yourself scurvy. You’re going to eat at least one fruit or vegetable.”

“…”

“How about I just make you a smoothie? That’d be easy to get down, right?”

“Fine…”

Jen makes him a gross smoothie, which probably wouldn’t have been gross if he weren’t sick. Everything tastes odd now. “Do you not like it?” she asks him, probably catching the look on his face. “I can make you something else.”

“No.” It wouldn’t matter, no matter what she made. Besides, he already finished the smoothie. “Thanks.”

“Hm…okay.” Jen glances around, standing up straight again. “Hey. Where’s your hairbrush?”

“I dunno. Bathroom?”

“Alright. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Jen doesn’t have to spell it out for him this time. Obviously, his hair must look like a fucking rat’s nest. As soon as she returns, she sits him down on one of the dining room chairs, wielding his hairbrush and a spray bottle. 

“I can do it myself,” Michael says tiredly, reaching for the brush. 

She doesn’t give it to him. “I want to do a good job,” she replies, spritzing the back of his head with the spray bottle. There’s no specific, identifiable scent, but whatever is in it smells good. “Did you know I did hair for seven years?”

“Why’d you stop?”

“I thought I’d go back to college and learn something well-paying and boring.” Jen tucks a lock behind his ear, holding his chin and turning his head to both sides. “You have your ears pierced?” she asks in surprise.

Michael nods. “I did it with a sewing needle,” he admits.

“Six times?”

“Not all at once." And it’s true. The piercings were spaced out into three separate sets of impulse decisions over the course of a month. He started cutting himself shortly after the final set. Just couldn’t get enough of stabbing himself, he supposes.

“Well, where are all your earrings? You’re not wearing them.”

“Huh?” Michael touches his ears, also surprised by their absence. Suddenly he unlocks a vague memory of Red handing them to him in a plastic container. He has no idea where he put that, though. “I had them in a little…” He loses the word he was going to use, and he makes a confusing gesture with his fingers in an attempt to make up for it. “Thing.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know…” Michael mentally kicks himself in the shin. Jessica’s bracelet was in there, too. “I can’t remember…”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll try and find it later.” Jen gives him a thoughtful look. “How would you feel about painting your nails?”

Michael blinks in confusion. “Huh? Why?”

“You used to be all into fashion, didn’t you? Maybe it’d help you feel a little normal again.”

Michael shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t have anyone to impress anymore.” That, and he wants to go back to bed already. 

“Impress yourself.” Jen gently taps one of his fingernails, emphasizing the broken, jagged edges where Michael has bitten them down. “Besides, this is driving me crazy. I’d do anything to save a nail-biter.”

“Fine.” Michael wonders if letting Jen paint his nails will keep her from nagging him for a while. 

Jen smiles, looking like she’s actually happy to do this. After making him wash his hands thoroughly, she instructs him to lay his hands flat on the surface of the table, uncapping the bottle and beginning to apply a coat of black polish to each nail. Michael watches with mild interest, impressed by her ability to avoid getting any polish on his skin. He’s also impressed by her own set of nails, which are clearly fake and covered in intricate designs. He wonders if she does them herself. She leaves while waiting for the first coat to dry, returning with the tiny plastic case holding his jewelry. “It was on your desk,” she explains, taking a minute to look at the contents of the container. “Is this a friendship bracelet? Who gave that to you? Was it that...uh, Jerry boy?”

“Jeremy,” Michael corrects as he clips his earrings back in. “And no. It was Jessica.”

Jen’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Jessica, huh?” 

“Yeah.”

Jen chuckles. “You and your little girl friends.”

Michael can’t help but scowl at that. He hates when people imply things like that about his friends. And he hates the idea of being in a stupid relationship, anyway. It all seems so fake to him. This shit happened all of the damn time with Charlie, and he couldn’t stand it then. Can’t a boy and a girl just be fucking friends?  “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he grumbles. 

“Oh, I know. That’s not what I meant.” Jen sighs, looking as though she’s recalling a fond memory—though her smile falls slightly as it becomes a sad one. “Never mind. I’m glad you’re friends with Jessica. She’s a nice girl.”

“Mm-hm.” Unlike with Jeremy, Michael and Jessica don’t even talk outside of school. He wonders if she’s even noticed his absence. 

Jen takes out a bottle of clear polish, beginning to apply it over his already painted nails. It’s then something occurs to him, and he wonders why he didn’t question it sooner. “Why are we doing this, again?”

“Like I said, your nail-biting drives me crazy,” Jen says. “Besides, I didn’t want to just let you go back to bed. I wanted you to do something today. Henry, too. You know that man is worried sick about you.”

And there’s that guilt again. Michael bites his tongue. “I wish he wouldn’t be.”

“Well, you’re his kid.”

“Not really.”

“You are legally.”

“That doesn’t make me his kid.”

“Hmm…” Jen says, a knowing undertone in her voice. “Interesting logic you’ve got there.” She doesn’t speak, clearly waiting for Michael to pick up on what she means. But Michael is an idiot, and he doesn’t. So she just goes and says it plain. “So was Charlie Henry’s kid?”

Michael grits his teeth, annoyed by her little “gotcha.” “Obviously that’s…” Different? Why should Michael even bother saying that? Jen’s just going to come up with some way to prove him wrong again. He gives up. “Whatever.”

“That’s what I thought.” Jen uses the side of her index finger to smudge away some misplaced clear polish. “That man loves you more than anything in the world, you know.”

“I know.” Michael stares at his nails intensely, wishing she’d change the topic. “You don’t have to remind me.”

“Okay.” Jen blows on his nails, apparently finished. “Look. All done.”

“They look great,” Michael says unenthusiastically, although he has to admit, seeing his nails painted like that gives him a sense of nostalgia. And surprisingly, the feeling is not a negative one. “Thanks, um…thanks for doing this for me. I’m sorry for—“

“You’re very welcome!” Jen says cheerily, interrupting his apology. “I’ve missed dolling people up. Speaking of which, I’ve got some more eyeliner in my bag. Do you want it?”

“Wh—why would I…?”

“Weren’t you trying to use mine? That’s how you broke it?”

“No…I accidentally knocked it off the counter…”

“Oh.” Jen purses her lips. “Well, anyway, do you want the eyeliner or not? I know damn well you’ve used it before, if that picture on the fridge says anything.”

Michael grimaces, knowing exactly what she’s referring to. Henry has a Polaroid photo of him and Charlie at a middle school dance they’d gone to together, and he had indeed been wearing eyeliner. He was a lot trendier back then. “You don’t have to do that…”

“Mike, either you take it, or it collects dust the next fifteen years. I don’t use black.” She points to her own eye. “See? Brown.” 

Michael hadn’t even realized she was wearing any makeup. “Uh…sure.”

“Wonderful. You’ve been a big help, helping me get rid of some of my crap today. Please let me know if you ever want more nail polish. I don’t use half of the shades, but I can’t bear to throw them away…”

Michael can’t help but giggle at that. “I’ll let you know.”

—

Within the hour, Michael somehow looks more put together than he has in months—finding himself with freshly styled hair, painted nails, and black eyeliner just below his waterline. Henry looks shocked upon arriving home, but also pleased that Michael had actually gotten out of bed and done something—even something as small as this.  And he has to admit, he did enjoy the time he spent with Jen. She's blunt, but she feels trustworthy, and he likes her humor.

Michael still doesn't exactly feel fantastic, but at least he feels a little bit at ease. He hopes the feeling lasts this time.

Chapter Text

Michael fidgets with his sleeve, feeling antsy. He’d invited Jeremy over today on complete impulse, feeling bad for having not talked to him in so long. It was only after the fact he began to realize how bad of an idea it might have been. First of all, he sure as hell is not letting Jeremy upstairs to see his sad, barren, and door-less bedroom. Not only that, but they’d have to pass Charlie’s room to even get there. And second of all, Michael has no idea what they’re even going to do. He stills feel too shitty to actually want to do anything, so odds are, they’re just going to be sitting around and doing nothing.

Inevitably, the doorbell rings. “I’ll get it!” Henry calls helpfully from the other room, which thankfully gives Michael an extra thirty seconds to pointlessly fret over things he can’t really control. He listens to Henry and Jeremy make polite small talk in the front room for a short time, before Henry informs him that “Mike is in the living room and hasn’t even gotten up to greet you himself.”

Jeremy looks the same as always when he comes through the living room doorway, the only difference being the awkward way he’s carrying himself. He looks unsure, probably debating whether to act normal or attempt to offer some sort of moral support. Michael should try breaking the tension with some sort of shitty, grim joke like he usually does. But he can’t even think of anything. So he just says: “Hi. How’ve you been?”

Jeremy looks slightly taken aback by the fact it’s Michael asking him that question. “Uh…fine? How…um…?”

Michael sighs, supposing he really does owe Jeremy some sort of explanation, and he might as well get it over with. “I had a like…infection, or something. So I got really sick. And I was in the hospital for like a month.” Michael leaves out the fact that half of that time was spent in the psychiatric ward. “And then…I haven’t called you back, ‘cause I’ve just been feeling like shit. So that’s all.”

“That’s kind of what my mom was saying. What kind of infection even was it?”

Michael winces. “Does that matter?”

Jeremy takes the hint, probably assuming it’s something embarrassing. “I guess not. Sorry.” He becomes quiet, and Michael can see the gears turning in his head as he tries to work up some sort of appropriate response to the whole situation.

“Hey, can we just…not talk about me? I’d rather talk about literally anything else,” Michael pleads, before his friend can say anything. “I’m sorry I don’t really feel like doing anything fun. I still feel kinda awful.”

Jeremy nods quickly, eyes round with understanding. “That’s fine. And we don’t have to do anything. Why don’t we just um…put in a movie or something?”

Michael sighs, eternally grateful for the suggestion. Watching a movie is the perfect, socially acceptable way to do nothing with someone. “Sure, uh…there’s a box over there with like a million VHS tapes.” He points at the huge cardboard box under the table holding the TV. To his surprise, Jeremy strolls over and picks up the entire thing, turning around to bring it over. “You don’t have to bring the entire box, dude.”

“I thought you were gonna pick one,” Jeremy says, without a trace of strain in his voice. He must be stronger than he looks.

“Uh—just bring a few over, then.”

Jeremy assents, returning the box and taking a smaller pile. He stops short in front of the couch, staring at Michael with an odd expression. Michael frowns. “What?”

Jeremy jumps, looking flustered from being called out. “Sorry! You’re um…you’re wearing makeup.”

Michael hadn’t put any on today, so there must still be some leftover pigment staining his waterline. “Oh. Yeah, I am.” He furrows his eyebrows, puzzled by the mesmerized look on his friend’s face. “Does it look dumb or something?”

“No!” Jeremy says quickly, looking away. “It looks good.” Michael figures his friend is just too kind to admit that he looks like an idiot. “A-Anyway!” He spreads the tapes out across the coffee table. “Here….”

Michael looks at the selection of tapes, which Jeremy had clearly chosen in a rush, as they’re all super unrelated. 2 lame looking rom-coms, 3 thrillers, and and A Charlie Brown fucking Christmas. “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” Michael deadpans.

“Heh, yeah, I probably should have actually looked at what I was grabbing,” Jeremy says sheepishly. “I’ll go get something else.”

“I was choosing it,” Michael clarifies.

“…Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s fuckin’ funny.” Honestly, Michael only chose it because he’s seen it a million times already as a kid, and he really doesn’t feel like watching anything with a drawn-out, cohesive plot he needs to follow. Besides, his head is hurting again, and Charlie Brown is quiet.

Jeremy giggles. “I mean, sure, okay.” He puts the tape in and joins Michael on the couch.

As the film goes on, Michael realizes it’s much more depressing than it had been when he was little. He can’t even bring himself to laugh at the child’s misfortune when it’s so goddamn relatable. He also didn’t anticipate how short the movie was. Within half an hour, it’s already over. “You want to put in something else?” Jeremy asks.

“Sure. You pick.”

They barely make in ten minutes into the movie this time before the TV suddenly shuts off. Michael and Jeremy exchange confused glances. Jeremy gets off of the couch and flicks one of the light switches on the wall, but to no effect. Power outage. Just Michael’s luck. “Ugh,” he groans. “I’m sorry…”

“For killing the lights? Don’t worry, I forgive you,” Jeremy sasses. “Lighten up, dude. It’s fine. We can still…um…” he trails off, probably as he remembers that he’s supposed to be walking on eggshells around his poor old sick friend Mike. “Talk…?”

Michael snorts. “Yeah. We can.” He sighs, rubbing his eye. “How’s school been, then?”

“School ended last week.”

“Oh.” Michael’s face falls. He wonders how much he’s missed. Not that missing school hurt him, per say—he was already failing most of his classes. Just…life in general. He’s supposed to be living through his best years right now. How come they’ve been so terrible thus far?

Jeremy notices whatever depressed look must be on his face, so he tries to divert the topic a little. “But uh, I got a job?”

“Huh? Where?”

“Slushy Dog.”

Michael scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Those never get any better.”

“Heh, yeah. Tell me about it. But at least I’m making some money. Maybe we can do some fun stuff sometime.”

“You meet anyone cool there?”

“Yeah. There’s this guy named Coltrane. And there’s Stacy. They’re cool. Stacy was in my math class. I wonder if…” Michael can see Jeremy’s train of thought switch gears. “Hey, do you think maybe next year we’ll have a class together?”

“Maybe.” Michael pauses. “I think I’m repeating a lot of classes, though. So maybe not.”

“Maybe an elective?” Jeremy says hopefully.

Michael shrugs again. “Maybe.” He’s fairly certain he did not sign up for anything Jeremy’s taking, since unlike him, Jeremy is kind of smart and actually seems to enjoy learning things. “But I signed up for art.”

“Maybe I’ll get art if I don’t get photography. That class is popular, so it’s really hard to get into.” Michael nods, not acknowledging the fact that art is also difficult to get into, and that Jeremy will likely be stuck with something really lame if he doesn’t get his first choice. “Anyway, it’s good you chose art. You’re really good. You should show me more of your drawings some day.”

“They’re not that good,” Michael protests modestly.

“Yeah they are. You have a sketchbook or something?”

“Eh, in my room somewhere.” Michael straightens as he remembers his no-door dilemma. “I’m not getting it, though. We’re not going up there.”

“To your room?”

“No.”

“Is it messy or something?”

The exact opposite, actually. Michael’s bedroom is practically a barren wasteland populated by some loose paper and a few articles of clothing laying on the ground. Even his room in the goddamn psych ward had more personality—at least the walls there were painted in tacky bright colors and decorated with peeling plaster and some crayon drawings of dicks. “No. Just don’t want you in there.”

Rather than accuse him of hiding bodies (or whatever dumb shit Michael might have said), Jeremy simply moves on. “Okay.”

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“I dunno. Never mind.” Michael thanks the universe for sending him such a kind, uncombative friend. Honestly, he hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed his friend’s company until now. Who would have thought isolating yourself in an empty room for weeks on end could have a negative effect on your state of mind?

They alternate between talking about mundane things and sitting in comfortable silence for however long, until 4:00, at which point Jeremy says his shift will start in an hour. Michael promises to talk to him again soon, quietly hoping to himself he will be able to stick to that promise.

Chapter Text

It’s safe to say that Michael is less than excited for his second therapy appointment. At the very least, Henry kindly and graciously postponed it for an extra week, giving Michael a little more time to get his shit together. It’s slow progress, but at least he can walk across the house without running out of breath now.

Dr. Lakhani’s office is cold and intimidating. Not beacuse it’s scary looking—it’s literally just him. “I’m sorry about last time,” he says sheepishly, almost as soon as he gets inside. “I didn’t mean to…well…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dr. Lakhani reassures him. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to try something a little different today.”

“Okay…?”

Dr. Lakhani lifts a small fold-up table that was tucked between the wall and a chair, setting it up in front of the couch Michael had sat in last time. She then retrieves a large but short blue box, placing it on the table. To Michael’s surprise, it’s filled with sand. He reaches out but stops for a moment, pulling his hand back until Dr. Lakhani nods at him. “Go ahead. You can touch it.”

Michael reaches out again, feeling the depth of the sand and wondering out what he’s supposed to do with it. There’s a small plastic rake inside of the box too, so he picks it up and drags it across, flattening it out best as he can. He looks back to his therapist questioningly.

“I have some stuff you can put in the sand, too. You can do whatever you want with them.” She hands him a small plastic bucket she must have grabbed while he was occupied, filled with tiny plastic trinkets and figurines. He digs through the box slowly, examining the objects within. There’s a few little toy people inside, and to his amusement, one of them is missing a head. He pulls it out, sticking it in the sand alongside a plastic wolf with faded gray paint along its body. He continues to sort through the items, mildly fascinated by the randomness of them—a chicken, an airplane, a seashell, and a billion other unrelated things He finds a TV, and gives it to a police officer who stands on the other side of the box.

Eventually, he runs out of ideas for things to put in the sand. He realizes he got a little carried away anyway. He looks up to Dr. Lakhani, wondering why she hasn’t said anything this whole time. She smiles at him. “Looks like you made a whole scene, huh? Is there a little story going on here?”

Michael wonders if this was an inappropriate scenario to create in a professional’s office. But whatever. This is all confidential anyway, right? “The wolf killed that guy,” he explains, almost laughing to himself at the ridiculousness of the whole thing.

“I see that.” Dr. Lakhani nods to herself slowly, eyes slowly scanning over the box again. She points to the house he’d stuck near the scene of the crime. “What about this?”

“Uh, that’s a house.”

“Is it this man’s house?” She points at the headless figure.

Michael hadn’t really expected her to make him explain himself. He’d just kind of stuck in a bunch of random things as he went. He narrows his eyes, trying to expand on his dumb little story. “Uh, it’s a werewolf. This is his house. And…he turned into a wolf. And then he came outside because he wanted to kill people.”

Dr. Lakhani glances at the tray of sand periodically, taking time to write things on that clipboard of hers. “And what about the police officer?” she asks, pointing to the figurine on the other side of the tray.

“He’s at home watching TV. ‘Cause he doesn’t care.”

“Oh, no? Why not?”

“I dunno. I thought it’d be funny.”

“Hm.” Dr. Lakhani finishes whatever she’s writing, setting her clipboard down on her lap. She waves her hand over the tray. “So this is a funny story?”

Michael reassesses what he’s built. The wolf standing over the headless man in front of the house, the police officer and the TV. “I don’t know. I wasn’t really thinking that hard when I made it. I just…I saw this—” he points to the headless man, “—and I wanted to use it, and then I just kept adding stuff I thought would make sense.”

“Ah.” Dr. Lakhani continues staring at the sand tray, as if looking for secrets hidden inside it. “You said this is a werewolf, right? Do you think the wolf will feel guilty when he turns back into a man again?”

“Uh…” Michael pushes out air through his teeth, trying to decide. “No. ‘Cause if he actually felt bad about killing people, he would’ve locked himself up before he turned into a wolf or something. He probably likes doing it.”

“Hm.” Dr. Lakhani writes something down again. “So the wolf and the police officer are both the bad guys here.”

“I guess so…”

“Well, this is a very interesting story you’ve created here. Mind if I sketch it out?” Michael shakes his head. “How would you like to make another?”

“Okay…” Michael sweeps all of the figures into his palm, dumping them to the side of the tray.

“This time, I’m gonna give you a prompt. Sound okay?” Michael nods. “I want you to build a safe space.”

“A safe space?” Michael echoes. He looks back at the bucket of toys.

“I have some more figurines on the shelf back there if you want them,” Dr. Lakhani informs him. “Feel free to take whatever you want.”

Michael glances toward the shelf in question, noting how all of the figurines are organized. Animals, people, buildings, objects, symbols. He returns to the sand tray with a handful of new objects. First of all, he sticks the house back in the center of the tray. He creates a large enclosed circle around it with several plastic fences, scratching away the sand around them to expose the blue paint underneath and create the illusion of water. Finally, he places a brown-haired figurine in the center, along with one of those old-fashioned music players and a ladder. Then he glances back up at Dr. Lakhani for further instruction. She stares at his tray observantly, jotting down a few notes before speaking to him. “Looks like you’ve made yourself a little island. You want to tell me about the things you put on it?”

Michael nods, shifting a little. “This is me,” he states obviously, pointing at the only human on the entire tray. “And then…a house. To live in. And then some music. And then there’s a ladder so I can leave if I want.”

“It looks pretty guarded. Can anyone else come onto the island?” Dr. Lakhani gestures to the fences surrounding the isolated hill of sand.

Michael thinks about it. “Only if I give them the ladder.”

“Who would you give the ladder to?”

“My friend Jeremy. And…” He was going to say Charlie, but… “And maybe Henry.”

Dr. Lakhani nods. “What makes this your safe space?”

“‘Cause nobody can mess with me. And I can do whatever I want.”

“It seems like you don’t trust a lot of people,” Dr. Lakhani remarks, picking up her clipboard again.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Michael gulps. “I just can’t.”

“What would make you trust someone?”

“…” Michael pinches his cheek as he tries to think. “Um…they have to…be nice.” That seems like way too low a bar to qualify as trustworthy, and Michael covers his eyes, frustrated by his inability to put together a response he’s satisfied with. “I don’t know.”

“What makes you trust your friend Jeremy? And Henry?”

“Jeremy’s too…I don’t know. But I know he’d never hurt me. He's too worried about himself. And Henry…” Whereas Michael is 100% sure Jeremy is too much of a pushover to hurt even a fly, he still has his doubts about Henry. He thinks that if he pushed Henry’s buttons hard enough, he might snap. He’s already screwed up so many times…if Henry is to ever reach a tipping point, surely it’s only getting closer… “Henry probably wouldn’t…”

“But you’re not sure?”

Michael can’t help but feel slightly defensive. He doesn’t act on it though. He just sinks further into the couch. “What are you writing?” he asks, trying not to sound too accusatory. If he’s being honest, it kind of stresses him out to see her writing in that thing so often when he has no idea what she’s saying about him.

“Just some notes to help me remember what you’ve told me. Nothing bad,” Dr. Lakhani says. “Plus, I told you I was gonna do a little sketch of your sand trays, remember?”

“Right…”

-

This time, by the time their session has ended, Michael is surprised to have not shed a single tear.

“How was it this time?” Henry asks casually, though Michael can hear the wariness in his voice.

“It was good,” Michael says shortly.

Henry visibly sinks in relief. “I’m glad to hear it.”

They walk to he car in silence. Right as Michael is about to enter, Henry says: “Careful.” Michael wonders what he means, but then looks to the car seat. Several cassette tapes are sitting there in a messy pile. “I got those for you while you were in there.”

Michael grins, picking up the tapes and sitting down to look through them. Most of the stuff in the pile is pretty lame—not that he ever expected Henry to enable what he usually listens to. Either way, he’s happy to at least have something familiar he can finally play on his Walkman. “Thank you so much, Henry!”

Chapter Text

Needless to say, the 4th of July was never a big thing in the Afton household. Although, Henry would always end up inviting them over to celebrate, and then they’d spend the night doing shitty fireworks and drinking Coke and listening to Father whine about how the 4th isn’t or shouldn’t be a real holiday. And despite literally being born in America and working hard to make his accent as subtle as possible, he would often have to endure Charlie making fun of him all night. They were good times, though. 

This year, it was Jeremy’s family who invited Michael over for the 4th. And by “over,” he means that Ms. Johnson has driven him and her family out to the lake to see the fireworks. They’re bigger, brighter, and significantly less expensive that way. 

They’re camping out near a small ledge in what would normally be the shadiest spot available if it weren’t late into the evening. (Which of course, just means that there happens to be a single, scraggly oak tree nearby. Michael often wonders why his father left his lush green homeland for this miserable desert.) Not that there’s much of a need for shade, anyway, because it’s getting dark and the air is quite humid and warm regardless. Not dark enough for fireworks yet, though. 

“You been out here before, Mike?” Ms. Johnson asks. She’s been making idle conversation with him for the past ten minutes, and Michael is struggling. Small talk has never been his strong suit. Maybe that’s why twelve-year-old him settled for just berating people instead. 

“No. I didn’t know they did fireworks here.”

“They sure do.” Suzy tugs on her mother’s hand and whispers something in her ear. Ms. Johnson sighs. “Really? Now?” She turns to look at Michael and Jeremy. “Are you two okay by yourselves for a few minutes? We’re going to go to the visitor center to look for a bathroom.”

“We’re fine. Thanks, Mom.” Michael can’t help but be relieved as they walk away. Trying to make a good impression on adults is awfully stressful. And besides, he still gets the feeling Suzy hates him for some reason. “Sorry. I could see on your face that you were dying, man.”

“When am I not?” Bravely, Michael shrugs his jacket down enough to reveal his shoulders. He can only hope the air starts to cool down soon with the onset of night. 

Jeremy shrugs, swatting his knee loudly as a mosquito lands on him. “This spray doesn’t even work,” he complains. He grabs the can he’d been keeping by his side and shakes it, before applying even more of it to his legs.

Michael coughs, before scooting away to avoid the stench. “Well, it’s working on me.”

“Sorry that your blood is disgusting. You don’t have to put up with this.”

Michael doesn’t respond. He gazes out at the lake, kicking his feet out in front of him to dangle over the edge of the rocks they’re sitting on. It’s not too far down. It’s just high enough that he’d probably break an ankle if he fell. Jeremy does the same, albeit more slowly. He’s a cautious person. Nothing like Michael’s old friends. If they were here, somebody probably would’ve had a broken leg by now.

“You bored?”

He looks up. “No. Just thinking.”

“Bout what?”

Surprisingly, nothing. All of his thoughts, even the somewhat negative ones, seem to be passing him by rather quickly. Fleeting. He’s just kind of…content. “I dunno.”

“Is my bug spray killing your brain cells?”

Michael snaps out of the semi-trance he’d been in, and punches his friend’s shoulder lightly. “No. Just you are.”

Jeremy squeaks. “Don’t hit me while we’re on the edge, dude!”

The sky continues to grow darker, and thankfully, the night colder. By the time Ms. Johnson and Suzy return, the very first firework has just been launched. They sit further away from them this time though, at least, Ms. Johnson telling Suzy something about “they’re big kids” when she protests. 

As the bright explosions flash before Michael’s eyes, he realizes something. Sitting outside on this dirty rocky ledge all to celebrate a stupid American holiday…in this moment, he feels very unlike his father. And that makes him feel extremely happy. 

Jeremy must notice how uncharacteristically wide his smile is, because he’s staring. “Watch the fireworks, moron,” he says, even though he’s really too giddy to care. 

For once in his life there’s no guilt, no doubting himself, no weight in his chest. Just living in the moment and watching the fireworks. For once, he feels like he’s right where he’s supposed to be.

Chapter Text

Henry’s been acting weird all day. The past couple of days, actually. Speaking quietly, giving him uncomfortable “reassuring” smiles—overall, Henry’s body language suggests that he’s attempting to walk on eggshells. Michael isn’t sure why. And he isn’t too concerned about it the first couple times he notices, but by dinnertime on the second day, he’s started to grow really suspicious. 

“Do you want anything in particular? For dinner?” Henry asks. “If you’re not feeling hungry, I understand.”

Okay, that does it. “Why are you acting like this?” Michael asks somewhat timidly. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no,” Henry says quickly. Then a look of understanding, and worse, pity, falls over his expression. “Oh, you don’t—"

Michael huffs, frustrated. “Can’t you tell me already? Did something happen?”

Henry sighs, looking regretful. “I guess I just…oh, dear.” He looks into Michael’s eyes, looking conflicted whether he should even reveal the truth. He grabs onto Michael’s hand and squeezes it gently. “Today was...you know…”

Michael freezes. The blood in his veins turns to ice as he processes the words. That was today? Michael hasn’t exactly been keeping track of the calendar—he hasn’t even thought about Evan one time today.  Three years ago, Michael murdered his own brother, and he couldn’t be bothered to feel sorry about it today. How the fuck could he have forgotten? What is wrong with him?

“Hey, it’s okay, Mike. You made it through.”

“That’s not the point!” Michael snaps. His hands are shaky as he runs them through his hair and against his scalp. He swallows thickly, feeling like his skin is about to burst open from the guilt. “I-I’m…sorry…I’m going to go to my room now, I think.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think you should stay out here.”

“Right, okay,” Michael mumbles. When did he become so damn agreeable? Michael pulls a chair out from the table and sits down, turning his back to Henry. An urge he hasn’t felt in a while now is beginning to well up inside of him. The urge to be punished. To be hurt. To bleed. Almost unconsciously, he begins subtly scratching one of his wrists with his fingernail. It burns, but it’s not enough. His mind spins. He tries to shut out the memories, while at the same time shaming himself for not wanting to confront them. Evan didn’t get the privilege of avoiding the pain Michael put him through—the very least he can do is acknowledge it and feel fucking guilty about it. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Michael stops scratching. He stares at the wound—a small red spot just the size of the tip of his thumb. The first layer of skin is completely scraped off. The wound is not bleeding, but it glistens. With what? Michael has no idea. He examines his fingernails. His dirty fingernails coated in cracked polish, probably covered in germs and bacteria and microorganisms and oh God, what has he done? He’s doomed himself. His infection is going to come back and he’s probably going to die now. He’s so stupid.

“Mike?”

“What?” 

“Do you want to talk?”

“No. I don’t know.” Michael feels lightheaded. “I’m sorry, Henry, I—I don’t wanna go back to the way I was.” 

“You’re doing so much better,” Henry reassures him. “You used to have almost no good days.” In response, Michael holds out his arm and just points at the mark on his already disfigured wrist, feeling sick. Henry furrows his brows, taking a few steps forward to see what he’s pointing at. “What is that?”

“It’s gonna get infected,” Michael explains weakly. 

Henry shakes his head, clearly unaware of where the wound came from. “That’s tiny. You’ll be fine. We can clean it.”

“…” 

“Come on over to the sink.”

Michael wordlessly follows his uncle, sticking his arm out beneath the tap. What a familiar process. It hardly stings. 

“I’ll get some Neosporin for it, too.”

Michael washes his arm the entire duration Henry is gone, and continues to scrub at it even when he returns. Henry waits patiently for him for all of a minute before clearing his throat. “I think that’s good. We don’t want to make it worse.”

Michael looks up at him frightfully. “You think I will?”

"No. That’s not what I meant. Just put this on.” Michael takes the ointment from him, carefully applying it to the side of his wound before pushing it over with the edge of his fingernail—as if direct contact might kill him. 

“All better?” Henry suggests. Michael nods, though unconvinced. He washes his hands a second time, before finally stilling and dropping his head to look at the floor. He doesn’t walk back to the table. He just wants to go back to his room. “Okay. Good. You okay?”

“Mmhhgh.”

“What?”

“ No… ” Michael shudders. “I killed him.”

Henry sighs, looking almost disappointed. As if he actually believed for a second that Michael might have moved on from that. “Oh, kid.”

“I killed him, and I didn’t even care enough to remember.”

Perhaps because he is unable to refute that claim, Henry just says: “Do you want a hug?” Michael thinks about it. On one hand, he’s absolutely starved for human connection and would likely benefit from such a thing. On the other hand…he already feels suffocated enough. His indecisiveness turns into unresponsiveness. Henry steps back, looking disappointed by the failure of his redirect. “You know, you get to see Dr. Lakhani tomorrow.”

“Great…” Michael mumbles. That’s exactly what he wants. To drag this whole thing out—to linger on it. To drown in guilt for days on end. Fuck. 

“It’s gonna be okay.”

Michael shakes his head. “Can I just go?”

“Mike—”

“Please?”

“…Okay. I’ll come and check on you in a little bit.”

Michael nods briskly, and leaves Henry alone in the kitchen. 

He doesn’t feel much better in his room, though. His lack of a door makes him feel vulnerable and exposed. He just sits there, staring at the ceiling and feeling terrible—remorseful for his forgetfulness, and for prioritizing his own health over suffering. And obviously, over the root of it all in the first place. Evan. Michael misses Evan dearly. How ironic is that? He can practically see Evan right before him, dying in that machine. It hurts so much, and he wishes he could turn back time, but he can’t, and he knows it’s a stupid thing to wish for and yet still it’s all he can think about. To go back and fix it all. He’d do anything to change the outcome of what had happened. Would Evan’s survival have stopped his father from turning out that way? Or was Michael’s family doomed from the start? He has no idea. 

Could Michael’s actions have led to all those other deaths?

Could it all be his fault?

These thoughts are not new, obviously, but that doesn’t make them any less horrifying. Selfishly, he wishes Father were still alive just so he could get the answers to those questions. And in all honesty, because there’s still a part of him that misses the man. As horrendous as that is. He feels sick again. Will there ever be a time in his life where he isn’t a thread away from feeling this way? He bites his tongue and presses down hard on the damaged nerve in his forearm, trying to stop the tears, the ache, and the spinning, frenzied thoughts. They don’t. His throat hurts almost as badly as his heart. 

He lays like that, shaking from the effort of repressing his tears until they are finally driven away by his exhaustion. He stares at the wall numbly. Despite having had a pretty decent past couple of weeks, he’s suddenly considering giving up on all of his progress again. It would be so easy to let himself fall back into that pit. It’s where he always ends up, anyway. But does he want to fall back in? He thought he decided he was done with that kind of thinking, and yet still, it remains his first instinct. Why is getting better so impossible? ( Because he knows he doesn’t deserve it—not after what he did. ) 

He can’t have been up here for more than thirty minutes at this point, and he knows Henry is going to “come check on him soon,” and the unpredictability of the fact is making him feel a bit anxious. He doesn’t know when “soon” is. Part of him wants to go back downstairs and just get it over with quicker. Part of him wants to go to sleep in hopes Henry won’t bother him at all. And an even quieter third part of him actually wants to see him. Why is that?

Should he just go?

Almost mindlessly, Michael forces himself off the bed, creeping to the top of the staircase. He hesitates before making his way back down. He can see the back of the man’s head from behind the couch. “Henry?”

“Yeah? I’m here.” Henry turns to look at him. “Do you need anything?”

Michael wishes he hadn’t phrased it like that, because now he feels lost. What did he want from Henry in the first place? What was his plan here? “I…I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to be alone after all?” Michael shakes his head. “Do you want to sit down?”

Michael debates it for a few seconds, before carefully sitting down on the couch with Henry, leaving a cushion between them. “Thanks.”

“Are you ready to talk?”

Who the fuck said anything about talking? Michael isn’t talking. He shakes his head again. 

“Do you want to pray?”

That catches Michael off guard. He gives Henry a startled look. “Pray?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Um…sure.”

Henry holds out his hand, and Michael slowly grasps it. “Father in Heaven, I thank You for Mike. I pray for his recovery, his healing, and strength—and I ask that You guide him through this difficult time. May he find peace in Your care. In Jesus’s name, Amen.”

“Amen,” Michael echoes out of practice. He feels…odd. Not because he’s anxious—for once—it’s just that it feels strange to be cared for in such a way. “…Thank you.”

Henry gives Michael’s hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I pray for you all the time, you know.”

The feeling intensifies. “Oh.”

“You are loved, Mike. I just want you to know that.”

Michael can feel his throat tightening up. “How can you be sure?”

“I just am. I’m absolutely sure.”

Michael doesn’t want to start crying again, but unfortunately, his brain and body don’t care what he wants. A second fresh wave of tears wells up in his eyes and spill over his cheeks. At the very least, his lack of energy means that they are silent. “I’m sorry,” he stammers. 

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Michael cries until this time, he is sure he is out of tears, and Henry repeats the question: “Do you want a hug?”

Michael does hug him this time. “Will you take me to the cemetery tomorrow?” he asks, though it’s practically inaudible with how he mumbles it. 

“Of course.” Henry ruffles his hair. 

“Thank you.”

“No need. I’m just glad you’re here, Mike.”

Michael is not sure he feels the same way, but he decides that he will not fall back into the pit. Not today. He clings desperately to the edge, and if that makes him a selfish piece of shit…whatever. There’s no way to undo what he’s done. The only thing he can do is try to move forward and be better. But wait…that sounds wrong. It's…somewhat logical. But twisted and wrong at the same time. Michael doesn’t know what to believe. 

Maybe he will discuss it with Dr. Lakhani tomorrow. 

Yeah…that sounds like a good course of action. 

Michael silently drafts a second prayer of his own, and curls himself further against Henry’s side. Tomorrow is another day. 

Chapter Text

Summer can’t last forever. 

School starts again in just one week, and in an attempt to make the most of the little time they have left to mess around, Michael is spending the night at Jeremy’s (for the second time—the first being on the Fourth of July).

It’s really late, but of course, this is a sleepover, so neither of them are quite tired enough to actually go to sleep. Jeremy sits on his bed, stroking the cat’s head, while Michael sits on the floor with a piece of binder paper and a large book. He glances up at the cat periodically, trying to get her markings right. 

“You never showed me your other drawings,” Jeremy remarks. It’s the first time in a while either one of them has spoken. Jeremy’s been oddly quiet today. Usually he laughs at Michael’s jokes—sometimes even a little too hard—but at the moment he just seems kind of awkward. 

“Yeah. Didn’t want to go upstairs.”

Jeremy is quiet for a little, probably curious since Michael was so opposed to letting him up there when he was over last time. “What’s upstairs?”

“My room. But like…” Michael pauses, trying to get his words right. “I dunno. I hate it in there.” 

“Why?”

Michael blows air out through his teeth. “I just do.” Then, fatigue making him bold, he adds: “I don’t even have a door, either. So it’d be awkward as hell.”

“What the hell? Why don’t you have a door? Did the room come like that?”

Michael shrugs. “I dunno.”

“You should ask Mr. Emily for one.”

“Nah.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“It’s fine, dude.” Michael scrunches his nose and erases half of his drawing’s ear, hating the unevenness of it. 

“Man…” Jeremy scratches his head. “That sucks.”

“Whatever.” Michael glances up at Holly for reference again, but Jeremy’s hands are blocking her ears. His fingernails are really bitten. “Anyway…”

Michael tries to continue his drawing, but after a while, he gets fed up with his lack of success. He puts the pencil down and sighs, propping up his chin with his hand. Stupid cat. 

“Hey Mike? Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

“When I first met you, um…what was happening?”

“Oh.” When he’d been sobbing on the ground outside. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wanted to know the reason,” Jeremy sort of mumbles. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“There were a bunch of reasons. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of fucked up.” Michael had meant it in a dismissive way, but Jeremy is oddly quiet–making him feel the need to elaborate. “I mean, I’m fine now.” But Jeremy is still silent. Michael looks up at him fully now, trying to gauge his friend’s expression. He notices what looks like anxiety or disbelief–perhaps a mixture of both. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jeremy murmurs. 

Michael frowns. “You’re weirding me out. You’re asking all these questions and looking at me weird. What’s going on?”

Jeremy takes a deep breath, not meeting his eyes. “I just–are you really fine?”

“What?” Silence again. Michael begins to feel dread creeping up his spine. “Jeremy, what are you talking about?”

His friend hesitates for a long time, looking torn, before finally blurting it out. “I know why you were in the hospital.”

“...”

“...”

“What.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to find out, okay?” Jeremy rambles quickly. “My mom told me.”

Michael feels slightly dizzy, head swimming with both embarrassment and betrayal. So what, Henry snitched on him? And then Ms. Johnson replayed the message to Jeremy? “What did she tell you?”

Jeremy starts biting his nail. “She just came in my room after you left last time, and she kept asking how you were doing. Then she said she felt bad for you ‘cause you…you cut yourself all up or something. That’s what she told me.” 

“Are you fucking serious?” Michael huffs. He squeezes his arms, as if to better conceal what’s hidden underneath his sleeves. “So you knew about it, and you didn’t say anything until now? Is this why you’ve been acting all nervous?”

“I’m sorry, Mike!” Jeremy says, looking stressed as hell. 

“Well, no going back now,” Michael snaps. “I told you I was fucked up.”

“You’re not—” Jeremy tries to protest. 

“Really?” Michael hisses. “I’m not?”

“Well…it’s just, you know. Worrying…”

His earnestness almost makes Michael feel bad for snapping. He sighs. “Don’t be worried.”

“I can’t not be worried.”

“I don’t do it anymore. It doesn’t matter.”

“You can’t say you don’t do it anymore when you did it just a couple months ago.” 

“I don’t,” Michael insists. “I’m better now.”

Jeremy just stares at him with a deeply troubled expression. It’s extremely uncomfortable. “Really?”

“Yes.” Michael glares at him hard. “And it’s none of your business.”

“I know, but—“ Jeremy swallows. “I don’t want you to die, Mike!”

Michael rolls his eyes, knowing damn well he’d been close enough to death to actually believe there were robots living under his skin. He shudders a little at the memory, but does his best to hide it. “I’m not going to die.” 

“Do you want to die?”

Embarrassingly, Michael actually flinches at that. “What the fuck, Jeremy?”

“Do you?” Jeremy asks seriously. 

“No.”

“Then why did you do that?”

“I don’t know.” Jeremy looks at him in bewilderment. “It’s hard to explain. It just makes me feel better, okay?”

“But doesn’t it…hurt?” Jeremy looks both sad and confused. 

Michael scowls. “Uhh, yeah? Obviously.” He can’t believe they’re talking about this. This entire discussion is so dumb. Michael feels they have definitely transcended the emotional boundaries of a normal friendship already, even without this atrocious conversation. But then again, this relationship was literally built upon his tears. It’s how they met. So maybe this sort of thing was always inevitable.

“…”

“Can I see?”

Michael is taken aback by this. “What? Why would you want to see?”

“I don’t know, man! I just—how bad is it?”

“Bad. Seriously, Jeremy, it’s not pretty.”

“I don’t expect it to be.”

Michael’s fingertips hesitate at the hem of his sleeve as he studies his friend’s face. He doesn’t know why he’s even giving this any thought at all. He’s spent so long covering this up, stressing over every small shift of his clothing and suffering through every hot day just to keep it all hidden. Is he really just going to put it all out in the open now? He’s about to change his mind, but at the last second he decides he doesn’t care anymore. You asked for it. He tugs his sleeve up in one swift motion. Jeremy’s hand flies to his mouth, his eyes growing wide. “Oh, Jesus, Mike…”

“I told you it wasn’t pretty.”

“I know, I just didn’t think it would be…” Jeremy swallows thickly, eyes still trained on his arm. 

Michael rolls his sleeve back down. He can’t help but feel a bit smug for having told him so. Seriously, what did he expect? “Yeah.”

“That’s really bad.”

“I know.”

“No wonder you always wear that stupid jacket.” Jeremy’s voice wavers slightly. “How the fuck is that supposed to make you feel better?”

“I don’t know!” Michael groans, pulling at the skin under his eye. “I’m messed up, okay? It doesn’t have to make sense.”

“So you just woke up one day, and decided, hey, y’know what? ‘I’m gonna cut myself! That’ll fix it all!’” Jeremy is starting to sound uncharacteristically mad. Michael bristles with defensiveness.

“Hey, you asked to see. And I showed you. What more do you want from me?”

“I want to know why you would do this shit to yourself!” Jeremy snaps. The cat, disturbed by the sudden increase of tension in the room, squirms out of his arms and darts under the bed. 

“You know what? What do you expect?” Michael retorts. “You know who I am. You know what I did. Everyone knows what I did. Everyone knows what my dad did. You think I’m just gonna move past all that and be normal? If you were in my place, you’d get it. But you’re not. So just shut up and stop judging me for shit I never even wanted you to know in the first place!”

“I know that, Mike! But hurting yourself isn’t going to help!”

Michael doesn’t know what it is that’s so hard for Jeremy to understand–maybe it’s hard for him to comprehend it all, since he wasn’t around to witness everything unfold in real time–but he can’t stop himself from breaking into a frustrated rant. “Have you considered maybe I’m not trying to fucking help myself?” Michael snaps. “I fucking killed someone, Jeremy! I might as well have killed a whole bunch of people, ‘cause I was too stupid to realize what my own dad did ‘til it was too fucking late. You know how that feels? I can’t even explain it to you, because I want to claw my own skin off every time I think about it! So yeah, I don’t give a fuck if what I’m doing is good for me or not. I hardly even care if it kills me.” He says it all in one breath, and he’s practically panting by the end of it. He can tell his accent is more prominent than usual, but he ceases to care. 

Jeremy looks stunned, for some reason, as if he didn’t provoke this. “Mike…”

“Sorry,” Michael says flatly, because he must be in the wrong, because he’s Michael and he’s always in the wrong. 

“No,” Jeremy says quietly. “You’re right. I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have gotten mad.”

Michael looks down, still bitter. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“No, seriously. I didn’t mean to be all pushy. You shouldn’t have even had to tell me all that stuff.” Jeremy stares at his hands, picking at his nails–which have begun to bleed lightly at this point. “I’m sorry.”

Regret begins to seep in. Michael feels bad for lashing out at his friend–even if he did feel justified in doing so. He reaches out and lightly nudges Jeremy’s hand to get him to stop, the sight of blood in the context of this conversation making him uncomfortable. “You know, I probably shouldn't have said that much. I don’t want to die. I really don’t. That’s not what I meant.”

Jeremy stares at him with big eyes, clearly wanting an elaboration but being too afraid to ask. “Okay, I believe you…but that’s still really dangerous…and I just really don’t want anything to happen to you, Mike,” he almost whispers. As if uttering the words will turn his fear into a reality. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Michael promises. “For the millionth time, I don’t even do it anymore.”

“That doesn’t make it less scary,” Jeremy points out. “You were hospitalized. And you look…those scars look horrible.”

“I know.” Thanks for the reminder. Should Michael ever get a job that requires short-sleeved uniforms, he’s screwed. He’ll never be able to go swimming, never be able to wear tank tops…probably never even gonna get laid. Not that he ever really had a chance, anyway, but he figures it’s still worth lamenting about. “I hate them.”

“But you made them.”

“I know.” Michael sighs tiredly. It feels like they’re going in circles. “You don’t have to get it, Jeremy. Just…please don’t…” Is it unfair to ask not to be judged? “Please don’t think of me different. I just want to forget about it.”

“…Okay. I’ll try not to bring it up again.” 

“Great. So we’re even, then.”

“Even?”

“Yeah. You had your shitty secret leaked against your will, and I’ve had mine. And now we can both shut up about it.”

Jeremy’s face is unreadable. “…Right.”

An awkward silence settles over the room. 

“...You didn’t even really care about mine, though.”

“What?”

“My ‘secret.’” 

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Why not?”

Michael shrugs. “I dunno.” He probably—no, definitely—would have cared, three years ago. Probably would have been one of the kids calling Jeremy those awful names. It was only when his friend was outed right in front of him that he realized it really didn’t matter to him. Now, he can hardly comprehend why he ever felt that way in the first place. Michael knows what it’s like to be ostracized, so seeing the same thing happen to his friend immediately put him on the defensive. He doesn’t know why Jeremy is bringing this up, though. 

“Everyone cares.”

Michael knows this is true. Even Henry cares. It makes him kind of depressed—not because it affects him directly, but because it kind of makes him question how unconditional Henry’s support truly is. “Not me.”  

“…” Jeremy fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “Well, thanks.”

“Huh?”

“For not hating me.”

“I’ll never hate you.” Michael frowns. “Why are you talking about this now?”

Jeremy’s eyes are round with guilt. “‘Cause you were really cool to me when… that happened. But I was a real jerk to you just now. I feel terrible.”

Michael sighs. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But–”

“Jeremy. It’s fine. I promise, it’d take a lot more than that to make me hate you.” He figures Jeremy would feel a lot better about himself if he knew what Michael’s old friends had to say about the whole situation–but he decides not to bring it up. He’s talked about the disastrous aspects of his life more than enough for one day. He'd do anything to end this conversation already.

“Okay…”

“Can’t we just play on your Nintendo or something?”

Jeremy gives him a baffled look. “Really?”

“Would you rather keep talking about how much our lives suck?”

“Oh...yeah, good point. We have to be quiet, though.”

“Can do.” The moment Michael manages to get to his feet, Jeremy’s cat decides to reemerge from under the bed, darting forward to weave around his ankles. He curses in a whisper-shout as he loses his balance and nearly falls over, barely managing to catch himself. “Ugh! Your fatass cat is so annoying!”

Jeremy covers his mouth with his hand with surprise, but Michael can hear the tiniest bit of a muffled snicker. “Hey, she doesn’t know any better!”

“Bullshit. She wants me dead. This is like, the third time.” Michael shoots a glare at the animal in question, who trills back happily at him.

“Nuh-uh. Come on, Holly! Come here!” Jeremy makes a clicking sound with his mouth. Holly ignores him completely, instead strutting across the room to disappear inside of a cardboard box--a cardboard box with her name written on it with pink glitter glue. Michael side eyes him. “Did you make that?”

“No. Suzy did.” 

“Why’s it in here, then?”

Jeremy shrugs. 

“Whatever. Let’s just go…”

“Okay, but you better stop talking so loud.”

“I’m basically whispering!”

“Yeah, right…”

Miraculously, they manage to shift the tone of the night into something almost normal--thanks to the cat's shenanigans and a mutual agreement to turn a blind eye to the ugly elephant in the room. Michael thanks the Lord that he has a friend like Jeremy. It sure must take a lot of perseverance to maintain a normal friendship with an Afton.