Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Michael kicked the slushy stones in the pickup loop at school. He did his best to keep his head up, so as to not look weak. The air around school was different since… The incident. The whispers got louder after Elizabeth, and now his parents' very public very messy divorce.

His father had him on the weekends. Which at first Michael feared, dreading the thought of being trapped alone with his drunken father. It turned out to be the better option out of the two households, at least he was out at work all weekend and barely acknowledged his existence around the house. When he was home, sat in his recliner drinking himself to the point of passing out. At his mothers on the other hand, she worked nights, she was constantly tired, breaking down in tears. Michael felt like her therapist when he was around her. At least with William he would ignore his presence.

The beating stopped pretty soon after Elizabeth… Passed.

It was a breath of fresh air for Michael, his perpetual bruises finally faded. Yet sometimes, he felt the silence in the house was a worse torture than being screamed at.

The purple Pontiac Tempest pulled into the pick up loop, it was a cold winter day, so the top was up. He felt eyes on him as he entered the passenger seat, quietly knocking the snow off his boots before putting his feet in. He stared down at his lap, not acknowledging his father’s presence. Typically they didn’t speak much unless it was necessary.

“How was school,” His father asked, it was forced, scripted.

“Fine.” 

He heard his father sigh heavily, shuffling around to grab a cigarette and lighting it. They drove the rest of the way home in silence.

He waited for his father to exit the car first, that was one of the strange rules he had. He listened for the sound of the driver door closing before daring to lift his gaze, he exited watching his father fiddle with the garage keypad, trying to get it to shut. Michael waited patiently, another rule, father had to enter the house first.

Finally he watched as his father entered the house, holding the door open for Michael to follow. He did just that, taking his boots off and coat, making sure to hang them at his designated hooks. His brother and sister’s boots still sat next to his, collecting dust. Just like everything else in the house.

He heard the fire crackling from the living room, and made his way over to sit on the floor in front of it, pulling out his homework and diligently working on it. He wasn’t permitted dinner until he finished it. Rules that used to apply only to his younger siblings slowly started to apply to Michael.

Will changed a lot since Clara left. Mike noted how his cooking has slowly improved over the past few months, how he no longer needed to do his own laundry because his father stepped up to do it. His room was always tidy when he arrived home on weekends, bed sheets freshly laundered. He felt bad for his mother of course, he always loved her more, but she was the opposite. She was crumbling from the distress, the mounting court fees, the lawyer summons.

She lost everything, everything but custody over Michael. They lived in a small trailer park, she worked grueling hours at the local hospital, and ate cheap fast food most days. He didn’t even get lunch money from her anymore, instead bringing a simple sandwich, ham and cheese or peanut butter- if he was lucky. They barely filled him up. He looked forward to the food at his dads.

It smelt like mashed potatoes tonight, maybe they would have turkey too.

He finished his homework, sloppily, but it was done. Quietly Michael walked into the kitchen, watching his father set a timer and get to work on the dishes.

“I can do those,” Michael offered, “I finished my homework.”

William didn’t respond. 

Michael walked over standing beside his father and grabbing a dish towel, he wanted to help. Sorry would never be enough, nothing he did would ever be enough, but he had to try. He began hand drying the dishes on the rack and putting them away. Eventually, his father spoke.

“Thank you, Michael,” He said plainly, face hardened and focused on the task at hand.

The dishes were done, dried, and stowed away. Michael noticed the table wasn't set, and grabbed two plates and sets of silverware, setting them on the coffee table in the living room. They never ate in the dining room anymore. His father was practically glued to his recliner after chores or work these days. He went upstairs to his room to wash up before dinner. He stared at himself in the mirror, he had lost weight.

He heard the timer go off in the kitchen, smelling roast turkey wafting from the oven and up the stairs. He hurried back downstairs and sat on the couch, watching as his father spooned out portions of food on their plates.

Will hadn’t grabbed a beer yet, Michael noticed and stood to go get one from the garage. He returned to see his father flipping through TV channels, quietly poking at the food on his plate. He looked like he had lost some weight as well.

Michael approached, as if he was handling a sleeping bear, and placed the beer on the side table next to William’s recliner.

Will looked up at his son. He did something Michael hadn’t seen in ages. He smiled. 

Michael smiled back, then returned to his spot on the couch and ate. Watching whatever his father had put on the TV. It was some boring news broadcast, talking about the incoming blizzard next week. Instead Michael’s eyes fixed on his father. The man hadn't taken a single bite of the dinner he spent so long slaving over. Both his parents were in a steady decline. They both made him worry. 

William set the plate aside, sipping his beer instead as he pulled a cigar and cutter out from a little box on his side table. He lit it and languidly puffed away at it.

Michael grew to miss the smell of smoke whenever he was away with his mom.

He finished his dinner and cleaned his plate up, taking his dads with him. He hadn’t touched anything on it. He scraped the leftovers into a tupperware and tried to find a spot to store it in the fridge. His fridge at his moms was nearly always empty, William always kept his stocked, as if he still had a family of five living with him.

Michael looked over at the clock, he still had a few more hours before it was mandatory bed time. Recently his father had started enforcing a bed time routine, starting at 7:30 pm. It was early for a teen like him, but Michael liked the regularity of it. He had a structured schedule at his father’s, something his mother had all but abandoned.

It was the same routine William had enforced on Evan and Elizabeth.

Around 6 PM he would call Michael into the living room to read. They would read separate books for 30 minutes, then William would turn the lights off in the house save a few warm lamps and the fireplace. Have a shot of whiskey and offer Michael some hot tea. For the next hour they would sit on the couch together. Typically Michael would stare at the embers smouldering, while his father would close his eyes and simply sit. He wouldn’t fall asleep, but sometimes he looked close to it.

Michael went up to his room and picked out a few comic books from a new series he started to read, wandering down into the living room, noticing his father had already moved from the recliner to the couch. Probably because it was closer to the warm fire.

It was getting dark at 5 pm already, and Will seemed to have started his night time routine early. The lights were already all off, save a warm lamp by the couch, just enough light to read. Michael settled on the opposite end of the couch, and read. 

He smelt whiskey.

“Tea?” William asked, standing.

Michael nodded, “Yes please.”

He always made sure to use his please and thank you’s around William. While waiting, he focused his attention on his comic book. He heard the kettle, then the sound of tea cups clinking against the coffee table. His father always put a scoop of sugar and milk in Michaels tea. He wasn’t crazy about tea, but it was nice on cold nights like these.

Michael watched his father settle back on the couch and take a few sips, grabbing his reading glasses and flipping open his book. He was reading some American classics. One Michael had read for an assignment. William often couldn't help with his ELA work, he was knowledgeable but his grasp on American culture was still very… Dated. Michael tried to keep reading his comic, but the sound of the clock and fire crackling was too distracting. 

The silence was becoming uncomfortable.

It was never this quiet at his mom’s. She always had some reason to pester him, or was loudly talking on the phone, typically bitching to her friends about how William is ruining her life. 

He took a couple sips from the tea set out before him, making a face at the taste. At least he never had to listen to his father complain about mom. Even the slightest mention of her would make the man grimace.

He glanced over at the grandfather clock lingering by the edge of the living room, the soft glow of the flames barely were enough for Mike to make out the time. It was still too early to sleep, but Michael was ready to go to his room. He excused himself, stopping by the kitchen one last time to place his teacup in the sink, then made his way up the stairs. Walking down the dark hallway to his room, he glimpsed into his fathers office. It was a mess, papers piling up on his desk and the thick book of yellow pages was segmented with various bookmarks stuck into it. Probably numbers of various lawyers.

Michael huffed anxiously, dragging his feet down to the end of the hallway. He made a point to look down at his feet as he passed Evan’s and Elizabeth's rooms. He desperately wished he could move his room to the third floor where his father’s room was, or even the attic. Every time he had to walk past his sibling’s empty rooms he felt his stomach churn. Some nights he couldn’t even rest, knowing the room next to him was still the same it was all those months ago, like a time capsule into the past. Things were better then.

Michael flicked the lights to his room on, it looked like his father had cleaned it sometime this week. He had mixed feelings knowing his dad was probably snooping around his room. He was about to close the door when he remembered William’s “no closed doors” policy. That was one thing he really disliked about his Friday nights. Sometimes he would hear his father walking down the hall and into his room in the middle of the night, forcing him to feign sleep. There was a distinct lack of privacy in this house.

He cracked the door so it was only open halfway, then flopped onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. This Thursday, he would have to pick a side. The family had a pretty big court date coming up, and his mother was constantly reminding Michael of it.

“Just know Michael,” She would say to him every Monday, “The devil is in that man. I know it.”

Michael also knew. He had been victim to it first hand for nearly his whole life. But the lack of stability was killing him. Stability was something his mother just couldn't provide. He couldn’t handle going hungry, skipping meals, practically being an adult around the trailer. He had so many chores, duties, and worst of all, he was his mother’s therapist. At least with Will he could just focus on school, and he knew they would always have a home and food in the fridge.

It wasn’t fair. Mike screwed his eyes shut, frustrated. He wished the adults would just hash it out without him, he didn’t want to have to sit in court, listening to them argue over assets and him.

Arguing over him like he was just another asset.

He sat up, reached under his bed and pulled out a notebook. He just scribbled in it when he was bored, it was mostly filled with little doodles of Foxy. It also contained a couple of stupid short stories or lame poems he would write if he was really deep in his feelings. He was really deep into his feelings tonight.

He rustled through the top drawer of his nightstand for a pen and stared down at the college ruled paper. It was all so stupid, writing down all his angry thoughts. Allegedly it would help, at least, that’s what his therapist said.

That stupid therapist that was just another drain on his mother’s already poor finances. William didn’t seem thrilled about Michael being in therapy. He thought about that conversation he overheard on the phone. Though with how loud William was yelling it wasn’t that hard to hear. 

His parents were arguing, again. 

Over him, again.

He hated how his mind wouldn’t stop replaying every argument, every conflict, over and over. 

In all honesty, Mike agreed with his father. Therapy wasn’t doing anything, all it did was cause more stress, more problems. He would spend most of his time sitting silently or giving vague one worded responses to questions he didn’t really care to answer. 

Mike pressed his pen against the paper, his grip tightening. He couldn’t even begin to articulate his feelings, his hatred for himself, his hatred for his own life. He tossed the notebook on the floor, abandoning any attempt to write it out. He flicked the lights off and hunkered under his covers, trying his best to keep his sobs quiet. He felt like he wasn’t even living anymore, at least not for himself. He drifted off a couple of times that night, yet could never fully rest. He would jolt awake, pillow soaked from tears. Even in his sleep all he could do was cry. 

Tonight was particularly rough, for no reason at all. Some days were just worse than others.

The grandfather clock chimed around 3:00 AM. It chimed on the hours, every hour. Typically it melted into background noise, but tonight it sounded loud. It was as if the clock was right in his head, bells banging around inside his skull. Michael’s eyes snapped open, he sat up abruptly at the sound. 

He saw a figure in the corner of his eye, standing in his doorway.

“Trouble sleeping,” His father remarked.

Michael rubbed his eyes, struggling to focus on his fathers silhouette. The amber hall light illuminated the man from behind. He just stared up from his bed, his eyes felt wet. He watched his father take a few steps into his bedroom, turning the lights on.

“Get up,” He stated, not commanding but also not exactly asking.

Michael didn’t budge from his bed, “Did I do something wrong?” He felt anxiety brewing in his stomach.

“You’re sobbing in your sleep, it was keeping me up,” His father answered back, “Come on.”

He felt his father grab his arm, pulling him up and out of bed. William released him, turning and walking down the hall. He stood at the bottom of the stairs to the third floor. Michael nervously stepped out of his room, and reluctantly followed. He followed his father up to the third floor, and down the short hall to the man's bedroom.

“You were always a big crybaby,” Will said matter of factly, sitting on the right side of the Alaskan king bed, “I had to cosleep with you for what felt like forever before you grew out of it.”

Only the bedside lamp was on in the room, a book was open on the nightstand, reading glasses sat on top of the pages. Michael anxiously stood in the doorway, he wasn’t allowed to be in this room, not ever. He glanced around the room, it was a lot more cluttered than he remembered it being. Not messy, just cluttered with shadowy objects he couldn’t pick out in the dark.

His father popped his reading glasses back on and got back to his book. He barely glanced over the cover as he spoke to Michael.

“You’ll sleep better in here, there’s plenty of room.”

Michael shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t too keen on the idea of sharing a bed with the man. After all, Mike just turned 16, he was a bit too old to be sleeping in his parents bed over a bad dream. 

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Mike looked down at his feet, “I’ll be ok.” He turned to leave.

“Michael Afton.” Shit. 

Mike let out a stressed sigh and faced his father. 

“I am not in the mood to hear you cry all night,” William said, his voice lacking any empathy, “Come.”

He took hesitant steps into the room, and crawled into bed on the opposite side, at least the bed was large enough he wouldn’t risk accidentally kicking his father in his sleep- if he got any. He turned on his side, facing away from William. He tried to figure out what was going on in the shadows of the room for a while before his eyes became too heavy to bear. 

He stayed asleep for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

An alarm went off in the room, waking him up. He opened his bleary eyes, it was still dark outside. His body was shifted around, he was so wrapped up in blankets he couldn’t make out where he was. Something under his head shifted, then a light flicked on. He blinked a few times before his eyes focused. 

He was wrapped around his father, he must have involuntarily rolled over in his sleep and grabbed the man by accident. Typically Michael held a Foxy plushie all night long, it was one he had since he was a baby, Aunt Fiona and Uncle Edwin had made it for him. He left it in his bed last night. He quickly let go of his fathers arm and rolled over, hoping he hadn’t been a nuisance to his father all night.

He listened as his dad moved around the room, turning the overhead ceiling light on and walking into the attached master bathroom, the door clunking shut. Michael sat up, absorbing how his parent’s room looked. 

Any touch his mother had was totally removed. The room was filled with large rolls of blueprints, random animatronic parts were strewn about the dresser, an old Yellow Bonnie suit head sat in the window, and in general the room looked more like an extension of his fathers office than a bedroom. He felt his skin crawl knowing a bunch of creepy endoskeleton parts and heads were staring at him all night long.

He looked over at the alarm clock on the nightstand, it was 5:00 AM.

Ugh, he had only gotten a few hours of sleep. Better than none he supposed.

He laid back down, and closed his eyes, he wanted just a few more hours of sleep… It was Saturday, prime time to sleep in. He heard the sink in the bathroom run for a few seconds, then the sound of the door opening back up. He listened to the sound of clothes rustle, and felt the bed sink next to him. Michael opened his eyes again, and turned to look over his shoulder.

His dad was in his work clothes, sitting on the bed reading his book again.

Michael swore he saw his dad reading more than anyone else on the planet. He was always nose deep into some piece of literature. 

“Seems like you slept well,” His father remarked casually, flipping the page.

Michael didn’t respond, he just laid his head back down and did his best to fall back asleep.

“I was thinking,” His father started, “Why don’t you come with me to work today.”

Michael stayed silent, knowing even if he declined, he would end up being forced to go.

“You’re at that age, you know. You can work the till.”

Ugh.

He heard his father snap his book shut and felt him stand from the bed, “If you change your mind, there’s McDonalds pancakes in it for you.”

Mike sat up, he loved the pancakes from McDonalds. “When are you leaving?” He asked.

William looked down on him, face stone cold as ever, “I need to be there by 6, but I need to stop for gas first, so be ready in 15.”

Mike watched him stop in the doorframe of the bedroom and look back, “Any later and McDonalds is off.”

His father disappeared down the hall. Mike got up, scrambled down to his room and got dressed, he threw a couple of things into his backpack. He wasn’t sure how much work his dad would make him do, so he figured bringing his Game Boy and some comics wouldn’t hurt. He made his way down the stairs, bag in hand and got his shoes and coat on. His father was organizing a few folders into his work bag by the door.

Michael waited patiently, staring out the glass door and at the fresh dusting of snow on the ground. They didn’t get snow too often, it was always a treat when they did. His dad eventually made his way towards the entrance to the garage, and Michael followed. He stared out the window as they drove, maybe he could get a few slices of pizza out of today.

He really hated being in the restaurants, especially the diner. Michael just hoped they were going to the new location, the one with the huge prize corner and extensive arcade cabinet collection. They pulled into the drive thru and Mike looked over at his father as he listened to him order.

“Do you want anything to drink?” William looked over to him.

“May I have a Coke?” He never got soda, but he also never got McDonalds, at least not with his dad.

His father leaned back out the window, “A small Coke as well.”

They pulled up to the next window, and Mike held their order in his lap as they drove the rest of the way to whichever location his father was working at that day. They pulled into the back lot of Fredbear’s.

Mike felt his stomach flip.

He waited for his father to exit the vehicle first, before exiting himself.Once again waiting by his fathers side as he fiddled with his keys and unlocked the backroom door. They stepped into the building, the breaker to the whole diner right next to the back entrance. He watched the lights flicker on as his father flipped each switch. They were in a relatively small parts and service room, at least compared to the other locations.

“Go eat in my office. I have to do a morning check around the building, then I’ll be right with you.” His father said, almost as if he was conducting business with his own son.

Michael nodded, leaving the parts and service room and wandering through the staff only backroom, he caught a glimpse of a fire exit layout of the building on the wall.

Safety Is No Accident! It read upon the evacuation map.

Michael scoffed. Ironic, he thought to himself. He stopped in front of the office door, staring at the nameplate, under it was a family photo. His family, all five of them, smiling, together… Michael refocused his eyes on the door knob, slowly turning it and stepping into his fathers office.

There was a plain wooden desk in the center rear of the room, a large black office chair poised behind it. His father handled all the paperwork, money, and public relations here. His Uncle Henry didn’t really need an office, since the man was always nose deep in the parts and service room or was doing parts run from the robotics plant. So the room was very similar to how their home felt. Velvety purple couch along the wall, blue carpet centered on the floor, and worn blue Fleur-de-lis wallpaper. There were various stacks of paper on the desk, though it was tidier than his fathers home office. Michael moved some of the stacks off the couch and the small coffee table in front of it and settled himself down. He pulled out his pancakes and his fathers order from the fast food bag and chewed through his breakfast while he gazed over at the clock on the opposing wall. It was a Fazbear branded Bonnie wall clock- the blue one from the new location.

The door opened, his father walked in and plopped down on the couch next to him. Mike finished his food up quickly and started to sip at his Coke, savoring its taste. His father didn’t even touch his food, just tossing it back into the white paper bag. 

“I owe you an apology,” It sounded corporate, rehearsed.

Michael kept his eyes fixed on the coffee table in front of him. His stomach flipped again, this time threatening to vomit. He was being played, both sides wanted to win him over, and these past two weeks everyone was acting oddly. He knew this wasn’t genuine.

Or at least he thought.

He heard a strange sound coming from his father. Like he was choking something back.

“I know,” William started slowly, voice strained, “I know I haven’t been the best.”

Michael grit his teeth, he wanted to be upset, to be angry, to snap back and tell his father to fuck off. He couldn’t, he was just sad. Exhausted.

“I know you harbor a lot of hate towards me,” He kept going, he sounded like he was crying, “I hope you know, I try my best.”

He couldn’t feel angry. He thought about his mother, the countless hours of her bitching and complaining about William. Hearing her talk shit about the man over the phone. Hearing her whine about how all her money, her easy life was gone. He thought about how she seemed more upset at the loss of her income and expensive life than the loss of her two children. His father on the other hand, while numb and distant, reasonably so considering the weight of each incident.

“I don’t hate you…” Mike managed to squeak out. He thought about everything William had done for him these past few months. He thought about last night.

He felt oddly comforted by last night. Despite his initial anxiety. His father came to him, when he was feeling his worst. His father, despite his cold demeanor, offered help in his own sort of way. In a way, it did help. He felt silly about it, having to sleep in his dads room at his age, but it helped. More than maybe William realized.

Michael wanted a hug, more than anything. He just didn’t know how to ask, he was too afraid to ask. His mom would hug him, but she would do it only when she needed comfort. Nothing was about his comfort around her.

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

A hand squeezed his shoulder. Michael collapsed into himself, head in his hands, hair spilling over as a waterfall of tears poured out of his heart. He was wrapped, enveloped by warmth. He was being held.

He scrambled to get his arms around his father, pulling himself into his chest and sobbing louder than he had ever cried in his entire life. Louder than the day his brother's blood splashed across his face, louder than when he saw his sister's mangled body before she was cremated, louder than when the same man holding him beat him bloody and threatened to kill him.

All his bottled emotions flowed out, they felt never ending. He wretched and heaved against his father, gripping him as tight as he could, scared to let go of the only semblance of love he may ever feel. His hair was being stroked, his body rocked, all while his father hushed him. 

He felt tiny. 

Helpless.

Insignificant.

What seemed like forever, Michael wheezed, gasping and eventually calmed his quaking sobs. He opened his eyes, everything was blurry. His face was still buried against his fathers chest. He felt weak, like he couldn’t even hold himself up anymore, and slid down. Hands guided him to lay his head upon his fathers lap.

He stared up at William, who was staring back. His face was worried, eyes wet.

“You’ve been holding that in for a while,” His father whispered.

Michael couldn’t speak, he just kept gazing into his dad’s silver eyes. There was no shine, no life behind them. Just dull misery. They were both trapped in this Hell together. He let his eyes flutter shut after a moment and took a deep breath. He felt heavy, like his body was sinking into the couch. His father rubbed his shoulder a bit, giving it a squeeze every now and again.

“I need to get the place opened up,” William said, gently, filled with kindness, “Henry will be here soon.”

Michael nodded, feeling his head be moved to rest upon the couch. He heard his father opening a locker and then felt a rough wool blanket being laid upon him. He felt warmth by his forehead, then lips. His father had kissed him on the forehead.

Something he didn’t think William was capable of. Love.

The door to the office clicked shut.

The only sound Michael could hear was the subtle ticking of the clock upon the wall.

He didn't know how long he had slept. But when he awoke the diner was filled with noise. Music playing, children laughing, arcade cabinets buzzing away. Michael opened his eyes, he was still under the blanket on the couch, he sat up, stretching. He was a bit stiff, sleeping on a couch was never the best experience, but his body needed that. The office was empty, he cracked the door open and saw his father talking to an employee in the back. He was explaining to them how to operate one of the springlock suits. 

Michael hated those things. Springlocks. 

He watched, not really listening to their conversation anymore. He couldn’t focus on anything, he was probably still exhausted, maybe dehydrated. He kept the door barely cracked, mind wandering off, thinking about how he hadn’t seen his father eat anything since yesterday. He smelt cigar smoke in the room, he must have been in here at some point while Mike slept. Michael’s brain mulled over the fact the only things he had seen the man consume this weekend were whiskey, tea, and cigars. He knew his father would also spend hours outside after work just smoking through a whole pack of 100’s. Just as Michael was about to shut the door and retire to the couch again…

KEERRR-THUNK- Click… Click… PING.

His heart rammed into his throat as he heard the springlock snapping from performer mode to animatronic mode. The high pitched pinging rang through his head, it felt like someone was screaming in his head. He had flung the door shut instinctively, and sank to the floor, light headed.

Michael collapsed backwards as the door was flung open suddenly, his head knocking against wingtiped dress shoes against checkered tile. He scrambled to regain his composure, rushing to his feet. He took a few steps back into the office, fearfully looking up at his father. His face was cold.

“Don’t slam that door again, Michael.” William’s eyes squinted, he then proceeded to slam the door right back in Michael’s face. He backed up shakily towards the couch, reaching a hand out to stabilize himself on the arm of it. That was why he preferred to stay home.

It scared him, how quickly his father could switch. It had been months since hands were laid on him, and yet every time it's as if his body remembers the stings. Every mistake he makes brings back searing sensations along his skin. Along his throat, his wrists, his stomach. He felt nauseous, this time, he couldn’t keep it down.

In a panic as to not ruin the couch, he keeled over and vomited all over his front. Gasping for air loudly.

shit. Shit. SHIT.

He hurriedly glanced around the office, desperate to find something, anything to clean this mess up with. He grabbed his bag, nearly ripping it open, and shuffled around it for a change of clothes, or maybe a jacket, anything-

The door opened again and Michael braced himself, hands raised above his head, and curling in on himself to protect his core.

“Michael?” the distinctly American voice graced Michael's ears. He dropped his hands and looked up, relieved.

“What happened Michael?” Uncle Henry helped him up, “Are you sick?”

“I think my breakfast was bad,” He lied, not wanting to admit his ridiculous fear response.

“Well let’s get you cleaned up,” Henry guided the boy out the room to the employee bathroom, which contained the first aid station as well. Michael groaned, feeling his face and chest being scrubbed with a sudsy towel.

“I don’t have anything for you to change into,” Henry said, “I’ll get your father.”

Michael groaned, resisting the urge to shout no. After all these years, somehow Uncle Henry still seemed to be oblivious to his business partner's abusive tendencies. Or maybe he knew, and just didn’t care. He braced himself to get screamed at, either at home, or out in the parking lot if Will was angry enough.

Right on cue, his father stomped in, staring coldly up and down at his son. 

“Get up.” 

Mike stood, staring down at the ground, trying to hold back tears. His wrist was roughly grabbed and he was dragged outside.

Oh God.

He prayed at times like these, he prayed to God that maybe this time he would finally be knocked so hard he died. Or he prayed for numbness. Or for the courage to stand up, to fight back.

He was 16. Letting his father drag him out back to metaphorically shoot him. Ugh.

The first blow never really hurt. It was the wake up call for your nerves, the shortest of the pains. His ears rang as a crack over the top of his skull reverberated through his bones. He instinctively braced, but never felt a second blow. After a few minutes of silence, he worked up the courage to look up. 

His father was just standing there, arms crossed, staring at him.

“Don’t look surprised,” his father frowned, “Get in.”

He opened the back driver’s side door. Michael got in, and sat silently the whole drive home. He stared at the back of the driver’s seat, trying to ignore the sudden jolts the car would make when his father drifted slowly over the roadlines. They rolled into their driveway and Will parked the car, he didn’t pull into the garage, which was peculiar.

“Get out, Michael.” He instructed sternly.

Mike got out, stood by the car, and watched as his father put it into reverse, and left.

Mike stood in the center of the driveway, staring out into the light flurry of snow. He gripped his bare arms, and shivered. He was freezing, and his housekey was in his backpack, which was back at Fredbear’s. He turned to walk towards the garage, and tried to remember the garage code. He couldn’t. He fumbled around in his pocket and got out his cellular phone. He strained his memory for his mom’s work phone number, and managed to punch it in correctly.

“Hurricane Urgent Care, do you know your recipient's extension number?”

Michael tapped in the number, and pressed the cell to his ear, listening to it ring.

“Clara Schmidt, billing department-”

“Mom,” Mike said, his teeth were clattering.

“Mike!” Her tone picked up, “Oh Michael are you ok?”

“What’s dad’s garage code? I forgot.” His hands were struggling to keep a grip on the phone.

She sounded like she was responding through grit teeth, “Oh… I don’t know, go ask him I suppose. Michael, I have work to do.” She hung up.

Ugh. Just his luck. He reluctantly called his fathers cell number. He heard the pick up tone but his father didn’t speak. Mike picked up the faint sounds of the diner in the background of the call. 

“Dad, I forgot the garage code.” He said meekly.

“1967.” The phone hung up.

Mike entered the code and hurried himself inside the house, and rushed over to the living room to warm up under the blankets draped over the couch. He thought better than to turn on the TV or even continue to exist in the living room and left to hide in his room. He spent the rest of his afternoon hiding under his covers staring into the darkness. Time passed slowly, but the fear of being hurt again kept him from moving from his little speck of safety in his bed.

When he heard the garage door shutting and the clink of keys as his fathers heavy footsteps permeated the house, he did his best to shrink further into himself. He listened intently for William’s footsteps, estimated where he was in the house- Kitchen, closet, back to the kitchen, to the living room, down the hall…

And up the stairs… Towards his room.

Michael cowered under the blankets further, unable to control his shaking. His father never grabbed him, ripped the blankets down, or struck him. He simply placed a hand on Mike.

“I lost my temper,” He stated, coldly.

Mike’s shuddering stilled. He took a few deep breaths, processing the situation.

“Dinner will be ready in 30.” 

He heard the footsteps fade, descending down the stairs, they were lighter than before.

Mike exhaled in relief, and anxiously got out of bed, he was still covered in his filth. He made his way towards his bathroom, and ran a hot shower. Nearly falling asleep in it. 

He remembered to not lose track of time and miss dinner. He got out of the shower, into fresh clothes and made his way downstairs. Right on time, his father had just pulled a dish from the oven. It smelt like roasted beets and potatoes. He also smelt steak.

He anxiously entered the kitchen, and grabbed tableware to fill and bring to their respective eating places. Same as always.

He didn’t expect to get dinner still, not after how his father initially seemed to have reacted.  But it was almost as if nothing had happened. They sat in silence.

They ate- well Mike did. The rest of the night went by like any other. The atmosphere was warming, rain pelted the windows in the dark. Mike was ready to turn in for the night, they had been up later than typical. Maybe his father had lost track of time, it did get dark early this time of year. 

The grandfather clock chimed: 10:00 PM

Mike grabbed his empty teacup, intending to place it in the sink. 

“Going to bed already?” He heard his father ask behind him.

He paused, unsure if to answer or not. He turned around to face his father, eyes meeting with silver ones, barely peeking over a book.

“It’s late.”

William broke his gaze, shutting his literature and placing it on the coffee table before them. He sat back on the couch, one leg over his knee. Mike felt like a deer in headlights, unsure how to react. He noticed how slim his father looked. How sunken his eyes were. How much older he looked. He even had a few grey hairs poking through. Sometimes he forgot his parents were human too, mortal, aging just like he was.

“It’s a Saturday, Michael,” Will stated, his tone casual, almost friendly. Their eyes met again. Mike’s insides twisted, he felt tight, like a wound up springlock threatening to snap. This had to be the punishment for what happened earlier.

“I’m really tired,” Mike mumbled out. He averted his gaze to the floor, counting the fibers in the carpet to try and distract himself.

He heard the couch cushion next to his father be pat, not demanding, but inviting, “I was thinking about watching a movie, or maybe a program.” 

Mike sat, assuming the whole act was an illusion of choice. He tried to keep his body as far from his father as he could, despite being on the cushion right next to him. The last thing he needed right now was another beating.

“There was this one program I was watching last week,” Will started, as he grabbed the remote and started to flick through channels, “They did- as they described- True Crime. Quite fascinating stuff.”

Mike allowed his eyes to wander from the floor, focusing on the TV set. For a while they both watched the show in silence. Mike actually started to enjoy it. It was interesting, a bit gruesome, and occasionally used some horror elements. He finally relaxed back into the couch, flinching slightly as he bumped into his fathers arm, which draped itself over his shoulder as he leaned back into it.

He was pulled closer. Their sides squished together. Mike felt odd.

His fathers hand snaked up to Michael’s head, pulling it down to rest on his shoulder. Mike didn’t budge from there. Letting his father dictate the interaction. He fixed his eyes on the TV in front of him. Trying his best to ignore the hand dragging down to his hip, resting against it. Just paused there, like a gentle weight tugging him down and over. 

Time passed slowly. Mike was losing interest in the show.

11:00 PM the grandfather clock chimed. His eyes felt heavy. He didn’t hear the clock chiming for another while. 

Chapter Text

Mike's eyes snapped open. He was in a dark room, blood pooled at his feet, smearing out into the abyss before him. 

He's had this dream- Nightmare, before. 

His eyes followed the trail of blood, and up into the darkness. He could see clear as day, his brothers crushed skull, brain matter draped over a set of spiked teeth. He looked down at his hands and saw blood seeping from his pores and running down his arms. 

Mike’s eyes snapped open. This time, he was awake, sweating. His body was taught from stress and breaths shallow. It took him a moment to make out where he was. An arm was draped over him, someone pressed against his back. He heard snoring. He was in his parents room, in bed with his dad. Mike took a few moments to process the situation, he was locked in place by another arm slotted between the gap in his shoulder and the mattress that reached up and over his shoulder, holding him.

 His father must have carried him up to bed. Not his own bed, but rather William’s. All day he felt off, weird, confused. What changed, why was everything so different between them all of a sudden. He shifted, trying to wiggle free from his father’s grasp, but was ultimately unsuccessful. It would take waking the man up to get out of this one, but Mike figured it wasn’t worth the headache, and did his best to get back to sleep.

The sound of howling wind and pitter of rain against the glass panes make this easier. It was calming, and the deep pressure and warmth along his back wasn’t so bad. He didn’t even mind his father’s hot breath down his neck. Now that he knew where he was, maybe the nightmare wouldn’t come back. He was more protected this time.

The rest of the night was uneventful, Mike assumed, considering he slept until the 6:30 am alarm went off. 

He didn’t budge, letting his father wake first, unwrapping from him to smack the snooze button. He was pulled back into his fathers grasp, and felt the man nuzzle his face into the back of his neck.

“Are you awake, Mike,” William mumbled against his skin. His words were slurring.

Mike didn’t want to respond, he wanted to stay there in bed. But he also had a weird feeling in his gut that he should.

“I am,” he whispered.

His father let out a little hum. They laid there together in silence for minutes, Mike stared out the window straight ahead, watching the sun peak over the horizon. Sometimes, his father would have a Sunday off here and there. Considering the fact the alarm hadn’t gone off again, Mike assumed today was one of those Sundays. He felt his father shift behind him, separating their bodies. 

Mike involuntarily whined. He wanted the warmth back.

He could practically hear his father pausing, processing the noise and its intention.

“Not ready to get up?”

Mike groaned, shaking his head. He felt his fathers weight settle on him once more, pressing against his back. His spine shivered. Being so starved for touch, Mike felt gross trying to satisfy his itch this way, but he figured this was the only human contact, the only semblance of love he would ever experience. He felt really special in this moment, like he was all that mattered in the world. His father wasn’t thinking about work, rushing around to take care of business, or dealing with the custody case. He was here, in the present, paying attention to Mike. That’s all Mike wanted. He sighed into the mattress, savoring the warmth washing over his body again. He felt particularly aware of the heat on his neck.

His crotch felt damp.

Fuck. He was weirdly horny. His heart pounded in his chest, his weary brain trying to wrap around the weird feelings his gut was giving him. He tried to push the feelings away. Sometimes Mike had weird intrusive thoughts, they scared him, made him feel disgusting. This was just another one of those moments.

He told himself, it was just his instincts. Some sort of primal urge all animals get, of course he was aroused, he was wrapped in a steady warming pressure. He was comfortable, and safe. Nothing wrong with him for his body reacting to it.

The wet heat on his neck was making it hard for him to focus. He could smell the nicotine and whiskey off his fathers breath. He always smelt faintly of tobacco or alcohol, but right now Michael was acutely aware of how much he reeked of alcohol. He wouldn’t be surprised if his father was still a bit tipsy, or drunk even.

Mike's stomach flipped a few times, not in a bad way, but yearning. For something. Something he didn’t want to think about. Without really realizing, he pushed back against his father, desperate to feel more contact. 

He was welcomed with his father pressing back, and something pressing against him, lower. Something stiff prodding at his back. Mike's heart jumped into his throat. But he stayed still, he felt excited yet at the same time, afraid.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes meeting with his father’s. Who was staring right back. Neither of them spoke, Mike didn’t dare think too. They just exchanged looks, knowing looks. He let his eyes scan across his father’s features. He looked drunk, eyes lidded, face red.

Michael's gut twisted and warped, he had a gross thought. A disgusting but exciting thought. His drunk father had carried him to bed, and did what? Was he simply laid in bed, tucked under the covers and cuddled, or did something more sinister happen while he was unconscious.

Nothing happened, he knew that logically, but his mind kept teasing it.

He wanted more contact, he desperately wanted more. To be practically consumed by his father’s grasp. If Mike could crawl into his skin he would. He needed this, the attention was all he ever craved. He refocused on his father’s gaze. He rolled over to face him, looking up at the much older man. 

His eyes trailed down to his dad’s throat, his scars were obvious when he wasn’t wearing a high collared suit or turtleneck. William’s simple grey shirt really showed them off, Mike could even get a peek at the scars on his collarbones.

“You’re looking at me quite intensely,” William slurred out as he ran his hand over Michael’s hip.

Mike felt the hairs on his skin stand on end, he locked eyes with his father again. He wanted to say something, or do something, anything. He wanted more, but he was terrified. He didn’t know how he came about the words, but he managed to respond.

He felt so small in his father’s arms.

“Dad,” he whispered, there was yearning in his voice. He wanted more to happen.

It must have been his tone, as Mike watched his fathers eyes light up. He smiled, letting out a low chuckle.

It scared Mike.

“You’re such a papa’s boy,” His father mumbled out, reaching with his hand to cup Michael’s face. His smile unnerved Mike. He had this unnaturally wide grin. But he pressed on, fishing for a larger reaction.

He whined, “papa…”

His crotch was soaking wet, Michael had never been so horny in his life. He waited in anticipation, studying the way his father’s face reacted to his little whines.

“Fucking Hell,” was all William could manage to choke out. 

Michael felt the hand on his hip trail closer to his groin, fingers settling between his legs. His father’s index finger prodded at Mike’s crotch through his flannel pants. Even the lightest brush of pressure against his genitals made Mike's breath hitch. He felt so disgusting, he felt wrong, vile, tainted.

Yet he pressed his body closer.  

His nose touched William’s. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his father’s breath against his lips. Before he opened them, he felt William press their lips together. They held it for what felt like forever. Michael’s head buzzed, he felt dizzy from the excitement. Tongue licked against his lips, asking for purchase. Michael complied, he hadn’t had much experience with kissing, due to being socially outcast amongst his peers. He did his best to try and pick up whatever his father was doing in his mouth. It was near impossible when all his brain could think about was the wet heat in his groin as William’s finger pressed and rubbed over his genitals through his pants. Their lips separated. Michael, panted tingling excitement crawled up his spine as the pressure against his clit grew. 

“You like that?” Will groaned out before peppering his face with little kisses. 

Michael nodded against his dad, shoving his face into his chest and wrapping his arms around the older man’s shoulders. His hips reflexively bucked against the fingers between his legs. He felt like he was going to cum soon. He never knew how amazing being touched by someone else would feel. Mike moaned softly when his father’s fingers pressed harder, separating his lips through his clothes. He wanted to ask to have his dad stick his fingers inside, but he was anxious about how it would feel. He was afraid it would hurt.

All he could do was beg, “papa, please…” 

He wasn’t really sure what he was trying to ask for anymore, just riding the high his body felt. He was pushed over, and his father crawled atop him, towering over Michael. He took his hand away from the boy's crotch, reaching for his pajama pants waistband. Mike felt warm hands sneak under the waistband and his boxers. Calloused fingers rubbed against his erect clit, making him tense from the sudden pleasure radiating up his spine. He threw his hands around Will’s neck, pulling him down into another kiss. His hips bucked faster, spreading his wetness over his father’s fingers. 

He moaned louder, completely losing all sense of what was happening. Jolts of pleasure rippled through his body as his clit throbbed and entrance flexed. He had never cum so hard in his entire life, it was dizzying, addictive. They kept kissing, he felt like his father was practically consuming him. He wanted him to. Michael was so lightheaded for a second he was sure he would pass out, the pleasure suddenly morphing into a burning pain. He pushed away, gasping for air and trying to get his father off him. 

For a moment he wasn’t budging, pushing back harder and taking back his son’s lips. Michael grunted loudly as he felt a finger dip against his entrance. It burnt. He used the last of his strength to push back once more. 

“S-stop-” Mike choked out weakly, “Dad, stop…”

His father quickly withdrew himself. Sitting up straddling Mike and staring down at him. He looked horrified. Mike stared back, wide eyed, trying to process what happened. His father drunkenly stumbled out of bed, hurrying towards the bathroom, glancing back momentarily before locking himself in it. 

Michael stared up at the ceiling, his gut felt heavy with guilt. He felt like he used his dad for his own pleasure, completely taking advantage of the fact he was drunk. He pushed himself up and hurried out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and shut himself in his room. He didn’t care about the “no closed doors policy.” He didn't have the time to care about it. 

Michael pressed up against his bedroom door once he was inside, and slid down it, curling up at the foot of it. The guilt ate at him. For those short pleasurable moments, Michael had felt loved, wanted, needed. He had so desperately craved that kind of attention, but to stoop so low as to seek it from his own father. 

He felt sick.

Yet a quiet little itch in the back of his skull wanted more.

He thought about calling mom, asking her to come get him early instead of after her day shift. He thought about talking to her about what happened, but if he did… He would probably never see his father again.

That wasn’t what Michael wanted. He knew he really wanted to be around him more, but tried to push those thoughts to the back of his mind. Right now he had to defuse the situation somehow. He stood, shaking, and made his way to his attached bathroom. He stripped, staring at himself in the mirror.

His thighs were slick with sweat and arousal. Mike’s eyes fixated on his groin, now tainted by his own flesh and blood. He held down the urge to gag, and hurriedly showered in the freezing cold water. He just needed to cleanse his skin. He leaned out of the shower to grab his toothbrush, and guzzled toothpaste four or five times before feeling like he was clean enough.

Even after he got dressed in fresh clothes for the day, he still felt dirty.

He wondered what his father was even thinking or feeling right now.

Mike stood before his bedroom door, hand hovering over the knob. He was shaking. The house sounded quiet, the silence occasionally cut through by the sound of cars passing by outside. He turned the knob, slowly, carefully. Stepping out into the hall, he met eyes with his father. He was down at the other end of the hall, hovering by the stairs. His eyes snapped on to Michael. 

Michael stood, frozen. 

His father looked disheveled, his button up was sloppily tucked into his pants. Hair tousled, eyes sunken. He looked hollow.

“Michael,” William rasped out, gripping the stair post. 

Mike didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

“Your mother’s coming to pick you up soon. Your bag is downstairs, go wait in the kitchen.”

He looked down to his feet, and stepped into the hall, “Yes, sir.”

He kept his eyes lowered as he hurried past his father and down the stairs. He grabbed his backpack by the door and sat quietly at the small kitchen table. They never ate there, it mainly served as a place to toss mail or do homework. He listened to his father moving around him, starting a kettle and frying what smelt to be bacon. Mike didn’t dare raise his head. He heard clinking in the liquor cabinet, and smelt whiskey. 

His father gasped after throwing down another drink, immediately pouring another one.

Mike felt his body tense, eyes welling up with tears. He wanted to apologize, to take back everything that had happened that morning, to make things right again. Yet all he could do was sit, silently crying to himself. Trying to make himself seem small, insignificant. Tears dripped off his cheeks and into his lap. 

He saw his father’s shoes in his peripheral vision, he must have been clearing the table off. The sound of two plates and clattering of silverware rang through Mike's ears. He didn’t dare move. 

“Eat,” He heard his father barely slur out, “your mother’ll kill me if I send you home with her hungry.”

Mike swallowed, trying to keep the tears back as he wiped his face. He looked up at the plate before him.

His food was burnt, his eyes wandered over to his father’s plate, which was also piled up with haphazardly burnt food. It looked like the man had abandoned the glass and relinquished himself to drinking straight from the bottle.

Old Elk

Cigar Cut Cask Series

109.1 Proof

Mike poked at his food for a few seconds, unable to bring himself to eat anything. He noticed his father seemed to be having the same issue. The silence lasted for what felt like forever, then the doorbell rang.

Mike perked up, doing his best to compose himself. Taking a few deep breaths he watched his father shakily stand and stumble towards the door. He listened intently from the kitchen. 

“William- Will are you… Are you drunk!?”

Mike didn’t hear his fathers response.

“Are you serious? Is that why you called me to get him, what because you’re on another bender?!”

His mothers voice raised into a shout. He heard Will snap back.

“Give me a fucking break, Clara!”

Mike squeezed his eyes shut, but couldn’t stop listening.

“No! I’m tired of you endangering my child because of your bad habits!”

“I could say the same about you!” William’s voice boomed through the house.

He heard them scuffle at the door, his mother pushing into the house by force and rushing towards Michael in the kitchen. He could vaguely hear her telling him to get up, his arm being tugged. His eyes were cast down, he felt dizzy. He heard his father storm into the room, the loud crash of dishes reverberated throughout Mike’s skull. He reflexively stood, backing away from the glass and papers scattering the tile floor.

He looked up at the scene, William had the bottle of whisky raised over his head, in front of him Clara cowered. She was gripping his wrist so tight he felt like his hand would pop off.

“Don’t you fucking disrespect me in MY home you whore!” William’s hand shook as he held the bottle by the neck, the blunt end clearly intending to smash down over Clara’s head. 

Michael felt faint, he stumbled away, managing to rip his hand away from his mother. He puked, all over the floor and himself. He couldn’t make out what was happening around him, he slumped onto the floor, feeling hot bile on his face. Hands grabbed and shook him, he heard his mother shouting his name, over and over. He couldn’t handle all the stress, he was exhausted. He screwed his eyes shut, the ringing in his ears slowly faded. 

“Clara, I didn’t-” 

“You did this! I can’t believe you! I’m calling Officer Dunn over here right now!” 

Mike managed to sit up, his head buzzed. His mother rushed to him, helping him up and pulling him to his bedroom. He sat on his bed, holding his head. His stomach ached. He blinked a few times, eyes watering. He heard his mom pick up his landline phone, she was about to tap at the keypad when Mike finally got his strength back.

“Wait, mom,” Mike stood, “Mom please don’t call Officer Dunn right now.” He was exasperated. He just wanted to get in the car and leave.

“Michael,” Clara sighed out, stressed, “Michael he needs to know about this, for us, for my case.” 

He flinched, she cared more about the ammunition she could use in court than the situation at hand. He turned away from her, walking to his bathroom to clean himself up, he slammed the door behind him. Mike dunked his face in warm water flowing from the sink tap. The drops of water splashed off his face into the mirror, his gaze met with his reflection. Dull blue eyes stared back at him, he looked worn, he felt numb. He did his best to drown out the sound of his mother on the phone. He squeezed his eyes shut, hands gripping the edge of the sink. His head hung as he sobbed. His legs gave out as he slowly slid against the sink and down to the floor. 

“Let me see my son, Clara!” Mike heard his father yelling. He must have forced his way past her since moments later, the door barreled open. Mike looked up at his father, his face was frowning, brows knit.

“Jesus, Michael,” He knelt down and scooped his son up into a hug. Mike gripped back, he was pulled up to his feet. The arms around his left, but Mike kept his face pressed against his father, arms clutching around his middle. Clara must have left to go meet Dunn at the door, since Michael didn’t hear her in the room.

He was guided back over to his bed, and pushed off his father. He sat, watching the man opening his dresser drawer and pulled out a clean shirt. He helped Mike slip it on and guided him back down to the kitchen where it had been somewhat tidied up. The glass and vomit had been swept up, and papers haphazardly tossed back onto the table. Mike saw Officer Dunn standing with his mother, talking with her. His fathers hand guided him by the back to sit. He walked over to the other adults, crossing his arms.

Each side was recounting the last tens of minutes. Michael heard his father calling Clara “Insane”, “Hysterical”, and how he reminded Officer Dunn of her “BPD”. He heard his mother, exasperated, accusing his father of lying. 

“Michael, tell him what really happened,” Clara said, pointing towards Officer Dunn.

Mike opened his mouth, hesitating, but couldn’t manage to get anything out. The next few minutes were a blur, arguing, being dragged out the door, into his mothers car and driving off from his father’s. He dragged his feet out of the car when they pulled into the trailer park. His feet knocking against the steps of the rotten porch up to the flimsy plastic door. His mother unlocked it, letting them in. It was freezing in the trailer. He ignored his mother trying to speak to him, dragging himself to his room and closing the door. He crawled under his blankets, he was beaten, exhausted. 

He felt so bad for his dad and he couldn’t pinpoint why. He felt like all of this was his fault, and that he owed his father an apology. Mike’s eyes felt heavy, it wasn’t even noon and he was already too exhausted to move. He closed his eyes, trying to keep his mind from drifting too far.

His eyes snapped open. He was in a dark room, blood pooled at his feet, smearing out into the abyss before him. 

Oh God, Mike frantically looked around. The Nightmare, it was happening… Again.

He shakily followed the trail of blood, but this time, it was different. His eyes trailed up from the floor, or what he assumed to be the floor. Before him was a small scene, it looked like he was viewing it from miles away. It was dark, raining in an alleyway. 

His cousin Charlie, she was on the ground, tucked between trash bags and bricks. The trail of blood led right up to her.

Mike’s eyes snapped open, he jolted up from bed, sweating profusely. He glanced over at his clock, he had slept most of the day away, but his mom was still at work. He shakily stood from his bed, wandering out of his small room and into the main part of the trailer. His feet dragged as he pulled himself into the messy kitchen, dishes piled in the sink. He noticed a note on the little dinette shoved into the corner of the kitchen. He sat at it, the chair creaking as he put his weight upon it. 

Mike read the note silently:

Michael, I’m working a double!!! Sorry!!! There is leftover takeout in the fridge, invite your friends over if you want!!! XOXO Mom

He stared at the note, numb. He wasn’t really hungry, especially not for day-old takeout. He looked over into the modest living room, eyes landing on the landline phone by the couch. Mom would spend hours there, gossiping away with her friends on the phone. 

He plopped himself down on the worn couch, picking up the phone, hand hovering over the keypad. He didn’t really know who he wanted to call, at least that’s what he told himself. His finger instinctively pressed down on the buttons, dialing up his home’s landline. He listened to it ring.

Rrrrrriiiinnng! Rrrrrriiiiinnng! 

Nothing yet…

Rrrrrriiiinnng! Rrrrrriii- Click!

Mike swallowed, “Dad?”

His father answered, confused, “Mike? Why are you calling me?”

He didn’t really know, maybe he was calling to talk about this morning, maybe his nightmares, maybe he just wanted company. 

“I just,” Mike stumbled over his words, he couldn’t say anything, and so he lied, “I feel- sick. I think I’m sick.”

His father was silent for what felt like forever. Finally he responded, “Go tell your mother. I can’t do anything about it. Why are you wasting my time?”

He sounded pissed, as if Michael was just some burden at the moment.

“Dad,” Mike whined out, “I can’t, please. I just feel really sick. I threw up again.” More lies. 

His father hissed through the phone, he was really  pissed, “Ok. Mike. So what do you want from me, I’m a busy man and your mother has that ‘house’ on a list of place I can’t fucking go.” 

“She’s not home right now,” Michael faked a cough, “I just feel sick, and there’s no food that-”

“No food?” Will interrupted, “not even soup?”

Mike sniffled, “No, just some lousy day old Chinese.” 

The phone line was quiet for a moment, “How’s the fridge look?” 

“Uhh,” Mike really hadn’t checked, “kinda empty.” Typically it was, so it was a safe bet for him to guess.

“I’ll be over in 30, just don’t tell your mother.”

The phone line beeped, Mike hung up the receiver and sighed into the couch. He looked out the window and at the setting sun. His gut twisted in discomfort, he didn’t know why he lied, he didn’t know why he was feeling so needy. The guilt in his gut grew.

He rushed to grab a blanket from his room, bringing it back to the couch and curling up on it. He did his best to look sick. He flicked on the TV, watching some random show while the minutes ticked by. 

He heard the doorknob jiggle, and then the door creak open. Mike lifted his head a bit, watching his father enter the trailer, his head nearly bumped the roof with how short it was inside, at least compared to a real house. 

“I’m on the couch,” Mike feigned a raspy voice. He listened to his father moving around the kitchen, it sounded like he heard the fridge open, then a camera clicking. Moments later his father appeared before him, setting down some tupperware on the cluttered coffee table. 

“Your mother sure keeps a lot of stuff.” Will commented casually, sitting by Michael's feet. He leaned forward to pop the lid off the Tupperware. It smelt like tomato soup.

Mike sat up, shifting to sit next to his dad, all while feigning a cough, “you got me soup?”

He felt the back of his fathers palm on his forehead, “at least you don’t have a fever.”

Mike instinctively leaned into the hand, savoring the warmth. He only now realized how freezing it was in the trailer. The heat was probably set on low. It seemed like his father had the same thoughts.

“No wonder you feel ill, it's freezing in here," Will commented as he grabbed a throw blanket from the recliner on the opposite wall. He pulled that, and Mike's blanket over their laps. Mike kept watching his father, who was palpating around his throat. 

“You don’t seem too swollen…” He mumbled, “Open your mouth.”

Mike obeyed, sticking his tongue out. He heard a flashlight click and felt his fathers finger prod him. The light clicked off, and Mike closed his mouth.

“You’re not really red in there either,” Will squinted at him, but didn’t say anything else. Mike anxiously watched him stir the soup, but nothing more was mentioned. His father handed him the spoon.

“You should eat.” He said plainly, staring at the TV. Though his leg bounced, he was nervous. Mike felt like shit, forcing his dad out here, breaking laws just so he could get an ounce of attention. He took a small sip of soup before dropping the spoon back into the container and abandoning it. He laid back down, watching the TV with his dad.

It was quiet for a while, just the sounds of some documentary playing, nothing too interesting going on. The sun had all but faded from view at this point in the evening. 

“Where’s your mother keeping the booze,” Will broke the silence, he didn’t break his gaze from the television set. Mike looked over at the cabinet next to the TV.

“I know you drink,” Will assured, “you’re old enough too, so spit it out.”

His tone was growing in aggression, he was probably sobering up. 

“Next to the TV,” Mike mumbled, he turned on his side, facing the couch. He was upset. Somehow this situation played out differently in his head, like something would happen. He couldn’t pin point what that something was- but he knew it wasn’t this.

Maybe his pouting worked, because instead of hearing the clinking of glass, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Mike,” His father’s tone was soft, “Be honest with me, you’re not sick. Why’d you call me out here?”

Mike stuffed his head against the couch cushion, his gut twist. He wanted more attention, all the attention he could possibly get. 

“I jus’ missed you,” He mumbled into the cushion, barely audible. 

There was a pause, it dragged on. Leaving Michael with nothing but his thoughts, he felt his stomach flip again, anxiety. The hand on his side gave him a gentle squeeze.

“I’m here,” Will whispered, almost like he didn’t believe himself.

Mike turned onto his back, looking up at his dad. He sniffled a bit, even though the gig was up. Regardless, his father gave an apologetic smile. His palm once more against Mike’s forehead.

“I supposed,” His father said, “you do feel a bit warm.” His touch was hot against Michael’s forehead, he felt that warmth wash over his body, radiating, intoxicating...

Mike smiled up at his father, he really liked this new William. It reminded him of how his father interacted with his younger siblings. Whenever Evan was sick he got to sit on the couch, having soup spooned into his mouth and his favorite tapes put on. This felt strangely similar. At least, if Michael was in Evan’s place.

“Sit up,” Will encouraged, leaning over to test if the soup was still hot, “you really must eat, especially so if you’re sick.”

Michael sat up again, but was quickly pulled into his father’s lap. One arm wrapped around his waist. Mike looked over his shoulder, his gut filled with an odd feeling of warmth. He relaxed into his father, watching as he spooned up some soup. 

This was just like when Evan was sick, exactly what his father would do. 

“I missed this,” Will whispered against Michael’s ear, his spine shivered in response. It was the good kind of shiver. “You were always so needy when you were smaller,” He recounted, “you used to be practically glued to me.”

The spoon touched his bottom lip, he opened, taking the soup down. Something about being held from behind, Mike squeezed his legs together. 

Oh God, not again… He felt his gut twisting again, guilt brewing inside of him. He couldn’t do this to his father, not again. He didn’t want to ruin what they had, their newfound closeness. He felt loved again, and was terrified to lose it.

He let his father feed him, slowly, tenderly. Despite the chilly room, his whole body felt sweltering in his father’s lap. Even after the Tupperware was emptied, spoon cast aside, his father held him. The blankets over them, keeping them warm as episode after episode played on the television. The moon was far into the sky when his father pushed him off his lap.

“I need to go,” He stated, matter of factly. 

Mike looked up at his father, watching the man gather up the container, snapping the lid shut. He looked down at Michael, smiling softly, “Have a good night, Mike.”

He stared, expectantly.

His father seemed to get the hint, he leaned down, planting a quick kiss against Mike’s forehead. His hair was ruffled by his father’s warm hand. 

“I’ll see you Thursday,” Will said, walking towards the door.

Ugh. Mike frowned, that was the court day…

He flopped back onto the couch, huffing in frustration as he listened to his father’s car pulling out of the trailer park.

Chapter Text

William gripped the steering wheel, anger boiled through his blood. His teeth grit, body tight.

That fucking tease, he pushed his foot against the gas, speeding through the deep woods and back towards the center of town. He felt angry at himself, for letting his son get to him like this, for allowing himself to slip again. He pulled into a parking lot in downtown Hurricane. Thankfully, due to their proximity to Zion, there was a pretty decent night life in the little town. 

He popped his glove box open, grabbing a bottle of Valium and popping a pill before exiting his vehicle. He wandered aimlessly down the sidewalks, glancing into bars and restaurants, mainly filled with tourists. He pushed the door to a more ‘hip’ bar open, pushing his way over to the bar and sitting down.

“Geez Will,” Said the man behind the bar, “This is the second time today I’ve seen you.”

Will glared, face hardened as he held out a couple of twenties to the man, “Shut up and get me a bottle.”

The man squinted, taking the cash and pocketing it. He looked through the shelf behind him, grabbing a bottle of jack and sliding it over to William.

“Taking a tax on that since you’re being an asshole again,” He said, watching William’s disappointed expression, “a little ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ would have gone a long way.”

Will sighed, taking a swig straight from the bottle.

And another…

Another…

Gulp after gulp, eventually he was kicked out. Stumbling, his hand trailed against the building butted up to the sidewalk. Somehow he managed to make his way back towards his car, and even more shocking, he was able to fish his keys out of his pocket. The key smashed against the handle of his Pontiac a couple of times before he finally managed to line it up and unlock the door. He flopped into the driver's seat, staring out the window taking deep breaths.

“Ok,” He breathed out, gripping the wheel tight, “Just gotta… Make it home…”

His head was spinning, but he managed to turn the ignition and get back onto the street. He drove slowly, thankfully not many people were out at this time of night. His eyes kept drifting, left, left… Snapping back to the center of the road suddenly, hands swerving in time. He squinted, it was dark, even with his headlights he could only see 25 or so feet in front of him. He felt more comfortable picking up the speed once he was out of town, in the dark pine forests leading up to his street. The pitter of rain traveled across the top of his roof. Subtle, but enough to catch his focus.

His peripheral caught the flash of something- It looked yellow in his head lights- then his car…

THUNK!!!

He swerved, slamming the brakes. He barely kept it on the road as he hydroplaned across it, whatever he hit was stuck under him and making a horrible wailing sound. He got out of his car as fast as he could, head pounding. 

The rain was crashing down.

He caught a glimpse of the scene as lightning flashed. Blood was smeared across the road, for a good forty feet or so. He flicked his flashlight on, staring under his car. There was a golden lab, little red collar and leash still connected to it. Its ribs were completely smashed in, its body practically ripped in half. It was still alive, just barely. He stared at the thing, whining, crying for someone to help. He grimaced, but relaxed. It was just some stupid dog. He got back into his car, slowly driving over the body to hopefully free it from the underside of his car. He ignored its shrill yelps as his car rolled over it.

He got out of his car again, he approached the animal and pulled out his pistol, putting it down. The shot echoed through the forest, the splash of blood against pavement covered by the sounds of the rain crashing down. He stared down at the animal, his headlights faintly lighting it's motionless corpse. It’s eyes were boring into the back of his skull. He felt cold, exposed in the forest. He blinked, the dog's eyes… He stepped towards the thing. Everything was blurred, shifting, the forest around him ever engulfing.

He felt like it was watching him.

He shook his head, trying to shake the feeling. He willed himself to move, to clean up this mess. He lifted the animal's limp body and tossed it in his trunk. He made a point to take its collar off, taking a look at the back.

If Lost Call:

The inscription of the phone number was too disfigured by the asphalt

Susie’s Boy

Too bad Susie… Will thought to himself. He looked back into the dark forest one last time, before finishing his commute home. He managed to park in the garage without running into anything else that night. He felt like he was sobering up, so he rushed into the house, haphazardly kicking his shoes off. Flicking on the living room lamps, he snagged something from his liquor cabinet. He didn’t care what he drank, he just needed to drink. He sighed heavily, slamming into his recliner seat and throwing his head back to take a long gulp of burning liquor. His throat burned but he persisted. 

The living room was quiet, save the ticking from the grandfather clock. 

Will stared into the room from his recliner. His eyes glossed over the velvet couch, the clean glass coffee table, over the TV console, and settled on the ornate brick mantle that had little knick knacks on it, mainly rabbit themed. Much of his home was rabbit themed. 

Rabbits… He thought to himself, they were a lot like him. Afraid, running, hiding. 

He was always afraid, always running, always hiding. It was exhausting.

The clock chimed on the hour. William screwed his eyes shut. He was always running out of time, always hiding from the inevitable. He took another swig from the bottle, slouching. His stomach growled, he was starving. He was starving for more than food, he was starving for something he couldn’t have- shouldn’t have.

His throat choked up thinking about Michael.

He managed to pull himself from the recliner, dragging himself up to his room and crashing onto his bed. Mike had been acting differently lately. He didn’t really mind it, at least that's what he told himself. He had an odd guilt around their interactions, he didn’t even want to entertain thinking about that morning.

Michael had made that first move, he kept telling himself. That wasn’t his fault, it was Michael’s. He sloppily sat up, struggling to slide his night stand drawer open. He snatched a hunting knife from it, roughly rolling up his work shirt sleeve, slamming his arm palm up on the nightstand. He hissed, slicing into his flesh, adding to his myriad of other scars littering his entire body. 

If he pressed harder… If he just kept pushing…

He flinched, dropping the knife. It clattered against his nightstand and onto the carpeted floor, staining the spot with blood, again. He stared at the blood dripping from his open wound, down to his elbow. It gathered at the precipice, dripping every few moments.

He felt the skin around the open flesh burning. He blinked slowly, dragging himself to his feet and to his bathroom. Blood smeared across the white marble countertop as he sluggishly held himself up. His head wouldn’t stop spinning…

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

A shallow figure of the man he used to be. Yet, despite everything.

It was still him.

His vision blurred, he felt bile rising up in his throat. Heat poured from his mouth, spilling down his front. He reeked of iron and alcohol. He must have hit his head pretty hard on the way down to the tiled bathroom floor, it rang incessantly in his ears as his eyes tried to focus on the world, now sideways. He thought about his son. Michael, resilient, still holding himself together.

He had to be stronger than this. He had to be, for Michael.

His mother didn’t deserve the boy, he needed Michael. Without him, William blinked in exhaustion, without Michael… He was nothing.

He had nothing but his little boy, his little Michael. Will squeezed his eyes shut, for once, he prayed he would wake up.