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When you were a little "girl," as most people would say, you didn't have many friends. Most kids your age thought you were weird.
The only exception to this most was a boy your age, Michael Afton. You met him at Freddy's, where his dad worked.
He didn't go to your school; he was homeschooled, he said. Not that it mattered to either of you. You were happy just hanging out at the restaurant.
You could clearly remember sneaking around the back, even though you weren't supposed to. But you were ten and stupid, and Michael said it was okay. You trusted Michael more than anyone. Plus, his dad ran the place, so if Michael said it was okay, then it had to be.
You could clearly remember the day Charlie Emily died, falling onto the Marionette stage with stab wounds on her back. You could feel Michael squeezing your hand as you tried to pull away, him pulling your head onto his shoulder.
After the death of Charlie Emily, your family moved away. They were scared that something would happen to you, you realize now, but then? Then, you were just angry Michael was taken away from you.
It was fifteen years later when you saw Michael Afton again. You were older, different. At seventeen you had started testosterone, and legally changed your name by twenty. By twenty five, you were unrecognizable compared the the little girl Michael knew you as.
That's why he didn't recognize you, you suppose.
You didn't expect to see a Michael when you took the security job.
You had been told there was another guard who would be there to teach you the ropes.
You recognized him immediately. Years ago, you had looked up his name, his yearbook photos. He looked the same as he did in highschool, other than looking like he hadn't shaved in a few days.
But the blue eyes and smile were the same.
Michael didn't recognize you. Figures, you thought. But that was fine. You didn't need him to. You were just glad to be near him again.
By a few days into the job, you had gotten pretty friendly with Michael again. You talked, laughed.
At one point, you even shared a childhood story. One from the restaurant days, when Michael's mom drove you home in her Honda Accord, with Billy Joel playing from the stereo.
How he held your hand in his, and Vanessa made fun of him from the front seat. How he moved from the left side of the car to the middle to lean his head on your shoulder.
You were so caught up in the story, you didn't realize Michael was trying to talk to you until he shook you by the shoulders, pulling you out of your trance.
"Why didn't you say anything before?" he says quietly, hands still gripping your shoulders.
You shrug. Of course, you did have a reason, but... Well, it didn't matter all that much now.
The day after that, you explained the whole story to him over dinner. Your transition, your new name. He took it a lot better than most people would've. Didn't say anything cruel, or say he never wanted to see you again. Michael told you about his father, not that you didn't already know.
People were the worst. That's what you were thinking as you slammed your car door shut, walking to the entrance of Freddy's where you and Michael always met.
You had already taken a few Tylenol, but the pain the pounded through your skull as you came to stand beside him.
Immediately, his hands were on you, reaching up towards the cut on your lip. "Jesus. What happened?"
"Assholes. Someone from middle school who recognized my last name. Found out I was trans and all. It's fine, Michael."
He didn't seem to think that was enough, apparently. He immediately pulled you over to his car, sitting you in the passenger seat as his pulled a first aid kit out of the glove compartment.
You barely processed the pain as he bandaged you up. Your thoughts were on his hands, the gentleness as he brushed back your hair to put ointment on the cut on your temple.
It was like you were kids again, bandaging each other up after you scraped your knees on the concrete.
At the same time, though, it was nothing like when you were kids. When you were kids, you never wouldn't leant forward, letting your lips brush his.
When you were kids, he never would've grabbed your shirt to pull you closer when you leant back.
When you were kids, he never would've kissed you like he was waiting for you his whole life.