Chapter Text
“...all of it synced to pre-recorded songs on magnetic tape! I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’, and don't call me crazy, now, but I’ve got my mind set on using AC servo motors for motion if I can swing it. You know, the kind they use for aircraft models? They'd be louder than pneumatic cylinders, sure, more expensive, too, but I don't want him bolted down like some old piece of furniture! I, uh, I actually have a design I've been messin’ around with. Just for the shoulders. It's not quite there yet, but I reckon if I doubled up on the rod supports, maybe braced the elbow with a rotating cam, I could get him to do a real smooth wave… not sure how well it'd translate, what with the scale he'd have to be if I actually got down to building him, but isn't that exciting?!”
“Mm-hm.”
“...Though there's always weight to consider. Maybe if I used a lighter metal…? Then again, General's got that AC synchronous inductor model from a few years back now, 60-Hz, 115-Vac signal? Could be pretty damn precise even with that kinda load. ‘Course that's if I had enough spare kidneys to foot the bill…”
(Henry let out a sigh, quiet and hopeless like some lovesick schoolgirl.)
“And I s’pose there'd also be the matter of the brush wearin’ out… urgh. I just really want him to look convincing from all angles, y'know? I do want him to be seen from all angles. I mean, if I put in all that work, I might as well show it off, right? Plus I bet the kids’d love it, too! They ain't stupid, I know they could tell if something was off. Anyway, for the stage, I'm thinkin’ a circular sort of setup, right down the middle, like a circus podium or something. No, not a circus, Fredbear’s no circus bear. But you get the idea, right?”
Henry whipped his head around, emphasizing that a question had been asked.
Beneath all the tension and the gnawing and the itch, some part of William desperately wanted to ask what was wrong with the circus theme. Why wouldn't a clown bear be better than a regular bear? Clowns were great. Everyone loved clowns. It'd be a guaranteed success.
“...It's nice,” he managed to force out, instead.
His efforts were met with a toothy grin. “Nice and then some!”
Henry, it seemed, was either unaware or unfazed by the malady that'd struck him tonight. William wasn't sure which option was worse.
“I mean, just imagine how alive it’d make him feel! Heck, with some fiddling, I bet I could set some loudspeakers up, have him interact with guests directly. ‘Course there'd still need to be a puppeteer backstage, but goodness, Will, he could tell jokes! Real-time jokes!”
William shook his head.
Mostly for himself, since Henry's attention was off him again, focused instead on whatever new napkin-turned-blueprint he'd haphazardly begun scribbling down.
(William was struck by the sudden thought that perhaps it had never been on him in the first place, and then there was that feeling again, that nagging, ugly pressure that dug its way into the crevices between his ribs, thick and viscous and—)
“I meant this whole… plan… thing.”
He swallowed hard. Readjusted the way he was sitting, for lack of a better thing to do, maneuvering artfully around the loose spring at the back of the couch.
“You've... really got it all figured out.”
(Unlike me, he didn't say. I’d give an arm and a leg for a fraction of the passion and skill you have for that stupid fucking bear, or else perhaps take your arm and leg if I have to keep being confronted by it, he didn't say.)
“It’s, er, really ace. That you do,” he did say.
Henry waved him off, sheepish and mock-humble because of course he was. (What was that even supposed to mean, “of course he was?” Stupid thought. Stupid.)
“Don’t gas me up too much, it's nothin’ but an idea! I mean, I’d love to make it happen someday, ‘course I would, but it's not…”
He trailed off, and although the smile never left his face, something in his eyes shifted, a dimmer-switch on the wild spark that resided within them.
“I mean, what with this economy… Chances are I'll just get on fixin’ cars ‘til I’m old and—”
“No,” William heard more than felt himself say; a single, sharp syllable that slipped past his lips sudden and matter-of-fact and far too easy, considering the rest of his body had little say on the matter,
“no, you won't. You can't. That lot’s for” — he felt his nose crinkle into a sneer — “Dale Foster and the rest of those twats from class. They can rot under rusty oil pans ‘til they choke for all I care. Serves them right. But you...”
His jaw tightened with… something. Spite, perhaps, or reverence, or spite at said reverence. Or maybe something else entirely. It was hard to keep track of these things.
“...you're not — you're not like that, Henry. You’ve got dreams, and ambitions, and— for fuck’s sake, a brain between your ears, you're — oh, who are we kidding, you’re brilliant, Henry, and — and — Christ, if—”
(He laughed, maybe, though it neither lasted long nor sounded right enough to be sure.)
“—if you can't… — he faltered — It's just not…”
He cleared his throat. “I--I mean, if you want this bear thing like you clearly do, you'll make it happen. You will. You have to.”
Whatever rogue surge of adrenaline had carried him thus far seemed to be fizzling out, and his fists, which had been clenched tight at his sides (when did that happen?) unfurled to rub at his eyes.
The pressure was grounding, something he could control. The pressure was a much-needed break from it all, formless and nonjudgmental, and then he opened his eyes back up and realized, with a polite amount of nausea, that Henry was staring at him.
Had stared at him through the whole ordeal, probably; had probably had a number of thoughts about the way he spoke and the way he twitched and the way his hands were sweating.
William Afton, he had to consciously remind himself at the consequent surge of panic, had made things worse enough times in his life to know when to shut up and lay low.
And so he did.
(Silence.)
Without Henry's rambling, the room was far too still; unnaturally so. The record player trudged on behind them, blissfully unaware how dissonant Creedence Clearwater Revival had become, and Henry might've been twiddling with a pen, though it was hard to tell from the periphery of the spot in the middle distance William had chosen to stare into.
Minutes or perhaps days or years passed (bother me tomorrow today I'll buy no sorrows) before Henry finally opened his mouth.
“You think so?”
The words, cautious and inscrutable, rang foreign from lips that were better suited to rambling about solenoids, and a new wave of queasiness replaced any lingering shred of hope William might've had for the moment passing as easy as it had come.
“Yeah.”
(Pedaling back was a sign of weakness. Weak animals were the first to be picked off. Roadkill. Target practice. He balled up his fists again, keeping his focus on the dull ache of his nails digging into his palm.)
Henry seemed to contemplate this. Or something. His eyes were half-lidded and he was silent for a beat and frankly, William was not in a state to think too hard about it.
“...You know,” he finally spoke, low and guarded, “I could use some help making it happen.”
(He was still staring. He hadn’t stopped staring. Why was he still—)
“Might stand a better chance that way. Y'know, if I'm meant to do it and all.”
There was a punchline coming, William though, which was a relief, really. There was a punchline coming, and then he could spit in Henry's eye and call his mother a whore, and he might get his ass kicked and he might need to get a new room but at least it'd end this whole agonizing ordeal. He'd had enough of Henry Emily and his awful bear anyway.
Minutes or hours or days passed yet again (put a candle in the window), and yet the punchline refused to come. Henry just sat there, expectant. Still staring, which was really starting to make the back of William's neck itch, and if he had been fiddling with the pen earlier, he must've set it aside at some point.
Was he stupid? Was he actually stupid?
“What,” William managed, the very picture of eloquence, and Henry's lips twitched ever-so-slightly upwards and William was ready to go so ready to go come on come on come on—
“...I mean, if you want to.”
It just didn't make any sense.
The thing was, in spite of anything his outburst may have suggested, William was not about to play humble; he was leagues above the rest of their class, that was just a fact. If Dale Foster could crane his neck far enough out his own ass to seek his guidance, he'd... well, he'd tell him to stick it right back in there, of course, but he wouldn't be surprised.
This was different, though; this was Henry's personal pet project, and it wasn't as though Henry of all people had any reason to ask for his help.
(He was Henry, for God's sake.)
Besides, William didn't know the first thing about… whatever Walt Disneyland fumes he seemed to be huffing. Or restaurants, for that matter, or architecture, or theming, and certainly not children’s entertainment.
He cleared his throat.
“Quit being ridiculous, why would you…” — it was really quite hard to form sentences like this, while he was still staring — “...why me?”
It perhaps bears mentioning that at some point during the past hour or so, Henry's hand, the one that definitely hadn't been messing with the pen, had settled on William's knee.
William hadn't paid it any mind, of course. Hell, there was barely anything to not pay any mind to; it was a small couch, they were both fidgety. That sort of thing just… happened, sometimes. It was just the way things were.
He was paying it plenty of mind now, though; was keenly aware of the way Henry's hand slid up further to rest atop his thigh, of the way it pressed the corduroy of his trousers down against the pliant flesh there as Henry leaned in. Aware of the way it became a steady point of support as Henry shifted his weight forward.
Aware of the way its hold loosened as his lips slotted against William's own.
It barely even qualified as a kiss, really.
There was nothing ceremonious about it; the motion had been gradual but nonchalant, slow enough that it could’ve been easily avoidable, had anyone cared to avoid it. And then there was the smallest suggestion of contact, soft and warm and at first William thought he might throw up but then he just exhaled, instead, felt the heat of his breath trapped between their faces, and then Henry was already pulling away, shrugging with an easy smile like it was normal, like any of this was normal.
“I just like you,” he said.
Four simple words that were anything but.
William would have argued as such, too; would have been more than eager to point this out for the insufficient bullshit explanation it was, except at the moment he couldn't exactly remember how to speak. Or think. Or breathe.
The strangest part, he thought, was how natural it felt.
William did kiss a girl once. Or, perhaps more accurately, he'd been kissed by one; some redhead named Judy who’d spent a considerable portion of 9th grade leaving soppy notes on the underside of his desk. She'd asked him to meet her after homeroom one day, in berry-scented Mr Sketch markers, and though the details were blurry now, he had a vivid memory of just how pointless that kiss had seemed to him. She was annoyingly close, and smearing germs all over his face, and this was somehow something he was supposed to be doing for fun?
She’d giggled afterwards, stared at him with her big doe-y eyes like something Important had just happened; like they were now both in on some secret, and she was just waiting for him to acknowledge it.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, mumbled something about needing to get to biology, and that was that.
He’d conceded, then, with some amount of relief, that he was simply above this kind of thing. Romance, he reasoned, was a consolation prize for idiots who were afraid to admit they had nothing better to do with their lives, and, as was often the case with things that made him feel better than society at large, he'd liked that idea.
But then here he was now. Staring with his doe-y eyes, far too old to be having piffy crushes, and yet he felt sick; it was as if a feverish carousel of sensations had taken over his nervous system, tugging his stomach in circles as it replayed the affair, over and over and over again, like the continuous loop of a movie reel.
The slight pressure of Henry's weight.
The warmth of his skin.
The rough bristle of his mustache.
The slight pressure of Henry's weight.
The warmth of his skin.
The rough bristle of his mustache.
The slight pressure of Henry's weight.
The warmth of his skin.
The rough bristle of his mustache.
Somewhere between the seventh and twelfth round of this, at approximately the same time, his mouth started remembering both social convention and the general concept of syllables.
“You’re a man,” he blurted out, then, unthinking, and apparently that was not the right thing to say in this situation because Henry's insufferable grin fell, and he pulled back slightly, and William was struck by a distinct need to jab a thousand million needles straight into his eyeballs.
He didn't know what he meant by it, exactly. He just felt like it needed saying. Or asking? In his mind, it was really more of a question than an exclamation.
Wow, a potential transcript of his intended message might've said, isn't it odd that despite you being a man, this is somehow normal and good? What's the deal with that? Is that, like, a thing?
He’d fucked it up, though, of course he had, and now Henry was uncharacteristically tense, stammering apologies and I just thoughts and and can you just forget thises and William needed him to stop, partly because nothing short of a nice, thorough lobotomy could’ve made him forget this, but also partly because every new apology made the bile rise further up his throat in a rather uncomfortable way.
His hands shot out, finding firm, businesslike purchase on Henry's shoulders, then with all the grace and expertise of a man who'd done this once before, passively, and didn't particularly enjoy or pay close attention to it, he lurched forward, slamming his face directly against Henry's.
To his credit, their lips did meet. Technically.
William's nose absorbed most of the blow, though it still wasn't enough to stop the painful clacking of teeth that followed suit. His grip on Henry's shoulders remained steadfast and rigid, anchoring him in an unspoken desperation not to part, and Henry, for a fraction of a second, seemed more apprehensive than anything, like he was trying to figure out if this was an assault gone wrong or a kiss gone worse, but then his hands were back on William, cupping his face gently to guide it into something that more closely resembled human intimacy, and William's wounded pride lost all importance in the grand scheme of things being Right Again.
He exhaled with the raw relief of a drowning man breaching the surface; only it was one who'd just found out breathing was an option.
One who'd spent the past two decades of his life underwater, never knowing he had lungs to begin with.
“Gee, Will,” Henry huffed against his lips, soft and breathless, “you scared the crap out of me.”
Another kiss. Another flip of his stomach.
(It's William, he didn't correct.)
Henry rolled his eyes. “Y’know, for a second there, I thought I was about to lose my scholarship over abnormal and deviant behavior of all things."
William just blinked, mouth half-parted like those fish they have at the supermarket, the big ugly ones that you can still see moving their mouth after they gut them and lay them out on a bed of ice.
After a beat, he slid a hand off Henry's shoulder, moving it inch by hesitant inch until it covered Henry's own, and Henry turned it over, his fingers slotting neatly between William's.
(Like they belonged there.)
“Hey,” he said, cautious, before lifting said hand, gently, like it was some precious, dainty thing, all the way to his lips.
A quick squeeze.
“You okay?”
William wanted to say yes. William wanted to say no. Above everything, he just really wanted to kiss Henry again.
“I want my own bear”, he managed instead, through some mysterious machination of his mind.
Henry beamed at that. (The effects were devastating.)
“...Alright, c'mon,” he conceded, rising from the couch and helping William up with him, “I don’t think we're gettin’ any further with all this tonight.”
~
Henry was half-asleep by the time William spoke up again.
“Is it?” he asked, small and unsure. Wary that he'd ruin it again, somehow. (He seemed to be good at that.)
A drowsy hum. “...is it what?”
“Abnormal and deviant.”
Henry laughed in earnest, then, a hearty guffaw that reverberated through the mattress. He pulled William closer to his chest.
“You're so weird”, he conceded, voice dripping with astonished, groggy affection.
William let himself be pulled in, face buried awkwardly just below Henry's collarbone; he listened to the steady beat of his heart. The rise and fall of his chest.
(The silence stretched long enough that it began to slow down again.)
“...You didn't respond.”
William’s voice was barely audible, now, muffled against the fabric of his shirt.
“Didn't I?”
“Not really.”
Henry shifted slightly, just enough to face him.
“...You want me to say it’s not?”
A pause. “I don’t know.”
Henry seemed to consider this.
Another beat passed, long and silent. Outside, the record player spun on aimlessly, having exhausted everything John Fogerty had to say.
“...It’s not, y'know.”
William contemplated this. Contemplated the warmth against his body, the heartbeat in his ears.
Let his eyes fall shut.
Exhaled, slow and deliberate.
“…Okay.”
Henry hummed in half-conscious acknowledgment.
“Go to sleep, Will.”
(It’s William, he didn’t correct.)