Chapter Text
Michael Afton stood frozen.
He was shaking, eyes widened, breaths shallow. His foxy mask was splattered with blood, his eyes never leaving the sight that was FredBear, or more accurately, the sight that was his brother, Evan, bloodied and mangled.
He had done this; he had done it again.
Shit, shit, no no no this wasn't meant to happen, no he wasnt meant to die, it was all his fault, he had caused this, he was a fucking murderer, again. The shadows around him darkened, looming over him, threatening to swallow him whole; the background sounds of Henry's daughter crying, people screaming, and his dad's footsteps faded into meaningless white noise. He dropped to his knees.
“You monster!” Charlie screamed from somewhere in the room
“You killed him! Why?!” she sounded desperate, wounded.
I killed him. I ruined our family. I ruined everything.
“MICHAEL!” Father shouted at him from…behind him? In front? He couldn't tell anymore; he could barely tell his Father's voice from the one in his head.
You're worthless, stupid, and insignificant.
It should've been me. I should be dead right now, not him. God, please, if you're real, He did nothing wrong!
“M-mike?” a voice came from his side. He recognized it, but not enough to remember who it came from.
“Mike, why?”
“MICHAEL YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF CRAP”
“Mike?”
“Ugh, MIKE, what have you done to our rep?”
“Mike, are we going to jail?”
“Mike?”
“Mike!”
“MIKE!!”
MIKE!
MIKE! Look what you've done! You don't deserve a family! Fathers are going to beat you up, and you deserve EVERYTHING! THIS IS YOUR FAULT
Mike couldn’t think straight; everything was too bright, every sound was too loud.
MIKE
MIKE
MIKE!!!!!
MIKE, WHY WONT YOU LISTEN TO ME?
He couldn't even tell the voices apart from his thoughts anymore
His Father was right.
He was worthless.
He thought that he could escape, that all those horrible things Father had called him were lies, but here he was, with blood on his hands, shaking on the floor. He was poisonous. He deserved to die. He hated his name; he never wanted to hear it again, wanted to forget. People were still calling him, his friends, and his Father, every "MIKE" made him want to throw up, to never speak again. The sound pierced through his ears, getting louder and louder.
“..im…sorry..” he whispered.
But the yelling didn't stop; it just got louder.
And louder.
AND LOUDER
AND LOUDE-
Michael Afton shot up, backing himself against the bedboard, eyes wide and frantic as they flicked around the room. Shadows towered over him from his bed like a million dark souls, looking at him, challenging him. He tried to slow his fast, hard breathing, cool sweat dripping down his forehead, as memories came back so quickly he thought they might crush him completely.
Evan’s scream as he got crushed.
Father beating him, over and over.
Blood pouring down his face, having to lie to Evan and Liz about why.
Charlie’s crying
Evan’s death
Liz’s horror
Look at what you caused. This is your fault.
EVERYTHING YOUR FAULT
ALWAYS YOUR FAULT
“UGH SHUT UP!” Michael yelled to the voices in his head.
He dug his painted black nails into his thigh, driving himself out of the insane spiral he knew was coming. The pain tasted bittersweet and addictive.
He wanted more.
Shaking himself, he tried to contain his thoughts. It was alright. It was just a nightmare.
Another nightmare.
He’d had that dream way too many times to count, over and over and over again since… the incident, as if the universe itself was making him pay.
Good.
He deserved it. He deserved every bit of suffering the universe threw at him.
His deep blue eyes glanced at his alarm clock, hoping, praying, that it wasn’t 7:30.
7:28.
Alright, so he had… two minutes of peace before he had to wake up. Two minutes of peace before the hell more commonly known as school. It had been six weeks since Michael had set foot in that fucked-up place, and he’d been dreading going back for the whole holidays. It was six hours a day, five days a week, sitting still in a classroom, watching an adult pace back and forth, yapping about who-knows-what, while he desperately tried not to fall asleep. Maybe it was ADHD, maybe it was Michael being Michael, but sit still in a chair for essentially 6 FUCKING HOURS?
At least last year, he’d had friends.
He remembered skipping classes, hiding behind the old shed, getting high, smoking. Laughing, crying, smiling with his friends.
It’s been so long since Michael had smiled.
He had a dreadful, horrifying, lingering feeling that they would not be his friends for much longer -- not after what had happened. He wanted to believe in them, believe that they would still accept him. He hoped nothing would change. But how could he expect them to stay after what had happened?
What he had done.
Heh. Friends.
Sometimes he wondered what had caused such amazing people to idolize him as the leader of the group. Maybe it was because he was the son of William, who co-owned the coolest restaurant on the block. Maybe because -- for some reason -- they actually considered him to be… cool? It was a mystery.
He had met his best friend when he first moved to the school. It had only been two weeks since they’d moved to Hurricane, and he’d been a quiet kid at first. Too scared that if he smoked or skipped classes, Father would find out.
…He…he didn’t want to think about what would happen if Father found out.
So he went to classes and pretended to listen, drew random-ass sketches in his notebook at lunch, and -- most importantly -- didn’t interact with anyone. Terrified that if he got too close to someone, Father might find out, Mike stayed solo. The idea of William finding out about anything Michael loved was enough to make him hyperventilate.
When Mike had first expressed his love for art, Father had gotten him his first notebook. At the time, Mike had been shocked, excited, and amazed all at the same time. He carried that thing around 24/7, drawing in any free time he could. He thought that Father was finally coming to love him.
Oh, how wrong he had been.
The second Mike so much as spoke loudly at the table? Notebook gone. Mike arrived 1 minute after the curfew? Notebook gone. Mike came home in a bad mood 'cause of school? Notebook gone. The thing became a leverage device rather than a present.
So he kept to himself, kept quiet, and remained the “lonely weird new kid who drew and made masks like a girl.”
That was, until he met Theodore Able.
It had been a rough day. Mike had stormed out of his house, haunted eerily by the yells of his father, the whimpers of Elizabeth, and the sobs of Evan. They hated him, surely. He was the one who started most fights with Father. He should’ve been a submissive and agreeable kid like his perfect siblings, but nooo, he had to be the rebellious, angsty teen.
He remembered Elizabeth crouching on the floor, blocking her ears, begging for the fighting to stop. Evan, with his head down, playing with his stuffed toys, pretending he couldn’t hear anything, while he and Father yelled at each other from the kitchen.
Helluva big brother he was, causing the very thing he knew both of his siblings hated.
Fighting, Yelling, Screaming, Swearing. They’d looked at Michael with terrified eyes, like a deer under the headlights.
He’d barged out of the house, power-walking to school, his head down in… shame? Rage? Who knows. He remembered whipping out his timetable, hoping for an easy class -- Engineering, please, not anything too hard. He didn’t think he could handle it, his shaking hands and forearms still sore from Father’s recent punishment.
Please, Gods of School, Engineering, please!
Mike looked down at the timetable, eyes scanning for first class….There! What was it?
Oh.
It was Math.
Of course, it had to be Math.
“GODDAMMIT,” he cursed the Gods of School.
He groaned. Fucking Math class with Fucking Miss Witte, who hated his guts for no apparent reason. He didn’t have the energy or concentration power for math most days, let alone today, when he was running off two hours of sleep, not enough caffeine, and an argument with Father.
You know what? Fuck this.
He wasn’t going to sit through some boring-ass class while his teacher picked on him just because she could.
So for the first time since moving to Hurricane, Mike skipped class, waiting behind some dingy shed instead. He rested his feet on the metal, sitting in the small space between the shed and the back fence. A wooden crate for sitting on was already set up by some unknown guy, and a box of cigs sat underneath it.
With a grunt, Mike lit the cigarette with the lighter in his pocket -- careful not to burn his already sore hand -- and held it to his mouth, breathing in deep, slow puffs of smoke as he gazed at the clouds.
Then it hit him.
If he weren't in class, he would miss roll-call. If he missed roll-call, the school would contact Father. Mike shook against his own will, eyes darting around. Should he go back to class? Hope that they haven't done roll calls yet? No, it was too risky. He didn't want to be yelled at by the teacher for being late, either. Whatever, he’d just have to brave Father's wrath when he got home. Couldn't be that bad, right?
Mike’s thoughts wandered until a sudden movement dragged him back to earth -- a guy, roughly his age, had propped his feet up beside him. How had he not noticed someone sneaking around the shed? He grimaced. He had to stay sharper than this.
“Hey,” the boy grunted, his long black dreads covering his dark, freckled skin, brown-amber eyes sparkling with mischief. Mike looked over to see that the guy was sitting next to him on the crate. He wore a black baggy tee and long grey shorts, ending past his knees. His white headband kept back his dark dreadlocks, and he had a sly grin on his face, as though he knew something Mike didn’t.
“Hey, man,” Mike replied, trying to stay nonchalant. “Wanna cig?”
“Nah, I’m tryna quit.”
“Suit yourself, dork.”
The other guy went silent for a bit.
Good.
Mike had had a rough day and did not have time for small talk with some random-ass guy he’d never seen before.
Then the guy spoke again. Yay.
“Ya come out here often? ’S a pretty nice spot.”
Mike furrowed his brows. What was this guy’s problem? Didn’t he know not to speak with the weird new kid who made masks outta felt and spent all day drawing?
“Nuh,” he replied, hoping the guy would get the hint that he wasn’t up for a chat.
He didn’t. Go-fuckin’-figure.
“Hey, uh, just wanted to say uh, your drawings look pretty badass. Saw ’em while I was walking past the other day.”
Mike froze.
His drawings… were good? The words didn’t quite make sense to him. No one had ever complimented his art before. Father only saw wasted paper, and Mother had barely been around, even when she’d still lived with them. He never let Liz or Evan into his room, and they probably didn't even know he drew.
Shit, was he supposed to respond? How do you even respond to a compliment? The kid was looking at him, waiting for an answer. How to respond cool-ly, shit, think, brain, think!
“Uh… th-thanks? I’ve done better, though. It’s really nothin’.”
Worst response ever. Good going, Mike. Now he thinks you can't speak properly.
The other boy grinned, amber eyes sparkling in the morning sun.
“Don't worry about it! I’m Theo, by the way. You?”
“Micha -- Mike. Call me Mike.”
Theo sighed, eyes trailing up the shed, that stupid, sly grin still on his face. “Dunno why everyone avoids you. Ya seem pretty sick to me.”
Rolling his eyes as he took a drag of his cig, Mike ruffled his messy brown mullet. “Eh. ’S prolly ’cause I… make masks and do art, y’know? Kinda girly shit. People are quick to judge. I don’t mind it, though, it's kinda nice being alone sometimes.”
“So… you don’t want friends?” Theo questioned, raising an eyebrow.
“I mean, I guess? It kinda depends on the person. Most people here wouldn’t wanna be my friend anyway.” He adjusted the bandages around his hands, covering up the scars. Theo seemed like the kind of guy who would ask about them, and while he was nice, Mike wasn’t gonna just… trauma-dump his life. Not yet, anyway.
“I’ll be your friend,” Theo quipped with a small smile. “I mean, if ya want. Not pressuring you to do anythin’, of course.”
Friends with Theo?
Mike’s instinct was to laugh and say no, but… it had been a while since anyone had made him this happy just by being kind.
It had been a while since anyone had been this kind to him.
“Yeah… yeah. Okay. Friends, it is, Theo.”
Theo smiled, a sweet, rosy smile that reached his caring eyes. “Cool. I’m kinda new here, so it's nice to make new friends, especially if they're people like you.”
Goddamn, he was good. No one had cared this much about Mike before, and he didn't know how to react. So with a goofy ahh smile, he just replied “Uh-thanks!”
And the rest, as they say, was history.
Mike started hanging with Theo at lunch, and little by little, person by person, their group came together.
Noa arrived first -- one of Theo’s old friends from first grade. He had shiny blond hair, pale skin dusted with light brown freckles, and a practiced smile. He was one of those kids born to be popular, a master at blending in and socializing with the cool kids. He loved photography and brought a Polaroid camera to school every day.
Noa’s girlfriend, Felicity -- or Flick, as she insisted on being called -- joined shortly after. She was a constant ball of energy, always fidgeting with her dark brown hair when she got bored, messing up the neat pigtails her mother tied. She wore grunge-style clothes and carried her skates everywhere, even when she wasn’t supposed to.
Michael wondered if any of them would wanna be friends with him after what had happened.
You think they’d wanna hang around a loser like you? You don't deserve them; you should be alone forever.
Like anyone with half a brain would tolerate being near you in the first place, they were probably faking the whole time.
Why?
Because you were born like this. Born from hate, raised with poison. You were never good, even before you murdered Evan.
Do you really think that it was an accident? Deep down, you knew what you were doing, didn't you? But you're scared, scared to admit it. Especially to your Father.
You don't need to be scared.
You can’t change. Stop trying. You know your fate was sealed when you were born an Afton.
Give up.
Give in.
Opening his eyes, he realised his hands had raised in front of his face, as if he were defending a blow. With a sigh, he flopped back on his bed, the guilt on his chest like a thick, heavy gas, intoxicating him with every breath.
He was so sick of it, all the flashbacks and hallucinations, following him like an ominous shadow. Focusing on anything became more and more difficult, every illusion reminding him of how he failed.
Failed as a brother, killing the best little boy in the family because of his own selfish humour.
Failed as a son, ruining the restaurant's reputation forever.
He could still hear the heart-rate monitor in his ear, BEEP-ing endlessly as he sat beside Evans bed, hoping that he’d wake up.
BEEP
BEEP
BEEP--
--[BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP]--
Michael flinched violently, breath hitching as his hand lashed out on instinct. The sound cut off.
Silence.
His heart was pounding. His room swam back into focus.
…Oh. Oh right.
His alarm.
“Fuckin’ god-” Michael groaned as he slammed a fist against the clock, dragging his feet through the mess on his floor. Picking up a grey tank top and a pair of baggy jeans from some weeks ago, he hastily got himself ready for the day. He planned to stay in his room until the very last moment, when he could run out of the house and avoid dealing with Father or Liz.
Exhausted from yet another night of hallucinations and nightmares, he moved to the mirror, finding his two piercing blue eyes glaring back at him. His scruffy brown mullet was messy and unkempt, his frown permanent, and his tan skin looked paler than it had last time. His build had considerably thinned since the incident, and he began looking more and more unhealthy. He was covered in bandages and freckles, the ghost of who he used to be almost completely swallowed by his grief. His eyes were tired, sitting above huge eye bags, a single bead of sweat still visible from the nightmare.
Damn.
He needed some caffeine.
He changed a few of his piercings so he was only wearing four instead of the usual six (three in each ear) and made sure his black nail polish wasn’t chipped. There was a fine line between badass and girly, and you bet Michael was riding it.
His gaze dropped from his reflection to his art desk, involuntarily flinching as he quickly flicked it away with a scowl. It had been a long time since he’d used that hunk of junk, and looking at it only brought back bad memories. As much as it burned, he’d stayed away from art since the accident, his Foxy mask buried among blankets and thrown clothes in a fit of rage, sorrow, and guilt. He didn’t ever want to look at that wretched thing again.
Maybe he should wear it, just to feel bad. He fucking deserved it.
The briefly considered idea was quickly dismissed. He was too weak to bear that pain right now.
He was a fuckin’ pussy.
His eyes squinted in rage.
He was a coward.
His fists clenched by his side.
Scaredy cat.
His breathing escalated, anger turning into panic.
Crying child.
He began to sweat.
Murderer.
He-
He whipped out, punching the mirror with his bare hand, barely feeling the pain in his wrist from the shattered glass piercing his skin.
And for once in a long time, the thoughts shut up, leaving Michael with a few seconds of peace before he remembered what he was doing.
He should be getting to school.