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Michael stares at the floor, holding an unlighted matchstick.
The blood stained, dirty, gasoline filled floor.
He's doing it. He's really doing it.
He's going to end this suffering, going to let his father go. Let himself be free of the man he once called 'Dad'.
He should be happy, cheer, clap, but he can't. Because he /doesn't/ feel happy. He doesn't /feel/ anything right now. All there is behind his eyes is a cold, empty space.
The lights are flickering, the air is damp, and an overwhelming sense of guilt swallows him whole. He feels like he's falling into a dark, endless pit.
He failed his father.
He couldn't continue the Afton legacy.
All of his fathers work is coming to end, and because of him. It's pathetic, really. Taking the easy way out and burning the place to a crisp. The cowards way.
Maybe...maybe he shouldn't do it, then.
He still has a chance. A second chance with the Afton name.
He can't bring himself to do either right now.
The walls feel like they're closing in, and he's going to-
"Are you gonna light it or what?" Asked Mike.
Right, Mike.
He can't stop now.
He can't dissapoint Mike.
"I..." Croaked Michael, his hands trembling ever so slightly. The words are stuck in his throat, lodged right in there.
"What? You dunno how to light a match?" Questioned Mike, not in a mocking way, in a genuinely confused way, "It's fine, I'll do it for you. Here, gimme the box."
He extends his hand expectantly. Was Michael supposted to just...hand it over? Hand over the honour of letting Michael be free?!
"...fine." Reluctantly, he hands over the box of matchsticks. What other option does he have?
Mike tilts his head, watching him hesitate in real time.
"Relax," he says softly, "it's just fire, not a whole ritual."
Right. Just fire.
Well it sure as hell /does/ feel like a whole ritual.
Michael nods once, "...Right."
Mike kneels down, striking a match against the box.
Once,
Twice,
Three times,
Nothing.
Fourth time- oh, wait, this one actually did work!
A tiny flame blooms into existance, burning atop the matchstick.
Its so small.
So fragile...
He can almost think of somethink just like that...
Mike stands again, holding it loosely between his fingers, "You sure you wanna do this?" He asks, not exactly excpecting much of an answer anyway.
Michael opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Because the truth is...
No.
He isn't sure.
Infact, he hasn't been sure about anything for a long time.
But the building still smells of gasoline.
The air musty with old rot, and 'innocent' blood.
And somewhere deep inside of him, a spark ignites.
And the spark is small and fragile, just like the fire on the matchstick.
But it doesn't stay small for long.
Memories begin feeding themselves to it, memories of his father. No good ones, but only the bad.
The spark grows, turning into a raging storm inside of him.
And something comes from that storm; the lingering question of why?
Why he still cares?
Why he is doubting himself on this?
Why, why, why?
Why did he stay even after the things that his father did to him.?
The rain from the storm inside of him settles, a ground of determination beggining to peek through the damp sand of doubt. The good finally showing itself after years of being burried and played atop of.
The forgotten concrete under a sand pit.
And the sun comes through, reflecting its rays off of the concrete.
The remnants of the storm still remain, but what was underneath tells him that this is the only way out.
Michael exhails, "...do it."
Mike watches him for a second longer, letting his gaze linger before finally flicking his wrist, dropping the matchstick.
The fire raced across the gasoline-soaked floor.
Heat slammed into them almost instantly.
Mike's eyes widen.
"...Michael? Crap, Michael, come on!" Mike starts running towards the doors.
Michael follows.
Not because he wants to,
But because the doors are jammed.
Michael throws his weight against the door before his mind catches up.
It doesn't budge.
He tries again, nothing.
The rusted metal groans in protest, but the lock refuses to give.
Behind them, flames race across the floor with terrifying speed, devouring every trail of gasoline they can find. The heat swells until breathing feels like swallowing fire.
"No, no, no..." Mike mutters, slamming his shoulder into the door. "Come on!"
He troes another hit, but the hinges shriek and still won't budge.
Smoke begins to gather along the ceiling, curling through the room like grasping fingers. Michael coughs, pulling the sleeve of his jacket over his mouth.
"There has to be another way," Mike says, more to himself than anyone else.
"There isn't." The words leave Michael's mouth before he can stop them.
Mike turns so sharply it almost looks painful.
"What?"
Michael's eyes drift upward.
The ceiling.
One of the support beams has begun to glow a dull orange beneath peeling paint; It won't hold much longer.
Another crack echoes somewhere deeper inside the pizzeria, louder this time.
The building is dying.
Mike notices it a second later. "...No."
Michael already knows what comes next.
He doesn't know how.
Maybe he'd known from the moment he handed over the matchbox.
Maybe he'd known long before tonight.
Mike grabs his wrist.
"We'll figure something out."
His grip is warm.
Steady.
Real.
For a moment, Michael lets himself imagine it.
Walking out together. Seeing the morning sunlight. A life that wasn't haunted by blood or old memories.
The image fades as another beam crashes somewhere nearby, sending sparks bursting across the hallway.
Michael flinches.
Mike doesn't let go.
"We're leaving together," Mike insists, his voice rough with smoke, "...We have to."
Michael looks at him for what feels like forever.
"You still have someone waiting for you." He quietly says.
Mike frowns, "What?"
"Abby."
The realization crosses Mike's face almost instantly, "No."
"She needs you."
"No."
"You know she does."
"I'm not leaving you."
The words hit too deep. Hitting harder than any collapsing wall ever could.
Michael almost laughs, because if he doesn't, he'll cry instead, "...you don't have a choice, Mike."
Another crack.
This one is directly above them.
The emergency release lever, half-hidden behind a sheet of fallen plaster, catches Michael's eye.
Bent... barely attached,
But if someone holds it down manually...
The door might open, only for a few seconds, bht maybe...
Michael sees it.
Mike doesn't.
"...Mike."
"No."
"You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"I don't have to."
Michael gently pulls his wrist free.
For the first time in years... the choice feels like his.
He smiles.
It's small.
Tired, but genuine.
"Go home."
Before Mike can react, Michael lunges for the emergency lever.
Rust screams as he forces it downward with every ounce of strength he has left.
For one agonizing second...
Nothing happens.
But then the locking mechanism snaps, and the heavy doors shudder.
A narrow gap appears.
Fresh air rushes in.
"MICHAEL!" Mike shouts.
The beam above them gives way.
Michael throws every bit of his weight against the lever, the opening widens just enough.
"GO!"
Mike hesitates.
Just for a heartbeat.
It's enough for Michael to meet his eyes one last time.
There are a thousand things he wants to say.
I'm sorry,
Thank you,
I love-
The ceiling collapses.
Mike is forced backward through the doorway as burning debris crashes between them.
The last thing he sees is Michael, still holding the lever down.
Still smiling.
Then the fire swallows everything.
--~--
Mike stands outside, staring blankly at the ruins.
Rescue workers have long since put the fire out.
The building is nothing but blackened beams.
He feels a shiver run through him despite the earlier events.
He just keeps staring, waiting.
And waiting.
Because if he stops waiting...
He has to admit Michael isn't coming out.