Chapter Text
He woke up to the sound of his mother’s voice, calling out sweetly to him. “It’s time to get up now,” she was saying from the other room, her voice melodic and soothing. He sat up slowly, looking around. He was in his old bedroom, from before he moved into the attic. The room was bright and tidy and clean, without any of the dust and mold that had started to creep in since he’d been alone. There were posters on the wall for various TV shows he had once liked.
Getting out of bed, he saw someone had laid clothes out for him on his dresser: a pair of dark jeans and an orange t-shirt, with a patterned button-down to go overtop of it. From downstairs, he could smell pancakes and bacon cooking, and he realized how hungry he was. He got dressed quickly and hurried to the kitchen, where his mom was tending to breakfast on the stovetop.
She was beautiful, and she was alive, far more alive than she usually was in his dreams. Her skin was peachy and held no trace of the pallor she would develop as she feel into depression, and her hair was curled and pinned out of her face with a beautiful barrette. She was wearing a muted coral dress that was demure and fell to just below her knees. She looked down at him with her green eyes and smiled.
“Come here, my little fox boy,” she said fondly, and without any hesitation went over to her and threw his arms around her. She hugged him back, and then with one hand fixed his hair so it wasn’t in his eyes. “You look so handsome! Perfect for our big day.”
“What are we doing today?” asked Michael, looking up at her.
“You don’t remember, Mikey? We’re going to get our pictures taken!” chimed in the sweet, high-pitched voice of his sister from behind him. He turned to look at her. She too, was alive and untouched. Her eyes, as green as their mother’s, were shining. She loved any time she got to correct him or remind him of something because she hated feeling like she was the little sister. At the time it might have bothered him, but now he just savored the sound of her voice. Her golden hair fell in loose curls, framing her face, and she wore a pink dress with white stockings.
“That’s right, Elizabeth!” said his mother, “and then we’re going to have a fun day out.”
“Is father coming?” he heard himself ask, and suddenly he’d begun to feel sick, a thousand conflicting feelings rushing through him at once. His mother put her hand on his shoulder, and he took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down.
“Of course father is coming,” she said, but her voice had a hint of concern in it. “We’re all going together. But he’s meeting us there, he got called into work this morning.”
Before Michael had a chance to respond, Evan came toddling into the room. He was wearing a striped grey polo shirt and a pair of jeans. He was little, still not quite steady on his feet.
“Evan! Did you get dressed all by yourself like a big boy?” his mother asked, her voice now full of cheer and encouragement.
“Yes!” Evan said triumphantly, but he couldn’t quite pronounce the s properly. If Michael's friends had been there, they would’ve started to mock Evan for that, and he was sure he’d laugh right along at his brother. But that morning he didn’t say anything about it. Evan toddled right over to him, and threw his arms around Michael’s knees, which was as high as he could reach.
“Mikey!” he said simply, and hesitantly, Michael patted him on the back.
“Good morning, Evan,” he replied. Evan pulled away and laughed the way little children laugh when they have joy they can’t express with words. His mother, who had finished making breakfast and put it on the dining table, came and picked Evan up, carrying him over to his chair.
“Breakfast time!” she called, and he and Elizabeth rushed to follow her. The dining room was full of beautiful houseplants, all positioned to get the best light possible from the large picture windows. He recognized a monstera, leaves dotted with beautiful holed patterning, a large philodendren, a row of rubber and jade plants, and a hanging basket full of string-of-pearls. There were others he couldn’t name too, and outside of the window he could see the garden was in full bloom.
He watched his mother carefully cutting Evan’s pancakes while scarfing down his own, and listening to his sister babble on about whatever it was she wanted to do after the photos. Evan was laughing at nothing again, his hands quickly becoming a syrupy mess.
Soon enough, the grandfather clock chimed and breakfast was over. They made their way into the car. His sister clambered into the back row of seats, which she preferred as it allowed her space for the many dolls she liked to cart around with her. Michael sat next to Evan in the middle row.
It wasn’t a far drive to the mall with the photo studio, barely ten minutes. His mother had the radio on some oldies station, and a slow, soulful song was playing. It was loud in his brain, louder than it should have been, and everything about the scene was rendered in colors that were almost too bright, so much so he was brain was beginning to unfocus.
Then he felt a tugging on his sleeve, and it brought him back into the moment. Turning, he saw Evan beside him.
“Mikey, will you play eye-spy with me?” he asked, his dark brown eyes wide. Evan, he suddenly remembered, did not like car rides, and needed to be distracted to get through them.
“Okay,” he heard himself say, casting his eyes around. “Eye-spy something…pink,” he said, looking at one of his sister’s dolls on the floor, where it had rolled into their row.
Evan was occupied for the rest of the car ride guessing, with most of his guesses not making much sense. They pulled into the lot at the mall. They must’ve been running behind because his mother scooped Evan up into her arms and hurried them along into the photo studio.
There was a perky young woman at the desk, and she checked them in, ushering them into a room with a big pull-down screen on the wall and rolls of many different backgrounds they could choose from. His father was not there yet, and he got the sense that his mother was talking to the woman about it but the scene was getting too bright and too loud again, and he couldn’t focus. The next thing he knew, the perky lady was organizing them in front of the camera. He and his mother were on the ends, with Elizabeth next to her and Evan next to him, in a cozy sort of pose. The woman was playing some silly music to keep the kids focused and entertained, and the mood in the air was lighthearted and fun. She started snapping pictures, and it felt natural to smile.
He felt happy.
Then the door behind the woman opened, and everything went cold as his father stepped into the room. He was wearing a purple button down and black slacks, his brown hair parted in the middle and pushed out of face, his pale white skin making every feature more severe. He smiled, and it was hollow and horrible. Michael felt his stomach drop, felt his body tense, but his father wasn't looking at him. He was looking at Evan.
Anger and resentment began to spool at the center of him, hot and painful, and his head started to swim again. In spite of the anger, every part of him was still overcome with terror. But then he felt the grip of a small hand on his, holding so tight he could feel each little nail. He looked down and saw his own fear etched on Evan’s face.
He squeezed Evan’s hand and without a second thought step slightly in front of him. But it wasn't enough. It couldn't be. In less than a minute his father was standing between them, an arm wrapped possessively around Evan, separating him from Michael. But Michael could still feel where Evan’s hand had gripped him, where those little nails had dug into his skin.
The camera flashed so bright for a moment he couldn't see. When he blinked, adjusting back to normal lighting, it wasn't his father standing next to him anymore. At least, not in those clothes. Instead, he was in the large, clunky springlock yellow rabbit suit. Michael felt all the blood drain from his face, felt panic setting in. The mechanical head of the rabbit turned jerkily to look at him, and its face split open into a grin. After the next flash of the camera bulb, Evan had changed too, his head caved in and gushing blood. That's when the screaming started. The flash next, his sister became her corpse, and then after one final flash his mother died too, invisible rope tightening around her neck leaving a deep red gorge.
“Well, I think we got the perfect family photo!” said the perky woman behind the camera. His father, still in the suit, began to laugh, howling so loud it felt like Michael's eardrums were about to burst. He felt himself growing faint, looking at his dead family members who had now fallen to the floor. He followed them, and his vision started to go spotty. The lasting thing he saw was his father looming over him.
Michael woke up suddenly, his breathing heavy and labored. For a moment, it was like all the colors in the room were still too bright as they had been in his dream. He shut his eyes tightly and reached out in the direction of the nightstand, pawing around gently until he found one of the leaves of his plant. Taking it into his hand, he ran his thumb along its cool surface.
He breathed out, still shaky but much calmer than he had been. Opening his eyes, he lay there still, going over his dream frame by frame. Like with the dreams from Nebraska, he got the sense that most of this dream was really memory. But that didn't hold with the person he remembered himself being. He could swear up and down he would never have held his brother's hand or played eye spy with him. He’d been a bully. Nothing but a bully.
And yet, the more he thought through the dream, the more it seemed likely that it was real. There was, it occurred to him, one way to tell.
His mother had loved photo albums and scrapbooks. Aside from gardening, it was her biggest hobby. His father, however, was not a fan of family photos. If they had really gone to the studio and gotten their pictures taken, his mother would have cherished them. They probably would’ve gotten their own little book, and he knew exactly where it would be.
It had been many, many years since he had gone into any of the rooms of the house aside from his bedroom, the en suite, and the kitchen. All the other doors had dust on the knobs. But if he really wanted to know if his dream was real, he needed to go to her room.
His parents shared a bedroom, and his father had an office, but his mother had her own room as well. Though she didn’t work, she had a desk and bookshelves full of albums and notebooks and gardening guides. Trying not to let himself think too hard about it, he forced his feet to the floor, made himself walk down the stairs. Rather than heading to the first floor and the kitchen, he made himself step onto the third floor landing.
The third floor was his parents’ floor, and just stepping onto the runner in the hallway made him nauseous. Keep moving, he said to himself sternly. His mother's door was the first to the left, which he was grateful for. It meant he only had to make it 2 more meters. It also meant he didn't have to walk past his father's office or their bedroom.
After what felt like an hour of slow, shaky steps which he knew was probably only a few minutes, he made it to the door. Putting his hand on the ornate brass handle, the cold of the metal dulled by a layer of dust, he forced himself to turn it. The door opened inward of its own accord, hinges creaking. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside and hit the lightswitch.
It was an extremely odd feeling to stand there and look around. It was almost as if his mother hadn't been dead for years, like she was simply in the other room and would be back here in a minute. On her desk was an open notebook, a ballpoint pen laying uncapped next to it. A cup of long-evaporated tea sat on the small table to the side of her armchair, no longer bearing liquid but still waiting for her return. A row of small pots for seedlings lined the windowsill, each home to a long-dead husk of something that used to be alive. The pink wallpaper on the walls was sun bleached by the never-closed curtains, and dust lay heavily over everything.
It was as though the room itself missed her presence as much as he did. He missed his mother. He didn't let himself think about it ever in the past, but now he had no choice. He missed her. He missed her a lot. The sweet sound of her voice, still echoing from his dream, the protective warmth of her arms, the gentle way she touched everything, how all that was good in his childhood came from her.
Swallowing his tears, he pressed forward, walking over to the box on the bookshelf where he knew her photo albums would be. He looked at the covers, which held careful handwritten labels, unwilling or unable to look open them, until he found one titled “Family Photos, Photo Studio, May 1983.”
His mouth went dry. This was the one. With shaky hands, he flipped it open. There it was, just like in his dream. They stood in front of a navy blue background: his mother, Elizabeth, Evan, and him, in that order. Everyone was smiling. He was smiling. Evan was smiling. And he could tell it was genuine. He could tell they had been happy.
He flipped the page to see a similar picture, and then another one. On the page after that, though, the picture was different. Maybe you wouldn't notice if you didn't know to look, but to Michael it was clear immediately. His entire posture had changed, from free and happy to tense, scared, angry. His eyes, too, were now devoid of light, full instead of fear and dread. Forcing his eyes down, he saw Evan’s expression was even more frightened than his own.
And he saw Evan’s hand gripping his. Flipping the page again, there was another picture. The woman behind the camera must have just continued taking them. Now his hand was gripping Evan’s back, and he’d stepped forward slightly, so slightly. Most people wouldn't see it, let alone know how important it was. But he did.
He’d held Evan’s hand. He’d stepped in front of him. He couldn't protect him. But he had tried.
He didn't realize he was crying until the tears were pouring out of him, landing on the plastic cover keeping the picture safe. He sat there, just looking at the picture, memorizing it for a long, long time.
He had tried. He’d let Evan hold his hand. He’d held Evan’s hand back.
It didn't undo what had happened to Evan, what he had done. He still had bullied him at the pizzeria. It didn't change how Evan had died.
But in some ways, it changed everything. He hadn't been the horrible older brother he was so sure he had been. He remembered Mike’s words- It was a complicated and terrible situation. You were acting out. It was a horrible tragedy, but it didn't happen because you were a bad person.
It was a complicated and difficult situation. But he had done more than just act out all the time. He had tried.
He flipped back to the first picture again, the one where they all were genuinely smiling. They were a family. Months ago, looking at this picture would have been agony for him. He would only have seen people whose deaths he blamed himself for.
Now he only saw people he had loved, who had loved him, even through the worst. People who were gone. The thing about guilt is it precludes grief. When it was all his fault, he didn't get to mourn them, to miss them. But now that he understood whose fault it really was, all his grief hit him like a train. He curled up into a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth, and let himself sob.
After some time, he felt his sobs subsiding. He rose to his feet, looking around the room, seeing his mother everywhere, her bright eyes, her softness, her love. Then he turned and slowly left the room, closing it gently behind him. He walked with silent, light steps down the stairs, as though he were trying not to wake someone. Instead of heading down to the first floor, he let himself step onto the second floor landing. It went a little easier than stepping onto the third floor. It didn't fill him with fear, only sadness. He held the sadness, let himself feel it, but didn't let it bury him.
He opened the first door on the right, and entered Elizabeth’s room. Like their mother’s, it was pink, but a much brighter shade, and it hadn’t been bleached by the sun. Someone had drawn the curtains after she died. The room was tidy and spotless except for the dust that fell everywhere. The bed was made perfectly, the corners of her princess comforter tucked neatly in place.
Surely his mother's doing. Probably right after Elizabeth died, when she was only just beginning to succumb to depression. For a moment, he felt something he didn't expect. He felt anger at his mother.
She couldn't live without Evan and Elizabeth, so she killed herself. He understood that. It was a horrible, horrible thing, to bury two of your small children.
But Michael was her child too, and she had left him behind, alone with his father. She loved him, but not enough to keep living. And it made him angry.
He let himself hold the anger, to feel it without judging himself, for a few moments longer. Then he breathed out deeply.
It wasn't that simple, and he knew that. Depression like what she had was an illness that steals your brain. Her grief had let it in, but by the time she committed suicide she wasn't truly in control of herself. It didn't make that raw pain, that abandonment he’d kept himself from feeling for so long go away. But it meant the anger subsided, giving way to the grief again.
Setting how he felt about his mother aside, he looked around the room. It was his sister’s, that was for sure. On one wall was a princess mirror, which read “You are the fairest in the land!” in script along the bottom, with a crown on top. In one corner was a large castle dollhouse, and her bin full of dolls. Over the bed was a pink and purple sheer canopy, and hanging on the wall was an assortment of princess dress-up clothes. There was also a book shelf, full of Nancy Drew and other series. Elizabeth was smart, assertive, and unabashedly girly. She hated anything or anyone that made her feel small or silly, and loved anything pink, frilly, or princess. Their mother used to say Elizabeth would grow up to be the president, not just a princess, and looking back she might have been right. Even at eight years old, she was clever and bold and never apologetic about who she was.
Crossing to his sister’s bed, he gingerly sat down, trying not to crease the carefully laid blankets at all. Nestled between the two pillows, he saw his sister's favorite doll. It wasn't quite a proper doll- it was soft and stuffed, like his brother's favorite bear, but it was a fairy princess, complete with wings and a crown. Reaching out, he gently unearthed it. Its eyes were green, like his sister's. That was why she had picked it out, he remembered. Without even thinking, he brought it to his chest and held it tight. The tears came again, and he let them fall, for his sister who would never grow up and the world that would never be changed for the better by her.
After a moment, he stood, gently replacing the doll, and walked to the door. He took a deep breath, and stepped back into the hallway, closing the door and walking to the next one. His hands shook as he reached for the handle: this was Evan’s room.
He stepped inside, his eyes closed tight. He forced himself to open them. It was smaller than Elizabeth’s, and less personalized, because Evan was still so young when he died. As with his sister’s room, it was pristine in how tidy it was, his mother having cleaned it after Evan had died. The walls were white, and the furniture was wood painted blue under the layer of dust. In the corner was a toybox, overflowing with different of stuffed animals. A number of them were Freddy’s brand, but others were more generic, soft plush animals. Next to the toybox was a stack of coloring books, neatly piled. Something drew him towards it, and he knelt down, taking the top one off the pile.
Flipping it open, he saw it was actually a children’s notebook, without predrawn pictures for kids to color in. Evan had drawn a lot, cartoony animals and stick figures rendered with the wobbly hand of a child. The first few pages were mostly full of what you would expect. Towards the middle, though, the drawings started to change. Children were crying, parts of their bodies scribbled out. Fredbear and the yellow rabbit were everywhere, their teeth drawn sharp and bloody, their bodies large and warped. Rather than different children in each drawing, the pictures started to show one boy, over and over, crying and distorted and scribbled over.
It was a self-portrait.
Michael felt horror washing over him.
He recognized something in the pictures, something most people probably wouldn’t. Evan was drawing what it felt like. He could see it in the frantic black scribbling, the way it felt to go through what their father put them through. He forced himself to breathe, not to hyperventilate, and shut the book, putting it back on the stack. He closed his eyes again, taking deep breaths. Opening them, something caught his eye, pinned to the wall behind the the toy chest. It was another picture, a very different picture. It was two children. One was similar to the self portraits in the notebook, but the child in the picture was smiling with no tears or scribbles. The other child was taller, wearing what looked like a fox mask. They were holding hands.
It was him and Evan.
He felt tears falling down his face again.
“I’m sorry, Evan,” he said, curling up in a ball, staring at the drawing. “I’m so sorry.” He couldn’t manage any other words.
After a long moment, he stood up. It was getting to be too much for him to bear, and distantly he knew he was probably running very late.
He crossed the room, taking one last look inside before closing the door behind him. He started to make his way back towards the stairs, but there was another door on the other side of the hallway. Unbidden, his feet stopped in front of it. He’d had no intention of going inside, except now he guessed he was. Biting his lip, he opened the door and stepped in.
It was his room. His old room, from before he moved into the attic, which used to be a half-finished guest space. Unlike his siblings’ rooms, it was a mess. It was right after his mother died that he moved upstairs, and no one was left to tidy up after him, to make his bed or tuck him in. The walls, like in his mother’s room, were bleached with sun, his posters also faded. Clothes were all over the floor, along with unfinished lego builds and toy cars.
Here too, he found grief, were he had thought he might find guilt or shame. Bending over, he picked up a t-shirt, one he remembered as his favorite. He held it up, looking at it, and was struck by how small, how juvenile it was, bearing the logo of a favorite toy. He picked it out for the first day of school, only weeks before Evan died.
Was he really this small, when it happened? This young?
Looking around, he saw a picture on the wall from his 10th birthday party. It was full of kids his age, all wearing birthday hats. He was in the middle, smiling ear to ear. He was missing his front tooth. He was so little. He sat down with his back to the closed door, the t-shirt gripped tight in his hand, and started to sob, finally mourning himself.
He was so young when his brother had died, and by then he had already lived through 10 years of horrific abuse. He had never gotten to be a child. He barely got to be a person. It was all taken away from him. But he was older, now, stronger. And he could take it back. His father didn’t get to keep him from becoming the person he wanted to be, from experiencing life, from feeling love, from growing and changing and being happy. Not anymore.
Standing up, he took a big breath, the shirt still clutched in his hand. An idea appeared in his mind, almost subconsciously. After taking one more good look around his childhood room he turned and walked back into the hallway carrying the shirt with him. His feet carried him back into his brother's bedroom, his earlier trepidation gone. Crossing back to the toy chest, he knelt down and very carefully peeled the picture his brother had drawn of the two of them off the wall. He took another deep breath, thinking he might start crying again, but the tears didn't come. After another quiet moment of remembering, he made his way back out into the hallway, now with the shirt and the drawing, heading to his sister's bedroom. He walked to her bed, and gently took the doll from its place nestled between the pillows on her bed. He looked down at it for a long moment, seeing his sister's eyes, before sighing and tucking it under his arm.
He went back upstairs, then, each step more confident than the last, making his way to his mother's room. He’d left the photo album open on her desk. He set the shirt and the drawing and the doll down, taking the album into his hands. Methodically, carefully, he pulled the first picture, the one where they were all smiling, from its plastic sheath. After a moment of contemplation, he flipped until he got to the picture where he was holding Evan’s hand, and took that one as well. Then he took all the little things he’d accumulated into his arms and carried them up the final set of stairs to his bedroom.
The table where Evan’s golden stuffed bear sat was now adorned lovingly with vines from the plant Mike had given him. Gently, he picked up Elizabeth's doll, setting it next to Evan’s bear. Then he took his shirt and gently wrapped it around the shoulders of the dolls, as though they were snuggled together in a blanket. Fishing around in the drawer of the nightstand, he found some tape and hung the pictures and the drawing just above the nightstand.
Delicately, he rearranged the vines so they encircled the perimeter of the dolls, green leaves glinting in the sunlight. Stepping back, he admired his work, eyes scanning through the pictures and the dolls swaddled in his shirt, back up to the happy photograph of him, his siblings, and his mother.
His family. Who he loved, who loved him.
He felt the tears begin to fall again, and he let them.
It didn't change everything. His childhood was still marked by horrible abuse from an abusive father, by the immense loss of his sister, his brother, his mother. But he had forgotten for so long that before they died, they lived. And they had been together, and loved one another.
When the tears ran out, he sighed deeply, and descended the stairs one last time. He found himself drawn back onto the third floor landing, though he had intended to go straight down to the kitchen, as he was certainly running even later now than he had been before. He didn't realize what he was doing until he had the photo album in his hands again. Holding it, he steeled his nerves and forced himself to turn to the final page, knowing what he would see there.
In some ways, it was nearly the same as the first picture: they stood in front of the same background, wearing the same clothes. But there was another figure there now, a tall, thin man with straight brown hair and blue eyes, in a purple button down, standing between him and his brother. Both boys in the picture were noticeably paler than in the other pictures, their expressions strained. Evan looked terrified, barely managing to smile. Michael looked like he was going to throw up, but was putting on a slightly better show of civility. His father was grinning, that wide toothy smile Michael knew too well.
It hit him like a train.
He hadn't actually seen his father since his disappearance several years ago. He avoided any pictures of the past. He’d known he looked like his dad, but the resemblance was far greater than he could ever have imagined. Try as he might, he couldn't tear his eyes away, feeling himself start to hyperventilate. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to stay calm.
“I’m nothing like you,” he said, hearing how raw his voice was, hand gripping the photo album until his knuckles were white. “I’m nothing like you and I never will be.”
Grabbing the edge of the picture, he roughly ripped it out of the photo album. He tossed the album down on the desk and left the room, going down the stairs all the way to the ground floor, footsteps fast and hard. He made it to the kitchen and looked around wildly for the right cabinet. He never used the pots, so it took him a second to find it, but when he did he pulled one out and set it on the counter. Then, his resolve firm, he twisted on one of the burners on the stovetop, hearing the old clicking sound of vapor looking for spark before the fire sizzled to life. With no hesitation, he dipped the corner of the picture into the flame, pulling it back when it was lit.
He crossed to where the pot was on the counter, carefully holding the burning picture over it. He could just drop it in, but he wanted to watch his father burn, watch the fire overtake him, watch it set his family free. As the flames swallowed his father's face, something in him heaved a deep sigh.
He kept holding the photo, though, too caught up in the moment to realize it was approaching his fingers until it was too late, until the fire grazed him. Recoiling, he dropped the picture in pain right into the pot. He didn't look down at his burnt fingers, though, staring still at the burning photo until it was just ash.
Standing there, stock still, he slowly rolled his shoulders up, taking a deep breath. He turned to look at the clock. It read 2:55. He was sure to be late. He could rush over, but he really didn't want to. Conversely, he didn't want to leave Fitz there alone. There was only one solution, and it involved going into another room he usually avoided: the dining room, where a phone had been installed a few months before his father's disappearance. He never used it. He had no one to call, and it made him feel like a coward to have not called the police sooner. Of course, he was never alone in the house and the other receiver for the phone was in his parent’s bedroom, so he really couldn't have. But still, he felt the guilt.
Sighing, he made his way through the door. He lingered in the frame, the stark white phone staring at him from across the room otherwise full of dark gilded mahogany. He knew he had a short window to make the call, so he forced himself forward, forced himself to pick up the phone, forced himself to dial the numbers.
The line rang only for a couple buzzes before Vincent picked up.
“Freddy Fazbear security, Vincent speaking?” There was some comfort to hearing Vincent’s gruff, familiar voice, although it was anathema to the space.
“Hey, um. Hey Vincent, it’s Michael. I’ve- I’m running late today, something. Well, something came up,” he said, trying not to feel like he was lying somehow. “Would you be alright to stay with Fitz until I get there? Of course I’ll pay you overtime. I shouldn't be more than an hour or so,”
“Of course,” Vincent said, and Michael dreaded the sympathy he could hear in his voice. “Is everything okay?”
“Um. Well,” said Michael, trying to find something, anything to say. My father is a serial killer who abused me and my brother who I accidentally killed my whole childhood and I don't know how to cope with any of it was not an appropriate answer, so he settled on saying “You know how it is.”
“Is this to do with your boy?” Vincent asked with a protective edge.
“No!” Michael replied hurriedly, “No, no, nothing like that. Totally unrelated. Listen, um. I have to go now, thank you so much for covering for me and I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
He slammed down the receiver as fast as he could so Vincent didn't have a chance to say anything else. It maybe wasn't the kindest choice, but he just couldn't handle any more of that conversation.
Looking around, he found himself thinking back to his dream, eating breakfast with his siblings. It was solemn to see the table now, chairs long empty. He’d forgotten how ornate they were, how deep and beautiful the color of the wood was. His eyes naturally turned to the large picture window which looked out onto the garden. Outside was lush and green, the air full of summer, but his gaze had snagged on the platform shelf at the base of the window.
It was full of garden pots of a variety of sizes, just as it had been in his dream. But the plants in these pots were dead, had been for years. Probably nearly as long as his mother had been dead. They were brown and brittle, with crumpled bits of fallen leaves scattered about.
He bit his lip. He had taken just about as much as he could in terms of processing things, and this was too much. Sighing, he forced himself to walk back into the kitchen and put the coffee on. Then he went back up stairs, walking fast, until he made it back up to the attic. He turned the hot water on in the shower and stepped inside, feeling his shoulders fall and his eyes gently close as the water ran down his back. His mind was too full to think, but the water felt nice and he heard himself start to hum as he went about the motions of washing up.
He didn’t let himself linger in the shower too long, though, because he really didn’t want to make Vincent wait any longer than he had to. Getting out, he dried himself off, making his way to the mirror to do his hair. For the first time in months, he recoiled at the sight of himself.
He really did look like his father, and the picture had burned it into his eyes. He always had, with his pale skin, brown hair and blue eyes, but now that his features were no longer draped in the softness of childhood the resemblance was much more pronounced. It was in his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, his jawline, his lanky frame. His mother had had fair hair like his sister, and green eyes, with peachier skin and a rounder body. The only thing he had inherited from her was a very faint spate of freckles across his cheeks which you could hardly see unless you were an inch away and squinting.
He closed his eyes, and tried to remember he wasn’t his father, no matter how much the mirror would perhaps beg to differ. In the end, try as he might, he just couldn’t really bear to look at himself, and he settled for running a comb through his hair and hoping it looked alright. By the time he made it downstairs, the coffee was done and the clock read 3:40.
Pouring coffee and milk with a spot of sugar into a thermos, he grabbed his keys and headed to the car. The drive over to work was peaceful, and he felt the weight of his earlier experiences lessen as he got closer to Freddy’s. His mind naturally wandered over to Mike, and he felt himself smile. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he thought about how lucky he was to have someone like Mike in his life, how lucky he was that they got to spend every night together, even if he had been unlucky in every other way.
He pulled into the lot, parking and heading inside, feeling much lighter than he had back at the house. There was already a small crowd inside, and Fitz waved at him from his post near the front door. He made his way to the security office, where he knew Vincent would be waiting for him.
“Afternoon, Michael,” he said as Michael stepped in the door. He was sitting in the swivel chair, and he turned to look at Michael, a hint of concern in his expression.
“Hi Vincent,” he replied, trying to sound as normal as possible, “Thank you for covering for me.”
“Of course,” said Vincent, furrowing his brow and not standing up. Michael set his bag down and perched on the corner of the desk, looking at Vincent expectantly, knowing he would have something to say.
“Are you okay?” Vincent asked, and Michael bit the inside of his cheek. What to say? His instinct was to immediately lie and say yes, as he had been doing for so long. But that wasn’t true, and he was starting to realize that pretending to be okay all the time was not really good for him. He certainly wasn’t going to tell Vincent everything, but he did trust Vincent, and anyway Vincent already knew his siblings and mother were dead, and that his father was on the run. He even knew how Evan died, because he had been the security guard on duty. In the immediate aftermath of the accident, when the ambulance had arrived and was taking his brother away, Michael threw up all over the floor and tried to run away.
It was Vincent who had found him sobbing curled up in a corner of the security office, who helped him pull himself together, who drove him to the hospital where his family was. Michael couldn’t remember it in great detail, but he was sure it was far more kindness than he would have thought he deserved.
“Not really,” he said, looking down, deciding to be as close to honest as he could. “I just- you know my family are all gone. And sometimes it just gets to me.”
“I’m sorry, Michael,” Vincent said solemnly, “you’ve seen far more loss than anyone your age ever should.”
Michael nodded. “I used to feel really guilty about it all. Like- like it was my fault they all died. Especially- especially my brother. But I’m trying hard to work on that.”
“None of that was your fault, kid,” said Vincent, voice gruff. “You were 10 years old. All those horrible things had nothing to do with you. And I’m sorry you ever felt like it was on your shoulders.”
“Thanks,” Michael said meekly, still not looking up.
“Your father-” Vincent started to say, hesitating. Michael felt his whole body involuntarily stiffen, eyes immediately snapping up to look at Vincent’s face. Vincent was typically pretty stoic, but he appeared to be on the verge of tears, face contorted with anger and sadness and grief and guilt.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “I don’t- I don’t want to make any assumptions. Or accusations.” His voice was gruff, and he seemed to be trying very hard to figure out what to say. “You deserved better, Michael. A better father, a better life, a better childhood. And I wish I could have done more for you back then.”
“You didn’t know,” Michael said softly.
Vincent shrugged. “Still,” he said, “And you should know you’ve done better for yourself coming out of that situation than I ever could have. Than most people could. You should be proud of who you’ve grown up to be.”
Michael bit his lip, looking back down at the floor.
“Thanks,” he said again, looking back down at the floor. “Can, um, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” said Vincent, “shoot.”
“Did you know my mom?” he asked shyly, looking back to Vincent.
“Yeah, I’d say so,” Vincent replied thoughtfully. “We weren’t close or anything. But she was here often enough, and we spent some time together through the years. Really lovely person, your mom. She always went out of her way to be kind to everyone, even us security guards and the janitors and the like.”
“Do you think she would like me now? Like, would she think I grew up to be a good person?” he asked, voice quiet and scratchy, the question coming straight from his subconscious into the air.
Vincent smiled sadly at him. “I think your mother would like you a lot, Michael. You remind me a lot of her.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, confused and suddenly finding he wanted as much information as Vincent could give him.
“Just the way you treat people. You’ve always been respectful and you do your best to help out everyone here. And you have her smile,” Vincent said.
“I do?” Michael asked, voice still scratchy and quiet.
“Yes, you do. Your expressions in general, your laugh. I’m reminded of her often when we talk,” said Vincent, and Michael could tell by the way he was talking that he knew how much this meant to Michael, and that he wasn’t lying. “Your mother would be very proud of you, Michael. And I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you this, but she loved you very much.”
Michael didn’t realize he was crying until felt a teardrop fall from his cheek onto his hands, which he had folded in his lap.
“I’ve cried a lot today,” he said out loud, not really meaning to. He looked away from Vincent, staring instead blankly at a wall.
“It’s okay to cry, Michael,” Vincent said, “You’ve had plenty to cry about.”
“I know,” said Michael, still staring at the wall, “I know.” Taking a deep breath, he composed himself and looked back at Vincent.
“I really appreciate you, Vincent. Thank you for covering for me today and- and for talking things over,” he said, successfully stopping his crying and shifting into professionalism.
“Of course,” said Vincent, “any time.” He stood up and gathered his things, understanding the conversation was over. “Have a great shift. And Michael, I really do mean it, any time you want to talk about this, you can just ask.”
Michael nodded. “Thanks Vincent,” he said, getting up off the desk, “I mean it.”
With that, Vincent was gone and he was alone.
He sighed shakily, sitting down in the swivel chair and shutting his eyes.
Could that possibly be true? That he had his mother’s smile? That she would be proud of him?
He found himself doing the last thing he would have possibly would have expected, and got up, feet leading him to the restroom. It was empty. He had his eyes closed again, and he gripped the sides of the sink, willing himself to open them. After a moment he let out a deep, shaky breath and opened his eyes, looking up at the mirror.
The horror, the instinct to recoil at the sight of his own face washed back over him, his mind replaying kaleidoscopes of the picture he had burnt and the nightmares he had of his father. But he pushed the horror aside and tried to look at himself, to look less at his features and more at what he did with them, the way his face moved through expressions. He tried to remember his mother’s smile, picturing her in his mind.
He took a deep breath and tried to smile. He could see what Vincent meant. His father’s smiles were manic and wide, performed pleasantness to the teetering point of concerning. His mother’s smiles were much softer, less exaggerated. He was sure it wasn’t as authentic as the smile Mike drew out of him, but the smile in the mirror looked nothing like his father’s, and a lot like his mothers.
He let the expression drop, and sighed.
Heading back to the office, he sat down in the swivel chair and found himself longingly looking at the folding chair stowed against the wall.
I can’t wait for Mike to get here, he thought, and just the thought made him feel warmer. When Mike was here all these memories would be easier to face. Everything was easier to face with Mike around. He let himself settle into that warm feeling, picturing Mike and imagining what they would do when he got there, how to would feel to be holding his hands, to be kissing him.
The clock ticked slowly, the minutes passing like hours. He made his rounds, doing this and that, but the sun seemed defiant in its refusal to set. Finally, after what felt like forever, it was 9:00 and Fitz was heading out the door. It had been a quiet evening, and nearly everyone followed suit shortly after.
It started to rain, and Michael leaned in the doorway from the hallway to the main party room, watching the raindrops hitting the window and listening to the pitter patter. Mike wasn't there yet, and it was making him antsy. It's not like Mike got there at 9:00 every night, but waiting any longer felt unbearable.
All his typical tasks for the day were done, but he scanned around looking for anything to keep himself occupied. His eyes fell on the prize corner. It was large enough and held enough inventory that it didn't frequently need to be restocked, but it had been a few months since Michael had poked around in it and made sure everything was topped up. It was entirely invented busywork, he knew that, but it was better than doing nothing, so he unlocked the closet next to it and pulled out the cart that held all of the restock items. He knelt down and opened the glass case, pulling out the various draws and noting which ones needed filling. Back at the cart, he took the boxes he needed out and placed them on the counter, along with a checksheet for inventory tracking, and started the methodical process of counting off prizes and restocking the right amounts.
It was absorbing, almost meditative, and between that and the sound of the rain he hadn't heard the back door open. He heard the footsteps in the hall, though, and looked up just in time to see Mike appear in the doorframe. His heart skipped a beat, as it did every time he saw Mike, who was now leaning against the doorframe, looking at him flirtatiously.
“Good night, Michael,” he said, smiling, staying where he was.
“Good night, Mike,” Michael responded, feeling his cheeks already turning pink. “What are you doing over there?”
“Just looking at you,” said Mike, “I like looking at you.” His voice was smooth and full of want.
“Is there anyone else left around?” Michael asked, trying to be casual. Mike shook his head.
“Nope. Last person was pulling out just was I pulled in,” he said flippantly, as though it didn't matter.
“Then why don't you come over here?” Michael asked, setting down the drawer he was filling and standing up.
“Why should I?” asked Mike, challenging him with a smirk, “I really do love to look at you, and I have a great view from where I’m standing.”
“Because you want to do more than just look at me, and we both know it,” said Michael, feeling himself getting flustered with impatience. Mike laughed, a sweet sound with no malice in it, and strode across the room confidently until he was right in front of Michael, barely a couple of inches away but not touching.
Michael was sure Mike would have another quippy comment but he really couldn't take any more waiting, so just as his lips began to part to say something Michael took his head into his hands, threading his fingers through his hair, and kissed him. Mike made a small sound of surprise, caught off guard, but then he wrapped his arms around Michael’s waist, pulling him even closer, deepening the kiss.
The kiss broke apart as they both needed air, but Michael didn't let go, instead burying his face in the crook of Mike’s neck and sighing contentedly into the embrace.
“My Mike,” he said softly, voice muffled with his lips pressed against Mike’s skin, “I’m so glad you're here.”
“Yeah?” Mike asked, still gently holding Michael. “Long day?”
“You could say that,” Michael said, laughing a little.
“What are you up to over here?” asked Mike, and Michael disentangled himself from the embrace, but not before giving Mike a kiss on the neck where his face had been buried.
“Just restocking the prize counter,” he said, “shouldn't take me much longer. Do you mind hanging out in here?”
“Not at all!” Mike said, “By all means, don't let me be a distraction.” He casually hopped up, sitting on the glass display case. Michael knelt down and started to count out the prizes again, working on the drawer full of kazoos.
“You wanna talk about your day?” Mike asked, and Michael hesitated for a moment. Did he?
“Well,” he said, deciding that he did, “I had a dream last night…” He just started to talk, allowing himself to explain everything without overthinking it, the dream, the pictures, walking through the house, the grief, the anger, the sadness, the mirror, his conversation with Vincent. All the while, Mike sat listening intently.
“That is a pretty long day,” he said at the end of Michael’s explanation. “If I was you I’d be exhausted. How are you feeling about it all?”
That, of course, was the million dollar question, and Michael wasn't sure he had an answer.
Setting aside the kazoos, he sat next to Mike on the display case and looked out into the room, trying to collect his thoughts.
“I feel…sad,” he said, feeling kind of lame, “of course, I mean, who wouldn't. But it's more than that. I feel angry, at my dad, but also at my mom, because she left me. I know it wasn't what she was trying to do but its hard to not feel angry about it. But at the same time I love her so much its impossible to stay angry. And my siblings, I love them so much too. And it hurts. It hurts that they're gone. And I’m alone. I think that's a big part of the feeling too, being alone, alone in that big empty house that used to be full of my family, alone in my life with no siblings or parents. I think it's a loneliness. And I cut myself off from all my feelings for a long time so processing them all now is…a lot.””
Mike nodded. “I think all of that makes sense,” he said gently. “But you're not alone anymore, Michael. And you never will be again. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I know it doesn't replace your family, obviously, but I just want you to know.”
“Do you mean that?” asked Michael without really meaning to, voice squeaky and weak. “It’s just hard for me to believe,” he said, scrambling to explain. “Sometimes I still worry you’ll realize I really am bad and you’ll leave and I’ll be alone again.”
Mike put his hand over Michael's, resting on the display case between them. “Michael, look at me,” he said, voice commanding but still gentle. “You are not a bad person. I’ll remind you of that every day til the day I die. You are a good person- an amazing person, in fact. And I’m not going anywhere except wherever you go, I promise.”
Michael didn't say anything, just sighing, flipping his hand to intertwine his fingers with Mike’s. Mike reached his other hand into the box of prices sitting next to him on the display case, rummaging around and then pulling a necklace out. It was a metallic star on a black chord. Gently, he fastened it around Michael's neck, and then looked up into his eyes, guiding Michael's hand up to the pendant.
“I promise,” he repeated. “Okay? You're mine and I’m yours and we're in it together. Someday I’ll give you something fancier, but this way you have something you can always hold onto and know I’m always there with you and I always will be.”
Michael wrapped his fingers around the necklace, the implication of what Mike was saying dawning on him. He felt his eyes widen, his cheeks going pink, looking at the emotion on Mike’s face. Reaching down into the box with shaky hands, Michael felt around until he found what he wanted, pulling out a similar necklace with a sun pendant instead of a star.
“You should have one too,” he murmured, stringing the necklace around Mike’s neck. Mike smiled wide, and then leaned forward to press his lips against Michael’s gently, chastely, just for a moment.
“Why don't you finish up here so we can go to the office?” Mike suggested, tucking Michael's hair behind his ear. Michael nodded, quickly finishing up restocking and stowing the cart away back into the closet, before heading to the kitchen, Mike following close behind. As he cooked, and then later as they sat in the office together, they chatted pleasantly about this and that. Talking with Mike came so easily, and what had been a difficult and exhausting day was now much nicer. As had become their routine, they curled up next to one another, settling in for the night shift, Mike’s arm around Michael, Michael’s head tucked onto Mike’s shoulder.
Much later, in the early morning, Michael finally found himself back at his front door. Standing in front of the big, empty house, he felt the feelings from the day before start to creep back in. But he also felt the cold metal of the star against his skin under his shirt, and it made it easier to step through the threshold.