Chapter Text
Michael’s view of his surroundings at that moment was almost surreal; the walls looked too thin, the thickness of a plank, and he felt that if he pressed a palm firmly against one of them they would fall backward shortly after. The house felt like a ready-made sitcom set. Fake, with lighting that was too bright and a space that didn’t seem fixed in place. And while his surroundings gave off that strange impression, his father’s voice was still stuck in his head as if they’d talked just minutes ago.
Disappointment is all you ever give me
He swore—swore on everything—that his father had been there a moment before and had said that. They had been arguing, his father had been coming toward him, until suddenly the one in front of him was Mike shaking him, making it all feel like a dream jumping from one set to another. Mike’s voice sounded distant, like he was speaking through a wall or underwater. He’s not here was the last thing Michael heard him say, and even after that he kept hearing a lot of things at low volume, echoing from the back of his head, though none of them were from the present. His present was that fake-looking room and Mike sitting to his left with his short legs folded. It felt as if he had been kidnapped.
Go home. The thought was Michael’s, but the voice that echoed it was his father’s.
Of course he would go home; what he wanted most at the moment was to get out of that weird room and leave behind the feeling that the floor would fall away when he walked (seriously, why did nothing there feel real?). He had talked too much, thought he was in control when he let the conversation happen, but suddenly Mike shoved him and took his place. How had that even happened? At first it was him laughing and it was his voice teasing until his throat dried at some point and swallowing hurt. All because he couldn’t help turning into a child whenever they talked about his father. His senses went on high alert, the conversation became an all-or-nothing game thanks to provocation and cheap manipulation.
Disappointment is all you ever give me
Yes, Michael was a chronic disappointment—no one would have put his father in that position and he would have been disappointed (yet again) to see his son become vulnerable because he thought there was a hand he could hold tight. Stupid. His eyes must be red; his eyelids were heavy and with each blink there was a slight sting that was sharp at first and disappeared the next second before it could be bothersome. He had cried again like he was six, and worse, in front of someone else. So weak it was disgusting. Even kids could hold back their tears longer.
Michael was so angry he wanted to cry even more, but he’d already done enough of that and this was the end. It was ridiculous even comparing himself to his father when he couldn’t hold back his damn tears for ten minutes!
Hey, you’re crying because you’re sad and that’s okay, love
Who had said that to him? A woman’s comforting voice that made him forget his heavy eyelids. His mother, of course. The woman he never thought about more than necessary when her image came to him, but the woman who genuinely loved him despite the clumsy, annoying child Michael had been. He thought yes, that she had loved him then, and it was true she’d had big expectations of him, few of which had been met.
What would she think of him now? Would her disappointment be the same as his father’s? Would she still be able to love the person he had become, despite all the questionable thoughts in his head and the things he’d done? He wanted to believe so; he already felt like shit and not being loved by her would mean he was so bad he was demonic. It would mean his attempts to be a normal person would never be more than attempts. But he didn’t have to convince himself much; he could remember the fragments of his childhood that seemed so distant he barely felt they were his, but they were. His current self actually felt like the inevitable end of that weird boy.
It didn't feel exaggerated—he’d been a very quiet, awkward child, the kind nobody understood why he had that closed-off look while other kids ran around laughing, and he didn’t like crowds. He didn’t like many people in one place—which always seemed like an indication of whatever was wrong with him—so he usually sat in some corner or chair when the family went out. From what he remembered, nobody paid much attention; there were only a few fleeting glances, which might last or not, but his mother always came to him at some point to make sure he was okay and try to cheer him up. Sometimes Michael didn’t like her doing that, but often he appreciated the gesture, because he saw the other kids playing with each other and the adults jabbering things he couldn’t understand and he wanted to cry. If someone asked him, he’d never be able to explain, but he wanted to cry.
Before any sob could start, his mother would come as if by instinct. “What do I need to do to get a smile from my boy? Maybe an ice cream? Maybe you want a new toy? Huh?” That was when she’d rub her face against his, and when their faces separated, some strands of blonde hair had their ends stuck to her mouth because of the lipstick. Inside, Michael thought it was funny, but outwardly not much showed on his face yet, and as always, it was all right.
His mother was patient with him even when his expression stayed the same, and she didn’t tell him to change that face or she would take him home. She listened to him, loved him too much, and now that Michael thought about it, he was hers before he was his. He was her boy.
Then why didn’t you take me with you?
Did he forget? His father hadn’t played fair during the divorce, had made her the enemy of everyone, and that was why Michael confirmed what he had said about her. Changing a little boy’s mind was easy, especially when he wasn’t even sure of his own feelings. He shouldn’t have lied—that wasn’t what a smart kid would’ve done—because even after that nothing got better for him. He had lost his comforting figure and there wasn’t another one he was sure would pick him up and tell him it was okay to cry. If he started sobbing near his father, even quietly, in two minutes he would start to cry for a real reason. Little girls cried for nothing. But that wasn’t all; there was that face. Nobody put up with that face he often had, those eyes that followed the movement of things around him almost closing, and the mouth always set in no-smile. A loser's face, that’s what it seemed. His father didn’t like it and the other kids didn’t like it either. If they were playing and laughing together only to turn and see Michael sitting in a corner with that face as if he had a stomachache, they got bothered.
“What’s the deal?” one of them would ask.
Michael would answer “nothing.” There was nothing wrong, but those brats didn’t like “nothing” as an answer—few people did—which would make them ask, "So why that face?" and Michael would just shrug. That was when they gave him an ultimatum: if you don’t want to play, go away. He did want to play, but he didn’t like all the dumb rules to be able to (he broke them every time), so he’d sit and watch them have fun instead and only came close to smiling when one of them tripped and skinned both knees. He wasn't able to laugh because in two seconds he’d see the torn skin and the little blood stains, and it was too disgusting for a laugh.
Now that he was an adult, Michael thought those dumb kids felt offended, maybe even inadequate, because of him. That's why they had to act, but it wasn’t fair; Michael hadn’t done anything to them, and they were the ones who "accidentally" spilled a large cup of soda on his head after he refused to leave.
After all these years, seeing someone willing to make him stay was funny. Mike wanted him to admit he was a poor soul inside so he could fix him and get him to live with his sister, which wasn’t possible. The situation felt the same: behave as expected of you or you’re out. It must be because he wasn’t the reason Mike wanted him around but Vanessa. It was another childhood thing that instead of dying had lived with him. Everyone always wanted to play with Vanessa and do things for her, including Michael himself. As a kid, he thought he should have come first when it was about playing, but he didn’t.
“Can we play just us?” That question from Michael always made his sister scratch her head and look away, taking a whole sip of soda to answer, and before she could, one of her friends would grab her arm and run off with her to another spot saying that if Michael wanted to play it would be with everyone. But he didn’t like them and it was obvious they didn’t like him either. They put up with him because he was their friend’s brother, in the same way Mike only put up with him for the same reason.
Michael probably couldn’t be loved—he’d have to be someone else for that, someone he definitely wasn’t. There were so many bad things inside him that were totally his. They weren’t his father’s and he couldn’t escape them. He wasn’t a good person.
Mom, can you tell me I deserve someone to like me even if something in me is so bad?
She couldn’t have said any of that to him—he hadn’t seen her in years—but he could imagine her voice saying what she might have said: he was lost, confused, and probably since childhood. What made him an adult now? His face or his age? His height? All the time it was as if he were playing at being one. Mike was right, he was trying too hard to be his father, but he wasn’t like him despite wanting to be. Seeing the wounds and the blood made his own blood run and left his skin feeling cold, clammy. He wanted to squeeze his own arms hard, as if they would suddenly appear on him. He didn’t have his father’s cold eyes for that shit, but he also didn’t have his sister’s humanity for compassion. Seeing that guy from… what were they called again?… oh, the Spectral Scoopers. Seeing that guy from the Spectral Scoopers die wasn’t a comedy for Michael, but he was dead and he didn’t care. And even then, he didn’t meet all the requirements to make his father proud.
“You’ll never make it,” his father had told him with a smile. “You tried it all, but you’ll never be enough. It’s a shame, and that’s not something you can change, is it?”
Why can’t you ever trust me? I’m trying!
And what did the attempts show? Not cold-blooded enough to dunk hands in blood. No compassion at all to ease other people’s pain. Empathy wasn’t his strong suit. Looking at Mike then didn’t bring shame or despair, but irritation. Because he had seen him cry—because he had made him cry—and had made him listen to a mass of shit until his head hurt so much reality changed. Michael had warned him from the start that he wouldn’t accept who he really was, no matter what the mask he wore that made it seem like it carried all the evil he showed said to him. That idiot insisted. Didn’t he think Michael had tried before to find options that would hurt him less?
“Tell the truth” ?
Tell the truth? You want me to tell you the truth, fuckface? There it is: I still have no regrets
That guy was unbearable. Mike thought he and his dumbass superhero complex could perform miracles, but he couldn’t change him. Michael just liked to mess around; he wouldn’t be convinced. He wouldn’t be a traitor, and the idea of keeping in touch with Vanessa, who kept in touch with that wet rat, made him want to vomit. He hated the way Mike looked at him, especially at that moment, as if he saw Michael as a child who just threw a tantrum. He hated Mike as a whole and not just because of his father. He hated everyone without even trying.
“You okay?” Mike asked, and it must have been because Michael had been staring at him up until that moment, surely making faces.
As if he cared about that.
If it weren’t for Vanessa, he wouldn’t even look him in the face. What he wanted was to see the day after that, when he would tell her he had fixed her dear little brother and now she could go be happy. She would be grateful to him, they would hug, kiss—a rom-com ending straight out of a Meg Ryan movie—and it would be goodbye restaurants and hello each other’s houses. It wasn’t like Mike saw him as anything more than an obstacle or Vanessa’s brother. It would be the same as always, but Michael liked to test the waters.
“You think I’m a bad person, don't you?” he asked.
Mike opened his mouth immediately to answer, then closed it. He must have thought it would be the confession he’d tried so hard to get out of him or a pitiful apology. Fool, idiot. His eyes spun around the corners of the room, as if asking the objects around to come to life and give him an answer, but he definitely knew the answer had to come from him.
“Not like that... Actually, I just think you’re really stupid and immature.”
How cold—there wasn’t even a “but” in that sentence. After all those minutes in which Michael had considered continuing to pretend to be normal, forcing himself to try to kill an intrinsic part of himself—the same as trying to pull a huge plant up by the roots—after having a breakdown, after crying in front of him, after saying a bunch of emotional bullshit, he still had to hear something like that. The least understanding person he’d ever met. It seemed to fit, though.
Michael couldn’t win understanding since all his traits combined didn’t even add up to 20% of his sister’s genuine goodness or her charisma. There was nothing to be done—she was a good person—and he thought about how much of himself he’d have to suppress and how much of someone else he’d need to put into himself before there’d be anyone there worthy of affection. At that moment, what would make Mike feel sympathy for him, even temporarily? A confession of remorse? An apology—did he still expect one? Michael had already apologized. Although he knew the sincerity of those apologies had been questioned by everyone, expecting a sincere one was innocent. It was true he could have regretted Vanessa's death; she was his last piece of family and the only person he could talk to and be understood in return. The only person who would give him love for free. But why would he care whether Mike lived or died? He was nobody in Michael’s life and had contributed to his father’s death. Any good feeling for him, if it ever existed, would be fleeting. But! Mike still wanted a sincere apology, and what would that change?
Will you be nice to me if I apologize?
Maybe—Michael felt tempted to test it because the nature of the thing excited him. What do I have to do for you to like me? What do I have to do for you to hate me? Emotions tended to feel fleeting, changing roughly with the immediate scene, and what Michael knew was that everything he felt always turned into anger by the end, no matter what. The anger Mike felt toward him at the moment of an apology would turn into: compassion. Or so he predicted.
Michael turned to his side and sat with both knees pressed to the floor, now able to see Mike’s full profile and wondering if he was taller than him even while sitting below him. Obviously not, but the joke was worth it. His next thought was how he would do it: he’d say the words in a low voice so they’d sound remorseful, and pronounce them fast between pauses or cut between sentences so they wouldn’t sound robotic or rehearsed, but real and immediate. And he wouldn’t keep looking into Mike’s eyes constantly because that would seem cold, but he also wouldn’t stare at the space around them the whole time because that would make it seem he didn't give a crap.
“That makes sense,” Michael said, keeping his voice low and not brave. “Listen... I'm sorry for what I did. I’m talking about you and your sister. I didn’t think much about anything at the time. You're right, I'm immature, and I’m really trying to say this—I’ve been trying to say this, but it’s hard to say I regret it all because I’m ashamed of what I did and afraid of what it means. I tried to kill my own sister and other people and how do you think that sounds to me now when I think about it? I can’t even look at her face.”
Michael swallowed hard, as if holding back more crying. After his three seconds of anguished staring at the floor, he lifted his face to Mike, and in that softened face there was what he had been looking for: understanding. Clear and directed only at him. His pathetic character had stirred compassion.
“You’re right, it’s hard to think about it,” Mike said, now sitting more toward the edge of the couch. “But you regret it and that already changes a lot now. That’s something, I guess.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.” But his voice sounded uncertain. Maybe because Mike wasn’t the most confident person to assert such a thing. “We’ll get through it.”
Michael let his eyes agree for him and rose from the floor. The lamp in the center of the ceiling cast its light over the room at a low brightness again. Natural and expected, not too bright. If he pressed his palms against the walls, the more insistently he did, the redder his skin would get—the walls seemed hard again and what would take them down would be a wrecking ball, not human hands.
“Oh yeah, and—” Mike was still talking. He was standing now too and Michael still had to look down to look at him. “Are you going to keep living with your sister?”
Why? Because if he didn’t live there she’d be arrested for neglecting a minor? What the hell was that question?
“You see me as a kid or what?” Anger wasn’t dominant in Michael's voice—actually, he wanted to laugh.
“You two don’t live together?”
“I wasn’t going to live with her, come on. I’m not your sister’s age. She wanted... well, she wants me to keep in touch, but there’s not much basis for that. I’m not sure we’ll keep seeing each other. We think very differently.” Before Mike could assume he meant death and blood, he clarified, “About our father and what he left now that he’s dead. I don’t think we can agree on anything.”
They had lost something; they looked at each other now and something that had existed before was gone, and it had been that way for a long time. In the few days he’d spent with Vanessa, he felt it. She missed a brother she no longer had, and the worst part was that there were no more masks to fall away—this wasn’t a boy kept hidden for years because he hadn’t been fully developed then. The boy simply hadn’t grown into continuing to be what he’d been at the start, or to be what Vanessa thought he was before. Things simply take different directions than we expect. Mike saw everything from a different perspective because of her pain whenever the subject came up, but when Michael actually left, Vanessa would be relieved, he was sure. Although...
“You don’t need to cut me out of your life just because we don’t agree on that." Words from Vanessa four or three days ago.
They were arguing about the conservatorship he’d secured to keep his father’s company from being dismantled while he “remained missing.” Without a death certificate, the inheritance would stay blocked until the legal deadline, but it was enough to prevent bigger losses and handle other legal matters. In a few years, maybe he’d even have true authorship.
“I have plans for myself,” he told Mike. “And believe me, they’re awesome.”
Michael planned to rekindle everyone’s passion for his father’s creations, reviving the franchise, which had already shown signs of recovery since Fazfest. His sister didn’t like the idea much, saying it wasn’t healthy for him and that maybe it was a good time for him to distance himself from “that” (she meant their father, but wouldn’t say it explicitly). Michael disagreed; he had a legacy to continue and it wasn’t only out of duty. He loved his father despite everything he might hate in him, and his devotion to him was the only thing that made any sense in his life. Without him, there was only confusion and despair, and a powerful urge to feel his own neck snap. The idea of giving it all up and living a life like his sister’s made him nauseous. Truly sick—he hadn’t been made for that. It didn’t suit him. Despite trying, he couldn’t be like them.
“Whatever. No matter what I do, she’ll keep going without me, no problem. You’re her family now and I’m not so important anymore.”
He had turned toward the exit, ready to take a step forward, but Mike placed a hand on his shoulder. It was a firm grip, though not desperate. Michael had a déjà-vu feeling.
“What are you saying? She cares about you," Mike said. "If she wants you to stay, so why not? I mean, keeping in touch now and then would be nice, right?”
Michael tilted his head. It wasn’t a bad idea; staying alone was a necessary but painful decision. It sucked to chat to the wind and the voices in his head. The animatronics couldn’t love him or be loved by him no matter how much he tinkered with them—he wasn’t his father. Keeping in contact with Vanessa carried a strong appeal. He loved her, hated Mike... something good could come of it. Michael could stay there pretending to be a wounded, pitiful rabbit being cared for when in reality the rabbit had a contagious virus and they’d all go insane and die sooner than expected. Happy ending.
“Sounds good to me,” Michael said with a genuine smile—it truly sounded good to him. “Thank you, Mike.”
He put a hand over Mike’s hand on his shoulder. He left it there for a few seconds, feeling Mike’s skin and sweat (what was he so nervous for?), then lowered it while holding Mike’s hand so he’d remove it from his shoulder. It wasn’t abrupt or rude, but slow and gentle.
“Oh, and..." He paused. Some things needed you to pause before saying them or it looks like you're heartless. "I’m sorry about your brother.”
He wasn't sorry about anything. He couldn't care less, but compassion was a way to make people like you and remember you. Not that he cared about being remembered—he worked better in the shadows—but he felt satisfied with the idea that Mike would remember him. Maybe Mike would see him in dreams, or in nightmares he’d mistake for dreams.