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Micheal Afton was not a good person- he would be the first to admit that. If he was, then maybe he wouldn't be the last Afton kid alive. Perhaps, even, his father would bother coming back home, or at the very least pay the bills. He wasn't, though, and really, a roof over his head was more than he could ask for. He knew that he did not deserve even that much. So, he continued on, rationing the few frozen pizzas and canned goods that were in the house. And, sure, it took a while for the pizzas to dethaw while sitting out on the counter in a patch of sun, but it was better than cold beans, even though he had far less of them in the freezer. Still, he didn't have much left anymore, and he's sure his extended absence from school (because his father wasn't there to drive him, and it was too far to reasonably walk) had been noticed. (As if it hadn't. Even before William ceased stopping by at all, the man never drove him there after the first week. It was too far to walk, and their home was far too secluded for any of the bus routes to pass by.)
Micheal deserved it, though. Deserved to have Evan's best friend Fredbear plush stare mockingly at him from its place on the boy's bed every time he sobbed himself to sleep on that bedroom floor. Deserved to have Elizabeth's favorite tea set, with all her favorite plushies, watch on in perceived anger as he paraded around the room, carefully cleaning the dust that would inevitably settle off of every surface as if the bright redhead was ever going to come back home. (She wasn't. Neither of them were. Mother didn't. Liz wouldn't. Evan wouldn't. And father? As much as he missed the man's presence for the sole fact of what he could provide, he didn't miss the biting words or blooming bruises he always left in his wake, even if Micheal knew that he deserved them.)
He had created a sort of routine, over the few months that he had been completely alone in his house that seemed freezing in its vast emptiness. He'd wake up around noon, scrape a dry toothbrush across his teeth (he hasn't had water in a while, and it hardly rained enough to be of any actual use) to obtain some semblance of hygiene, raid his father's bathroom for his deodorant (because smelling his scent at all times was better than the stench he's sure he had accumulated without a proper bath or shower), and waste the day away doing nearly nothing before treating himself to a lackluster dinner. Of course there were minor steps, in the in-between, like the time he spent wailing to the heavens to bring his baby brother ans sister back from the dead on Evan's now-rumpled bed, or staring at himself in the mirror, only able to see his father's reflection with crimson dripping down his mangled limbs. But, any acknowledgment of those activities was needless. Redundant. Shameful.
It had continued like that, for far longer than Micheal had bothered to keep track of.
Until there was a knock at the front door, shaking him from his reddened spiraling.
Michael didn't like this break in routine. (Routines were simple, easy to understand. He appreciated that.)
He threw his black hoodie back on and trekked to the front door, anyway.
With little fanfare, he swung the faded red door open, expecting maybe an officer inquiring about his absence in school, or even a particularly enthusiastic salesman selling some shitty product nobody needed. Instead, he was met with a plump man with a scruffy beard and brunette curls spotted with gray. A round face and kind brown eyes framed by thick glasses and a smattering of freckles.
It was Henry fucking Emily, and Micheal didn't know how to respond to that.
"My boy," Henry began, seemingly somber. "How have you been?"
"I've been fine," he muttered, shifting from side to side as the awkward tension of the situation began to weigh down on him. "What's- is everything alright?"
He hadn't seen Henry in over a year, now- maybe more, depending on how long he'd been in this god-forsaken house. Dropping by out of nowhere, just for a chat, didn't make sense, even for a man as eccentric as Henry Emily was. There had to be something. There always was. Micheal wasn't worth anyone's time, otherwise.
"I'm afraid the worst has come to be, my dear boy," the man sighed, taking his glasses off before dragging a hand down his face. He looked old- ancient and weary- like he had at Charlie's funeral those handful of years ago. And that- that scared Micheal. To see the years of grief pouring through kind, honey eyes was not a good sign. It couldn't be. "Your father-" Micheal held his breath, waiting for the man to tell him that the man had too fallen to his own creations, but it never came. "Your father has been arrested, Mike. For… for all of it."
He thinks that he would have rather heard the gruesome tale of William's death, perhaps torn to shreds in a mess of chunks and matter inside of his favorite springlock suit in a fit of tragic irony. At least then, the consequences would be dead- absolute. It would mean that his father, as terrible as he was, wasn't the monster that he had feared for so long. The monster he had been furious at for taking his little sister, his best friend Charlie, and the life from the local children. At taking the joy from Hurricane, Utah. It would mean that he wouldn't have to face that monster in the mirror.
"I'm sorry, Micheal," Henry ducked his head. "Truly. But I," the man sighed," I didn't come here just to drop the terrible news on you. I want to take you home- you're far too young to be on your own, kid."
"I'm fourteen," He huffed, focusing on the small issue at hand rather than the one that loomed. "I can take care of myself, sir." It wasn't exactly true, if his marred limbs and rapidly depleting food stock was anything to go by, but Henry didn't need to know that. The man had enough on his plate as it was.
"Then will you come just to soothe this poor old man's heart? I couldn't bear leaving you alone, Mike. I've already left you for far too long."
"But I look like Him," the words tumbled out of his mouth without his permission, the open pit of longing forever rooted in his chest opening up at the barest modicum of affection that he had been granted. "Why would you want me around? I-"
"You are nothing like your father, my dear boy," Henry interrupted him, voice stern in a way that had him flinching before he could even register the action. A hand was laid on his shoulder, gentle despite its firm warmth. "You're a bright kid who was dealt a bad hand- nothing more."
Micheal doesn't remember the last time he had hugged somebody, launching himself forward like a needy toddler, voice choked with emotions. Yet, he found himself with handfuls of Henry's shirt, shoulders shaking with silent sobs he wasn't aware that he had in him. (He would have thought himself cried out by now.) The warm arms that quickly encircled him were foreign and nearly suffocating in their comfort, but he was like a moth to a flame, soaking it up even as it seemed to alight his starved nerves.
"You'll be alright, kiddo," Henry murmured into the matted, brunette mop he called hair, his calloused fingers carding through said mop as well as he could manage and scraping against his scalp in a way that Micheal didn't know that he could miss. "Uncle Henry's here now, aye?" He found himself nodding near frantically.
He didn't deserve this- this gentleness. This comfort. This kindness. Micheal wasn't good. Micheal wasn't worthy. He was selfish, though- oh so very selfish- and he couldn't help but lap up all that Henry was offering like a dying dog.
He wasn't sure how long they remained like that, blocking the doorway, Micheal crying like a child. (Like he had so often tortured Evan for.) Eventually, though, Henry stepped them into the house, kicking the door shut with his foot, and guiding them to the dusty couch. (It wasn’t like he ever had a reason to sit on it, anymore. No power, no TV, no need for the couch.) He had to admit that it was far more comfortable than standing, stiff-legged, in the open door. And, being able to sit made him feel all the more secure in Henry’s embrace, able to curl up like he was the tiny kid that had hung off of his Uncle Henry like a jungle gym instead of the five-foot-five teen he was in actuality. They remained like that a while more- far longer than Micheal deserved, and certainly long enough to wear out Henry’s generosity.
“You want me to help you pack, kiddo?” Henry asked long after Micheal’s tears had run dry and his eternally chilled form had begun to finally warm.
“I don’t need much,” Micheal muttered, and it was true. He’d been surviving off of only a little for so very long. (Too long, the voice of his bitter, inner child seethed, lashing out at the world that just wasn’t fair.) He didn't need a lot. He could do without just fine.
“Take what you want, not just what you need,” Henry sighed for seemingly the umpteenth time that afternoon, but his tone was soft, and there was no detectable malice slithering amongst the kind syllables. “And I’ll get you anything else you want too, Mike. Don’t be afraid to ask for anything.”
Now he knew that Henry was most certainly talking out of his ass, spilling sweet words like the lure to a trap- nothing but poisoned honey. Nobody had ever offered him more than what he needed to get by. More than a few outfits to last the week, or just enough shampoo to ration for a few months. Hell, all of his eyeliner that his father hated, and his beloved silver chain that never left its spot resting against his clavicle, was stolen, or a gift from his mother. (Late mother, his inner child still screeched. It was him- you know it was him.) What would make Henry different? It had been so long- too long- since he had even seen the man, let alone talked to him. What would make him care? He was only Micheal- the last Afton. Arguably the worst Afton. (He could have saved his sister, his mother, his brother. Stopped his father. Saved lives. But he hadn’t. He was selfish.)
It turns out, Henry hadn’t been lying, because Micheal had a room of his own (Charlie’s room, his heart cried), painted his favorite color of stone blue, in the man’s home. He had a bed, topped with new, crisp yellow sheets, Evan’s Fredbear plush and Elizabeth’s favorite teddy bear (which appeared to be in desperate need of patching up) resting by the freshly fluffed pillows. There was a dresser in the same bright yellow, two drawers filled with his clothes, Henry promising to take him shopping later to buy a proper wardrobe (whatever that meant). There was even a desk on the far wall by a window with plain white blinds, a spattering of rudimentary office supplies on it. It was… overwhelming, to say the least. Fucking ridiculous, to say the most. (What had he done to deserve this? What would be taken away in a moment's notice? What was he expected to give in return?)
He found himself… lost, sitting on the comfiest mattress he had ever had the pleasure of feeling, even if it was only a twin. It was as if Henry had been preparing this, had been anticipating this- anticipating him. Or, how long had his father been behind bars? Micheal never bothered to check the paper. It could have been days- weeks- for all he knows. Certainly long enough for Henry to prepare… whatever game this was. (And, if his forearms were sluggishly bleeding again under the black sleeves of his hoodie from his absent picking, that was between him and whatever fucked up God existed out there.)
There was a knock on the door.
"Micheal?"
"Y-yeah?" He stuttered, internally smacking himself, remembering all the times that he had laughed so very cruelly at Evan's inability to finish a sentence without at least one stutter. (It hurt. It hurt because there was nothing Micheal could do to rectify all that should have never occurred. It was too late, and Micheal had to live with that- live while Evan and Liz couldn't.)
"Can I come in to talk to you, kiddo? It's alright if you need space. I promise I won't be mad." His tone was calm, deliberate. Not a speck of deceit could be detected, but still, Micheal feared. Feared what would happen once the man he had once declared his beloved Uncle came through the door in all his aged glory. Yet, he feared what would happen if he refused far more. (Saying 'no' to an adult never ended well.)
"That's fine," he muttered, just loud enough so that the sound carried through to the other side of the door. It opened a moment later with hardly a creak of the hinges. (Back home, the doors always creaked. He had thought it ironic, since his father had spent so much time oiling the hinges of his fucking animatronics.) Henry took a seat on the end of his bed- close, but not enough to make Micheal uncomfortable. (He appreciated it, more than he could say, as wary as he still was.)
"How you holding up, bud?" The man started off, leaned forward ever so slightly, hands clasped, and elbows on his knees.
"'M fine," he murmured, and, he wasn't sure when he had grabbed Evan's Fredbear plush, but it was in his lap, the sickly yellow fur of its small, round ears twisting between his fingers as he stared into its beady little eyes. He hated the thing, if only for his own self loathing, but it was better than looking at Henry. Better than having to stare this new reality in the face. (Literally.)
"You like the room?" Micheal nodded. Henry just signed. "I'm sorry, Mike. I know this is… different."
"'S fine." And it was. Everything was always fine because complaints weren't acceptable. Complaints got him a new black eye, or a new reason to stare at the crimson he hated yet could never get enough of.
"It's not, kiddo. It's okay to say that. I won't make you talk, but you can come to me if you need, okay?" A hand clasped him on the shoulder, clearly friendly in intent, but he couldn't help the minute flinch. (He never could. Not after Evan.) "Dinner will be ready in about half an hour. Just spaghetti- nothing special. I'll call for you, but don't feel pressured to come down, okay? Just make sure you eat something before bed." There was silence for a moment, before the hand left his shoulder and his bed shifted as Henry got up. "You're a good kid, Mike. Don't forget that." And then he was alone.
"Mikey!" Evan laughed, sky blue eyes glossy in mirth rather than bitter sorrow. The sky was clear, but his little brother's expression of joy was better than any sunny day. With a chuckle of his own, he pushed the tire swing again, sending the boy away with a shriek of joy. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Charlie entertaining Elizabeth with a grin, shaking one of the girl’s dolls for a reason he wasn’t privy to. He could hear Uncle Henry and his wife in the kitchen behind them, just barely able to spot their silhouettes through the lacy curtains that covered the window that spied into the room.
It was everything he had ever wanted.
It was painted in shades of rusty red a moment later.
He shot up in bed, a scream stuck in the back of his throat that he desperately choked down. He was met with the bright colors of his new room (of what was once Charlie’s), but all he could see was the mangled face of his little brother. Head split open, Chunky matter that he didn’t want to think about spewing from the wound like someone had split a bowl of chili. An eye was bulged like it was one more push from popping out, sky tinted gaze widened in eternal fear. It was the face that had haunted him nearly every night since he had seen it, clamped between Fredbear’s unforgiving jaws, the jolly sound of its programmed tune still coming through the suit's voicebox as if it hadn’t just become a killing machine.
A glance at the digital clock on his bedside table showed that it was only eight o’clock. He wasn’t sure exactly when he had fallen asleep, curled up on top of his yellow comforter with the Fredbear plush in his arms, but he knew that it had been after six. He knew he wasn’t going to get back to sleep, either. (It was a miracle he had fallen asleep in the first place.)
There was a knock on the door. (For a moment, he was back in his bathroom, arms dripping red as he longed to slash his own reflection in half if only to stop seeing his father’s face for a second. He was back just before Henry had turned his world upside down- before the monster his father so obviously was became inescapable.)
“Micheal? There’s leftovers in the fridge, if you want them. If not, there’s enough for sandwiches, and there’s cans of soup in the pantry.” There was a pause, as if Henry wanted to say more, but decided against it- or rather, couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Good night, Micheal. And don’t worry about school at the moment, okay? You can go back when you’re ready. Sweet Dreams.” He waited until the man’s footsteps had faded down the hall before he allowed himself to relax- for his chest to let the breath it had held hostage to escape, and for his shoulders to slump in relief. He didn’t have the heart to tell Henry that he hadn’t been to school in so long that he was probably marked as a drop-out.
He bided his time for another hour or so- until he was sure that Henry was asleep. (It wasn’t hard to tell, as he had always snored rather loudly. His wife- or ex, rather- had jokingly claimed that it was the real reason that she had left. Micheal was just glad that they had parted on relatively good terms. Glad she hadn’t been forced to meet the same fate his own mother had.) Then, on socked feet (because they were far quieter), he made his way downstairs and into the kitchen, still stepping as lightly as he could, and opened the fridge with practiced precision. He grabbed the packaged ham lunch meat, a slice of the american cheese that Henry had always adored but Micheal could never get the appeal of, and the bottle of plain yellow mustard. It had been a while since he had had a homemade, warm meal, but the microwave was loud, and putting a plate of spaghetti in the oven just seemed a bit strange. Plus, the thought of biting into a sandwich (like he had on hot summer days at his Uncle Henry’s, a cool glass of lemonade always ready for drinking as they played like the kids they were) after so long of cold, soggy pizza and slimy canned goods was delightful.
And it was. Sitting at the rickety wooden table that he remembered Henry always having (he had insisted on making it himself, and it had stood the test of time, despite all odds), munching on what he would have once considered a bland, boring meal, he felt as if he had ascended. And, perhaps it was a bit dramatic to put it so, but Micheal had always been a little dramatic. (‘Drama Queen, Drama Queen!’ He still heard Charlie’s teasing tone ringing in his head, her bubbly laugh echoing throughout his memories. He missed her. Missed them all.) He still listened for movement, years of the threat of being locked in his room if he was caught outside of it- let alone eating- looming on his mind, but he found himself more relaxed than he had thought possible. This moment of peace likely meant that things were going to go to shit soon, but for now, he allowed himself to enjoy it.
When he was done, he hid the paper towel he had made his sandwich on at the very bottom of the trash can- just to be safe- and made sure that everything was exactly where he had gotten it from. (Henry had said he could make something, but he didn't know if the man was serious. It could be a trick. It usually was with his father.) Back upstairs, he readied himself for a rather long night of ignoring the ghosts of his past screaming his failures at him. (It wasn't as if it was unusual. It was how his nights usually went.)
Around three in the morning, he had reluctantly unfurled himself from atop the yellow comforter, staring his little siblings' plushies right in their beady eyes, and moved to the desk. It didn't have much- Henry had said they'd get more, later- but it had blank sheets of paper tucked away in a drawer, and a few pencils and pens in a little metal basket. He hadn't drawn in years, if he were honest with himself (his father had called his doodles childish despite being the inspiration for Foxy the Pirate, though he's beginning to think thst that was due to Henry’s influence rather than William's. That, and his so-called friends- the ones who abandoned him with damning pointing fingers as soon as the golden coat of Fredbear had been painted a sickly crimson- had said that it was girlish.) But, there wasn't anyone around anymore to tell him otherwise, so he wasted the time by doodling whatever came to mind. From badass robots and aliens, to small, almost hesitant drawings of his once favorite character Foxy. It was rough, and he'd lost a lot of his previous skill, but it distracted him from his ever-whirring mind (the mind that wouldn't let him forget Evan's lifeless stare. The blood that stained the crevices on Circus Baby's stomach, Charlie's favorite pink hairband around his wrist, or his father's blood-stained wedding ring) and that was enough.
When he awoke, unsure as to when he had fallen into a dreamless sleep on the cold, hard wood of the desk, pencil fallen fallen the floor and cheek now marked with hints of graphite, the fuzzy yellow throw blanket that had been folded at the end of his bed was around his shoulders, and Evan's fredbear plush now rested against the container he had plucked his pencil from, standing watch. He groaned as the vestiges of slumber still clung to his psyche like a castaway to driftwood, rubbing it away with a fist across his crusted eyes. A glance behind him at the alarm clock showed that it was just after seven in the morning- more rest than he had gotten in a long time. Uninterrupted, at least.
He could hear Henry flitting about in the kitchen, and with a deep breath, he stepped outside the room and headed toward the noise. Father always required that he see them before he headed off for the day, if only to drill it into their skulls that nothing was to go wrong that day or he would not be… pleased. He figured that Henry was the same. After all, why wouldn't he be?
"Ah! Good morning, Michael!" The man greeted with a grin, a mug (with the classic #1 dad decal, of course- though he could still see the marks from when Charlie had crossed it out with a sharpie to read #1 moron instead) of coffee on the counter beside him. He was at the stove, sizzling pan before him, and glasses slightly fogged from the heat. He half-expected him to be in a crisp suit as his father always was by five am sharp, but he supposed that Henry never was a suit kind of man. (Excluding the strangely colored and patterned ones that he would wear around Fredbear's Family Diner when he wasn't in the springlock suit.) Instead, he was clad in a pair of flannel pants and an oversized shirt with a few old paint stains on it- the same lavender that Charlie's room once was. (He chose not to dwell on it. Father never liked it when he cried in front of him, and he didn't deserve to show such weakness when he himself had punished Evan for it, time and time again.) "Sleep well, I hope? If a bit uncomfortable. Do try and sleep in your bed tonight, yeah?" Henry just laughed, as if the whole situation wasn't serious. As if he hadn't done wrong by falling asleep somewhere that he shouldn't have. (Henry was strange. It confused Micheal. Micheal didn't like being confused. That's how he and others got hurt.)
"Sorry, sir," he flushed, ducking his head in embarrassment as he shuffled awkwardly in the kitchen doorway.
"No matter," Henry sighed- lightheartedly, this time, not weighed down by the tragedies of Hurricane. "I trust you like eggs and bacon? Think I've got enough flour for pancakes, if not." Now that- that also threw him for a loop. Father never made breakfast- not for himself, and certainly not for his children. Only his mother ever had, and she was… gone before Evan had even turned five. (Lizzy had been six, and she had cried for days on end, wailing about how daddy had said that her words would help mommy, not send her away.) He'd almost think it a trick if it wasn't clear that Henry was cooking more than one person could reasonably eat. (And the Emilys could eat. Charlie could have put any of those competitive eaters to shame- he'll still swear by it. Damn the Emilys and their fast metabolisms.)
"That's fine, sir," he squeaked. God, could he be any more pathetic? He needed to get it together- to show that he wasn't some weak little kid that needed bravery beat into him.
"Enough with the sir," Henry huffed, waving at him to take a seat at the little breakfast nook. "You don't have to call me Uncle if you don't want- I get you're a big kid now," he cut himself off with a quiet chuckle. "But please, at least call me Henry. I'm not some all-powerful lord of the house- just an old man who likes his sweets."
"Yes, si- uh, Henry." He kept his gaze trained on the wood grain of the table. (It was a chipping white, now. He remembered many breakfasts spent here after yet another night of sleeping over at the Emily's. Whether it was just him and Charlie or Evan and Liz tagged along too, it was always filled with bubbling laughter and sticky syrup.) A plate was set in front of him not long after, stacked with a helping of scrambled and cheesy eggs, a handful of bacon, and buttered toast. ('Jelly is gross,' he pouted up at his Uncle Henry, only five years old, holding the bread up for the man to take. 'Of course,' he had responded, handing him another like it was no trouble in the world.) "Thank you," he murmured, and all he got in return was a pat on the head in response. It was gentle, and Micheal found that he didn't flinch this time.
"Eat up," Henry said as he sat down across from him, his own plate stacked high. "And don't be afraid to grab seconds, my boy. There's plenty more where that came from." Micheal wasn't sure that he could even finish the plate that he had. (He hadn't eaten this much in far too long.)
Henry allowed them to eat in silence, nothing more than the occasional scraping of forks and the munching of food audible over the chirping of the early morning birds outside. (It made him think of the baby bluejay Evan had found, alone and abandoned outside, once. He had begged Micheal to help get it back to its nest, and he had. Father hadn't been happy at the injuries he had sported afterward from the angry momma bird, but Evan's smile had been worth it. It made him wonder when he had switched from the caring older to one of the many reasons his siblings cried. Made him wonder why he had changed at all.) It was nice, in a way, as much as it pulled at his heartstrings. Familiar yet not. Terrifying yet peaceful. Here, he could almost forget about the fact that his father was rotting behind bars- about the monster of the man that had commandeered nearly all that had befallen his unfortunate hometown.
"Anything you wanna do today, Mike?" Henry asked as he swept the mostly empty plate up before Micheal could even offer to wash the dishes. Sly bastard. "If you're up for it, we could go get some new clothes? Or anything you want, really. I don't mind." The man offered him a grin, and Micheal knew that any attempt to return it would be pathetic and ultimately disheartening.
"You don't have to get me anything," he insisted. "I have more than enough." He didn't need any more money spent on him- didn't need any more funds wasted. ('Fazbear Entertainment is a very successful business!' Uncle Henry would always say when any of them protested a gift- especially the more extravagant ones like the big, expensive teddy bears they sold around the holidays. 'You never need to worry about money, my boy. And certainly not about my money!")
"Nonsense, Mike!" Henry scoffed, turning off the faucet that he had been running a plate under, shaking his hands out to dry them before swiping them quickly on a hand towel. He was kneeling down in front of him mere seconds later. "I don't know what exactly that bastard of a man did- excuse my French, if you will- to you kids- to you- but I'll be damned if I don't spoil you half to death like you should have been. Kapeesh?"
There was something in his honeyed gaze- something in the way his eyes sparkled, as if they held the secrets of the universe itself. Something in the way his lips quirked up, surrounded by scruffy facial hair laced with salt and pepper. Something in the way plump cheeks were rosy, and his glasses were smudged with fingerprints and held together with duct tape in Charlie's favorite shade of lavender. Something that told him that this was right. Was true.
"Kapeesh," he found himself replying, the word tumbling out of his mouth before the more logical- more fearful- side of his brain could stop it in its tracks.
"Alright," Henry slapped a hand on his knee, patting it a few times before standing with a grunt, using the table to push himself up. "I'll finish up dishes down here, and you go shower and change for the day. Sound like a plan?"
"Yeah," he whispered.
His hair was ruffled and he was shoved light-heartedly towards the stairs.
Henry was strange.
"How do you feel about this one?" Henry held up another god-awful shirt.
"Please no," he groaned, resisting the urge to slap a hand over his face. Maybe, if he hadn't been at this for three hours, his self-preservation instincts would be active, but he was so absolutely fucking over Henry trying to get him to dress business funky. (He'd say business casual, but everything was too… peculiarly patterned.)
"Finally!" The man just laughed, hanging the shirt back where he had gotten it from and wrapped an arm around his shoulders before he could react. "Took you long enough to actually say no." Henry looked like he'd just been handed the sun itself, and Micheal didn't know how to react to that.
"...Huh?" He settled on.
"You outright denied me. That's what I've been trying to get you to do this whole time. This is progress, my boy!" Micheal just raised a questioning brow. "You don't have to understand just yet," Henry continued at the nonverbal prompt. "But you'll get it eventually." He sighed, drawing him closer (and no Micheal didn't relish in the contact. He was far too old for that.) "Let's go find some actual clothes now."
"Please no more polos," Micheal breathed. Henry just grinned. Bastard.
"You seem to like those shirts, my boy," Henry said as Micheal added the fifth plain black shirt to their basket. It wasn't judgemental, though. Even Micheal could tell that much.
"...I like to cut 'em up in different ways," he mumbled, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie, suddenly self-conscious.
"No judgment here, Mikey," Henry held his hands up as if in an attempt to placate his nerves. "Just saying that you might want to look into graphic ones. Might look cooler, yeah?"
"...But they cost more?" It had always been cheaper for Micheal to buy whatever plain shirts were on clearance since his father wouldn't fuel his habit of modifying his clothes. ("You're ruining perfectly good clothes," he'd say. "I won't be funding this obsession with ruining the Afton reputation of yours.")
"To hell with the cost, Mike," Henry shook his head. "I'll take you to the nearest designer store, if you want. I'm not hard on cash- I assure you." Still, Micheal was hesitant. His father hadn't been short on cash, either (considering the fact that they both got their income from the same place), but that didn't mean that he wanted to waste it on the likes of him. "I'll fill your closet with all of the best tees I can find," Henry teased, and finally, he relented. If only because he wouldn't put it past the man. (It certainly seemed like something he'd do.)
"Alright, alright," he huffed, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. "I'll get a graphic tee, or whatever."
By the time they left that particular store, he had eight graphic tees, nine regular shirts, and four new pairs of jeans plus the studded belt that Henry had insisted that he had to get.
Needless to say, Micheal did not understand what was happening.
That weekend, Henry had finally asked him about school.
"Do you think you'll be ready to go back any time soon, Mike? No pressure, of course," he held his hands up for a moment. "Just need to know when to file all the new paperwork."
Now this- this presented quite the dilemma. Micheal had not been to any form of schooling since the first week of the year. He also knew that it was currently the second semester, and Micheal had not seen a day of it.
"Well…" he hummed anxiously, fiddling with his crusty hoodie sleeves. (He kept reopening them, but his sleeves were black so it hid any evidence. He was grateful for that. He just wished he had brought more than one hoodie, and that the ones he had been bought weren't colored.) "I kind of- um- I kinda dropped out?" He winced, expecting yelling or even a well deserved glare. Expected to be sent to his room. To be denied all that Henry had previously insisted on gifting him. Instead, the man made a wounded sound.
“How long has it been since William came home, kiddo?” Micheal’s head shot up, for once looking Henry in the eyes, if only in surprise.
“Well it’s not like I- like I keep up with the time, you know?” He panicked. He wasn’t even sure why he was defending his father. The man had never had any redeeming qualities- charisma excluded. They both knew that. Knew that he was a monster. “You know he worked late a lot…” It was a weak argument. They both knew that, too.
There were arms around him a moment later, a heartbeat pressed to his ear. Warmth was all that he could feel, and for reasons that he could not begik to hope to name, his vision became blurred with fast-forming tears. (You’re feeling loved, his inner child screeched. You’re being loved.)
“I’m so sorry, my dearest boy. I hope one day you’ll find it in your heart one day to forgive my grave incompetence.”
“You don’t need forgiveness,” he wanted to say. “You’re more than enough. Have done more than enough.” Yet, all thst he could manage was a choked sob that was really more of a rather pathetic hiccuping whimper.
Everything was still strange, and it would certainly take a while longer until Micheal could even fathom half of what he should have been experiencing throughout his childhood, but for now, he would cry for the kid that never got to be, safe in his Uncle Henry’s arms. Healing could come later. For now, Micheal needed to finally break.
And break he did.