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The house is utterly silent when Mike gets back.
Just a few weeks ago, it would've been normal. Would've been scarier to come home to anything else — a light on that he hadn't touched, doors opened and others closed, the television flickering light across the empty living room. And he had come home to all of that a good few times before Michael had begun to stay formally, but they're settling into a new normal now, and the silence. That's what's abnormal now.
Living with Michael is sort of like being haunted. Moreso, that is, than him breaking in was. The break-ins, once Mike got used to them, were harmless. More often than not just Michael looking for a place to rest a few hours, maybe something to eat, sometimes a shower. He'd enter a different way each time, climbing through windows or picking locks, and he'd never break anything. Leave behind just enough of a mess to make it known that he'd been there — a move Mike had learnt to recognise as intentional. A declaration, a courtesy.
Living with him, though, is different. He likes to make himself small, scarce. Mike can only assume it's habits left over from whatever a childhood under William Afton was like, a life lived in the same house as a man who hated the sight of anything he couldn't control completely, and apparently hated the sight of his youngest in general. It's near impossible to tell where Michael has been in the house throughout the day, if he's eaten or even been in the kitchen at all, but usually there's a clue or two. An intentional misstep — a chair askew, the television on, a book left out of the bookcase. A little marker of Michael's presence until Mike can find him, usually silent in his bedroom, sometimes in Mike's, often curled up at the edge of the couch with his head ducked down so Mike can't see him over the top of it. That's Mike's least favourite, the little habit that lets him most keenly see the figure of a scared little boy even in Michael's long limbs and sharp features.
He'd gladly take it now though, over the complete lack of anything.
He'd told Michael maybe an hour or two ago that he was taking Abby to her friend's house, dropping her there for a sleepover. It hadn't been all too dark at the time, but winter doesn't mess around and it's now pitch black, freezing cold, all inky darkness outside through the windows and the glass of the door. Mike had asked Michael if he wanted to come — sometimes Michael likes a drive — but his face had twisted and he'd staunchly refused so Mike had let it go. Told him he'd be back in maybe thirty minutes, but Abby's friend's mom — Donna? Diana? God, Mike's a dick — is chatty and he'd been stuck in her kitchen for far too long, politely drinking coffee and nodding and insisting he's got everything at home under control (lie) and he's got good work (lie) and everything is fine (three strikes, Mike).
Really, maybe he's grateful Michael hadn't come. Although, if Michael was by his side, there's no way they would've been invited in for a chat. And at least he would know where Michael is rather than pacing another loop around the house, looking for any sign of him at all. All three bedrooms are still empty, the living room dark, the kitchen untouched. No sign of life anywhere.
Maybe he stepped out. Mike has no godly idea as to where, and the idea of it makes a shot of anxiety that he hates twist in his stomach, but — Christ, okay, Michael's a grown man. A weird, traumatised, deeply unstable one, but a grown man all the same, and he's allowed to step out to…what would Michael be doing? Getting something? Preparing something? Something relating to Freddy's and his father, most likely, and that's so much worse than any alternative. Mike can somehow only imagine him heading straight back to Freddy's, any location, maybe even another one Mike doesn't even know about, and setting into motion another nightmare. Getting himself into yet more trouble, probably getting himself hurt, and Mike hates that it triggers the same fear in him that Abby sneaking off to Freddy's had. He imagines a note in Michael's sharp handwriting, 'Gone to fix my father.'
Mike just doesn't want Michael to get hurt. Not again or—ever. He doesn't want anyone to get hurt anymore. And things at home, even in their new normal, sure aren't easy, but at least Mike hasn't had to patch up himself or anyone else recently. He's way worse at it than Vanessa was, with her formal training and steady experience even beyond that.
Mike can't help but think of William Afton again. What exactly he must've done to his kids to make them so afraid of him. To fuck them both up so bad.
"Michael?" he calls out to the dark, silent house.
He knows it's stupid, but he's worked himself up now, anxiety churning in his gut. There's that prickling at the back of his neck like something bad has happened, is happening, and he needs it to be assuaged. Needs the door to open and Michael to walk in so that the dread crawling up his back can go away.
"Michael," he calls again. "Are you here?"
Somewhere, he swears he hears movement. A tiny shuffle against hardwood, only momentary before silence falls again, but Mike chases it, boots falling heavy against the floors as he races down the hallway.
"Michael!"
He finds himself outside of the bathroom. The door is shut, no light beneath it so he hadn't bothered to check inside, and while half of him is desperate to feel a flood of relief — imagine Michael just sat in the bath or something, imagine that this whole thing has just been Mike being stupid, letting his mind get away from him again — the rest of him can't let go of that awful, creeping dread.
He can't help but notice that there's no sounds of water.
"Michael?" he says. He raps his knuckles against the doorframe, and from inside there's another shuffle, a frantic little burst of movement. Mike can't hear him breathing, as if he's holding his breath. "Michael, are you in there? You okay?"
The silence stretches. Until finally Michael's voice comes, small and tight like Mike hasn't heard it since the night they met, when Michael was talking to his older sister.
"Yes," he says. It's clipped. Unfamiliar. "I'm. I'm here."
Mike swallows. He doesn't know why he feels nauseous. "You okay?" he repeats.
Of all the responses in the world, he isn't expecting Michael to sob.
Mike's stomach drops immediately to the floor, and he thoughtlessly goes for the door handle, trying to push the door open, but it's locked. He shakes the shitty metal handle in his grasp, door banging in his frame, and Michael makes a noise like a scream.
"I'm sorry!" he cries, pitching instantly into terror. A cornered child. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please—"
Mike wrenches away from the door handle like he's been burned. "It's okay!" he rushes out, along with all of the air in his lungs. "Hey, hey, it's okay, Michael, it's me, it's Mike, I'm not mad—"
"I didn't mean to," Michael croaks. "I didn't, I swear, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Dad, please, please don't—"
Mike's gonna throw up. His heart is pounding in his throat, stomach churning, and all he can think is what has Michael done? He opens his mouth to ask exactly that, but Michael sobs again and Mike, thank God, thinks better of a sentence that would sound like an accusation when Michael is already guilty and terrified. His hands are shaking. He desperately wants to go for the door again.
"Michael," he tries, as gently as he possibly can. He knows it's hopeless, but he has to try. "Hey. Michael. It's Mike. Can you unlock the door for me? Please?"
Michael lets out another sob. Mike can hear his breathing now, and it's short and shallow and irregular, coming out in ragged wheezes as he moves again. There's the dull thudding of his heels scrambling against the floor, fabric scraping like he's dragging himself, and Mike's stomach twists hard as he realises that Michael has scrambled away from him. Cowering.
Mike knows it's a stupid idea — would be anyway, but especially when Michael is already so afraid, but, fuck, Mike is scared too. His head is spinning with all of the things Michael could've done, images of empty pill bottles surrounding Michael or him sat in there with a dead body with a knife in its chest, so his mind is made up with no room for hesitation. He squares his shoulders, grits his boots against the floor for purchase as he steels himself.
"Michael," he says, forcing his voice to be steady, "Hey, baby. You're away from the door, yeah? Stay right there. Okay? I'm gonna. I'm gonna get it open."
He doesn't give Michael a chance to cry again before he's driving his shoulder hard into the door, above the handle. Michael screams again, pure raw terror that makes Mike's stomach churn, but the door buckles — cheap fucking house that Mike's never been so grateful for — and it only takes one more hit, much lighter this time, for it to fly open. Mike stumbles inside, and immediately has to catch his palm hard against the newly-cracked doorframe as his foot slips in something. He looks down, brows furrowed, and—
"Shit. Oh, shit."
Blood. It's so much blood. Pooled and smeared across the bathroom floor, a drag path of it leading to Michael cowering in the corner, pale eyes wide and shining in the darkness. Wrists carved open and dripping, darkness soaked into his shirt and trousers and smeared all over pale skin, splattered like he'd attacked himself.
"I'm sorry," Michael weeps.
Numbly, Mike clicks the bathroom light on with a shaking hand, and the inky blackness of the blood illuminates into sickly red, startlingly bright. Within the mess, near submerged in a pool, a blood-soaked razor catches the light and glows. One of Mike's. On the counter, similarly blood-splattered, sits the torn-open pack he'd left thoughtlessly in the cabinet under the sink.
He feels sick. Dazed with guilt and terror and the deep instinctive desire to retch at the sight of all the blood, the sight of the wounds gaping against Michael's sickly pale skin. He's frozen with it, helpless, terrified.
But then Michael sobs again, burying his face against his knees like he thinks he's being left here, and Mike goes to him as if he's never been afraid in his life.
He steps over the blood as best he can and grabs one of the towels from the rail as he goes, crouching in front of Michael.
"Hey," he says, softer than he's ever said anything in his life. He's still shaking. "Hey, baby. It's okay. It's okay. I'm not mad. Nobody's gonna. Nobody's gonna hurt you, okay? Oh, Michael."
"I made a mess," Michael mumbles. "I made—Mike, I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I promise, Michael, it's fine. It's—well. It's not fine, it's. Fuck." Mike's breathing shudders, and with a hand wrapped in the towel he takes one of Michael's blood-soaked forearms as gently as he possibly can. "But it's okay, it's gonna be… I'm gonna patch you up, okay? I'm gonna fix it, it doesn't matter about the—All I care about right now is you."
"I deserve it," Michael croaks. Mike has to swallow hard again. He's sure that now isn't the best time to talk about it, but Michael keeps going then, keeps talking like a kid desperate to explain himself — terrified of consequences, just talking to try and make it better. "I—I—You were gone, and you didn't come back when you said you would, for, for hours, and—and I thought you'd never come back. I thought you left me, like, like Mum and like Father and like Nessa, and—but I know I deserve it, I deserve to be left, and I'm selfish for wanting—And then I started thinking, about everything I've done and everything I deserve and, and—ow, Mike!"
Michael dissolves into heartbreaking sobs again as Mike carefully squeezes the towel around his forearm, blackness soaking steadily through the fabric, and Mike can't think to do anything else but clumsily pull Michael closer. Fuck the mess on the ground, the mess covering Michael, even as it soaks warm and sticky through Mike's clothes as he pulls Michael into his lap, pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead. Michael clings to him as best he can, buries his tear-soaked face into the crook of Mike's neck and cries, and Mike holds him as best he can, sideways across his lap.
God. Fuck. The cuts are deep. Not fatal deep, Mike doesn't think — not that he knows what the fuck that looks like, but the bleeding slows steadily with the pressure from the towel as Mike sits there and holds him. A few minutes later, ten or fifteen or maybe a thousand, when Michael's gone quiet and the blood is cooling under his palm, Mike dares to very gently pull the edge of the towel away, and he's able to look at the wounds with some measure of clarity with less blood soaking pale skin, less fresh blood coming. He wraps the towel back around.
"Can you give me your other arm, baby?" he asks softly, and takes Michael's other wrist carefully when it's weakly offered. He plucks another towel and mops at the thin arm as best he can, inspects it as the blood smears away, twisting it gently in the light so he can see the cuts.
Not as bad, thank God. It's the one in the towel that's the real problem, and Mike has to swallow again as he gingerly pulls the blood-soaked fabric away to take another look. He doesn't even know if any of the wounds need stitches.
"God, I wish Vanessa was here," he whispers, and promptly regrets it. It's a stupid fucking thing to say, and for a moment he tenses with the expectation that it's going to set Michael off again. Instead, Michael only smiles wetly, staring at his own wrists without much emotion.
"She was always really good at this stuff," he replies.
Mike gently wipes some more of the blood away with a cleaner edge of the towel.
"You used to…do this sort of stuff a lot?" he asks tentatively. "Back at…" He almost calls it home. Thinks better of it again.
Michael nods, sort of hazily.
"And…Father would…Nessa had to patch me up a lot."
Mike presses another dry kiss to Michael's face, chest aching, eyes burning.
"It's okay," he says again. "It's okay. I got you this time. Yeah?"
Michael sniffles. "Yeah."
Ironically, the first aid kit is next to where the blades were, under the bathroom sink. It's hard to open with sticky, blood-covered fingers, but Mike manages, and pulls out the hydrogen peroxide and bandages and gauze.
"It's gonna hurt," Michael whines.
"No more than doing 'em did."
"I wasn't thinking about it then." Michael has the gall to breathe a laugh after he says it, and, as insane as he feels, Mike can't help but laugh too, eyes wet.
"You wanna close your eyes?" he offers gently. "Talk to me about something. Tell me about that stupid TV show you watch."
Michael lets his eyes slide closed, and buries his face against Mike's neck again. "It's not stupid."
"The telenovela about the vampires?"
"One vampire. Clara's human."
"And what about the baby?"
"Vlad says the baby isn't his."
"The vampire baby? I'm pretty sure it's his."
Mike mops at Michael's wounds gently as they talk, the soaked pads of gauze washing pink and then red and then being tossed aside for a fresh one. It's ridiculous, but Michael is lax in Mike's arms as they pretend to bicker, even manages a few breathy little laughs, and by the time Mike is winding bandages around Michael's forearms he could almost forget about everything. Michael just looks exhausted. Pale, maybe sickly, but nothing dinner and a good night's sleep couldn't fix.
Somehow, Mike's pretty sure that won't fix this, but fuck if he's not gonna try.
"I'm gonna order us a pizza," he says, as he carefully finishes up the bandages, making sure they're secure. "Or—Chinese food or something—"
"I'm not—"
"I know. But you gotta eat, Michael, you—you lost a lot of blood."
"I've lost more before," Michael says casually. He's smiling wanly, cheek against Mike's shoulder, dead weight against him. Mike exhales.
"Ideally," he says, putting the remainder of the first aid supplies back into the box, now covered in sticky, bloody fingerprints, "You're not gonna lose any more. Ever again."
"Well, that's just unreasonable."
"I'm serious, Michael." It comes out a lot shakier than he means for it to, his voice suddenly tight in his throat. Wet. He feels Michael tense against him, and he desperately wants to make it better but doesn't trust himself not to sob if he opens his mouth again. He wraps Michael up in his arms instead, pulling him close and holding him as tight as he dares to. He feels Michael shudder, and they're silent again for a few minutes.
"I'm sorry, Mike," Michael whispers finally. "I really am."
There's a million things Mike wants to say in response. It's okay. I'm sorry too. Please never do this again. I'd rather you killed me than ever hurt yourself again. I love you.
Instead, he leans in and presses a kiss to Michael's cold lips, tucks a strand of messy hair behind his ear.
"C'mon," he says softly. "Let's get you changed. And you can have a nap while I order."
"Can I have one of your hoodies?" Michael asks, swaying as Mike helps lift him, knees trembling. It's harder to pick him up with Michael unable to wrap his bandaged arms around Mike's neck, but Mike manages, lifts him up bridal-style and carries him out of the bathroom. He's careful not to step in the blood again.
"You can have anything you want," he tells Michael sincerely.
"Don't tell me that," Michael mumbles, already fading, head heavy against Mike's shoulder. "I'll start doing it whenever I want something."
"So I'll give it to you," Mike says, too honest, a little desperate. Michael is far too light in his arms, blood-stained and freezing cold. He needs to throw out all his blades and get an electric razor. He needs to clean the bathroom and never leave Michael alone again. He needs to know why, what he can do to make sure this doesn't happen again, what he can say.
When they reach Mike's bedroom, Mike sets Michael down carefully onto the mattress, and Michael melts into it, eyes mostly closed.
"I would never leave you," Mike tells him. Michael stirs, pale eyes opening blearily and staring up at Mike.
"Hm?"
"You said. When you were—You said you thought I'd left you. Because I was late coming home."
"Who could blame you." It's dry, half-asleep. Mike's not sure if he means being late home or leaving him, but he sits down on the bed beside him, and leans down until their noses are almost brushing. He can feel Michael's breath against his face, deep and even. His eyelids are fluttering, and finally they stay closed.
"Michael," he whispers. "I'm not gonna leave you."
Michael hums vaguely. Not believing him. Not really listening.
"So don't leave me either. Okay? I'll…I'll always come home. I'll always find you, wherever you are. Whatever you've done. I'll fix it."
Shakily, Michael raises a bandaged arm. Extends a thin pinky finger.
Mike takes it in his and squeezes.