Chapter Text
Should he get up early and sneak out the house?
Should he get up at the usual time and just get it over with?
Mike lay in bed and stared out the window. His bedroom looked out onto the endless fields of maize surrounding their house. It was a bright summer dawn, and light was already seeping through the clouds. He hadn’t bothered to change into pyjamas. In fact, he’d only been back for an hour.
“Be home by nine, Mikey!” His mother had given him a tight hug before he walked out the door. He had nodded obediently before turning and rolling his eyes. Down the track he had gone, past the sun-scorched fields and into the town. The whole gang had been there, waiting for him.
Seven o’clock. A graffiti contest. Everyone was bent double from laughing so hard at the increasingly rude slogans. Nine o’clock. Sweets from the store. The clerk asked where their parents were, and Mike flipped the bird. Ten o’clock. Too late to go home now. Ben’s parents were out of town, so they went to his place. Twelve o’clock. Jeremy found a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen and they decided to try alcohol for the first time. Mike hated how it numbed his throat. He drank it anyway. One o’clock. Vomiting into the garbage can. Two o’clock. Sleeping on the floor. Five o’clock. He dragged himself home, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of darkened windows.
During all the fun, he had felt invincible. Now, his heart thudded in time to each tick of the clock. Running away would make things worse. He decided to wait. Face it like a man.
He got up and changed into a fresh shirt. After grabbing his school bag, he loped downstairs.
William Afton was, by all appearances, a typical specimen of the white middle-class male. But there were certain things about him, different things. Things that Mike had only started to notice as he reached the age of teenage rebellion. For example, as a child, Mike thought his dad was really good at hide-and-seek. Now, he thought his dad got some sick kick out of sneaking up on people.
Thinking himself alone, Mike grabbed a pop tart from the cupboard and went to leave. He turned around. And there he was. His father William, standing in the corner, just out of sight from the doorway.
“When did you get back?”
Michael’s mouth gaped like a goldfish. William wore a clean, pressed shirt. He even had a tie and shoes on. No way had he just woken up. He'd been waiting for him.
“Just last night, dad,” he said at last, turning the pop tart over in his hands.
William sighed and shook his head as he walked over to his son. His pale eyes scanned the boy.
“I heard you coming in. Now we’re going to talk about it. Just you and me.”
“Is Mom awake?”
“I'm taking care of this. She’s already worried sick. You’re going to tell her you came back at twelve; not that that's much better, mind.”
William’s voice was hard and flat as a wooden plank. He pinched a fold of Mike’s shirt and held it out, looking at the material as if searching for something.
“I was getting ready for school,” Mike said.
“It’s Saturday.”
“Oh.”
“Do you remember what I told you yesterday?”
Michael’s eyes shot down to the hand holding his shirt. Since he’d turned thirteen, a new tension had begun to bubble whenever his dad spoke with him. All his life, he’d been a perfect son. Obedient, respectful, quiet. Now everything was exploding out against his better judgement.
“You didn’t say anything. Mom spoke to me, not you.”
William placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder. The touch was light at first, before suddenly turning into a painful grip.
“You said nine, home by nine,” Michael said. Then under his breath, he added, “Whatever.”
“Don’t disrespect me.”
William didn’t raise his voice. Michael had heard his classmates’ parents really laying into them. Yelling their names, screeching in frustration, ranting like gobbling turkeys. But his father didn’t need any of that to make his point.
“Now, Michael, what did I say?”
“To be home by nine. I’m sorry, alright?!”
His dad tilted his head.
“Are you stupid, Michael?”
Michael tensed his muscles as something clicked in his brain. So often, the anger would do this. It roared out of the young boy in a storm, only to collapse once his father said the right words. In the wake of the fury would come the humiliation. Because he could handle his dad thinking he was bad; he couldn't handle his dad thinking he was dumb.
“No.”
“You obviously didn’t forgot what you were told. So why didn’t you do it? Are you stupid?”
“...Yeah." He wished for all the world that he could disappear. When he piped up again, his tone was pleading. “I didn’t mean to, I was just having fun.”
“Oh, well, that changes everything.” William folded his arms and leant back, regarding Michael like a mysterious stain on the floor. “As long as you were having fun, everything is okay, isn’t it? We’ve got to make sure Michael is having fun.”
Michael could feel the sting of oncoming tears. The shame of this burned into his throat, eviscerating any comebacks that may have been brewing in his mind.
“I’m really sorry, Dad.” He took a slow breath, willing the tears to stay back. “I’ll never do it again.”
“No, you won’t.”
Michael glanced down at the pop tart still clenched in one hand. He’d crushed it without realising, sending a little rainbow of crumbs down onto the kitchen tiles. William bent down onto one knee so he was face-to-face with his son.
"Are you crying?"
"No, no, I'm not!" Mike said, blinking hard.
“You'd better not. Did you do anything bad while you were with those boys?”
“We...”
“Tell me the truth.”
“We drew graffiti. We drank some whiskey stuff, too.”
William shut his eyes for a moment. A quiet groan escaped from him as he processed the news. At last, he spoke again.
“Did anyone see you?”
“It was just me and the guys from school, no-one saw it.” Michael met his father’s stare. It felt like William could see the inner workings of his brain just by looking into his eyes, and he shivered. “No adults saw it or anything.”
Michael gasped in pain as his father’s fist connected with his head. He was suddenly on the floor, staring as the polished black shoes through blurry eyes. William’s vice-like grip snapped around his shoulders once again as he was pulled back onto his feet.
For one hideous moment, nothing happened. He braced himself for another blow as best he could with an already spinning head. But instead of pain came a sudden flood of warmth. His father was hugging him tightly.
“I’m not happy to hear that. But it could have been worse, hm? You know everyone in town knows who you are, don’t you?”
The memory of flipping off the cashier floated into Michael’s mind. He shoved it down, genuinely petrified that his father would somehow see his memories. But William just gave a nod and let his lips curl up into a hint of a smile.
“Well done for being honest with me. I know you don’t mean to disappoint me, son,” he said. There was so much tenderness in his voice that Michael’s tears finally broke free. He let out a coughing sob as he wrapped his arms around his dad.
William gently rubbed his back, slowly easing the wracking breaths that rocked Michael’s body.
“I’m so sorry, dad.”
“I know you are, kiddo. You’ll do better next time. You know what they say: tomorrow is another day. Come on.”
Without any resistance, Michael let William scoot him out into the living room. He was led to the sofa, where his father gestured for him to take a seat before sitting down next to him.
“You understand everything I said to you?”
“Yeah, Dad, I do – I'm sorry.”
“Atta boy.” He deposited the TV remote on the boy’s lap. “Here. Relax for a bit, okay? Still got the rest of your weekend.”
William wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Michael leant against his side in turn. The crisp white shirt felt soft against his cheek. It smelt of citrusy washing powder. He switched the TV on, but didn’t bother to surf through any channels, leaving the morning news to flicker away in the background. Normally he would be switching straight to the cartoons. Today, though, his mind was distracted. He rested his forehead against his dad’s chest, ignoring the unpleasant sensation as his dark fringe flicked into his eyes.
Elizabeth was the next to wake up, albeit a good while after her brother. She skipped down the stairs and smiled at the sight of Mike and her father flopped on the sofa.
“Morning! Did you have fun, Mikey?”
“Sure he did,” William said, giving Michael a squeeze. “Now. You want cereal or toast?”
“Toast, please!”
William got to his feet, letting Michael’s limp body slip off his chest like water.