Archive of Our Own

Bright and early. 6 AM.

You know what’s crazy? You wake up one morning (bright and early) and you think to yourself Dear good lord in heaven it feels so fucking good to be alive right now. I am on top of the planet, on top of the world even, and I am going to do great goddamn things today, I truly am because the sun is inside my bones and it will grant me good good things. It will become me, it will smother me in rich, lush, warmth. The sun inside of me will burn alive. I will burn alive this bright and early morning, even though it’s so early that it’s foggy and you can’t see the sun at all.

William wandered to the bedroom to wake up his only living family member. 

His son (his name is Michael by the way) isn’t actually sleeping, because he doesn’t get much sleep, you see. He was probably just resting his soft brown eyes that looked so much like his brother’s and mother’s. William wondered if Mike remembered them as well as he could. Mike was barely 12 when Evan left. Nearly 13 when Clara had.

William set a hand on his son’s head, feeling his greasy hair. The curls were stringy, and excessively long.

Mike (short for Michael) jumped up. He breathed like waking from a nightmare.

“It’s late. What’re you sleeping for?”

His son swallowed, sitting up and William took in his dirty gray tank top, faded, stained, and old-looking, with sweat at the neckline.

Mike extended an arm to pick up his alarm clock on the nightstand to his left. Red digital numbers shone 6:08 AM.

Mike looked back to William with a quizzical look, and his father pushed the clock back down, setting his hand over his son’s. He took his hand from the clock and sat on his bed and looked into his eyes,

“I know it’s 6 AM, that’s late on a day like today, Mikey.”

At the mention of his name (Mikey is a variation of Mike, which is a nickname for Michael, and something his mother used to call him) his son blinked and swallowed and began to stand from his bed, but William didn’t let go of his hand, he had to speak more,

“Do you remember what today is? I’ll give you a hint, it’s Sunday.”

Mike had these beautiful brown eyes, like his mother, warm and like the sun. There was no sun out today, but there should be later on a Sunday it ought to be sunny, of course and that’ll be great for their plans for today. 

Mike’s eyes (beautiful and warm like his mother’s) gave his father the oddest stare, before blinking slow and he finally spoke, his son finally used his vocal cords,

“Sorry, Dad. I…I don’t. Um. It’s. Oh.”

'Oh.'  Why did he have to say oh like that? With a sudden trepidation, like his gut sank or something strange like so. Why did he have to say “oh” the way he said “sorry”?

That was Michael, for you, though, he was a somber little boy.

Actually, he was quite tall now.

“When did you get so tall, Michael?”

He shook his head,

“I dunno, Dad…Happy Easter, though.”

He was a good boy. He remembered. Not a smart boy (he needed some hints) but a good boy. Good enough. Most of the time.

William wandered to the closet, took a gander at his son’s clothes, because he needed something smart to wear for the day, you see.

Unfortunately, Michael Afton had awful, dreadful taste, didn’t he? Band T-shirts, tank tops, long-sleeve plain old tops, bleached jeans, hoodies and why was everything black or gray?

“Michael, you have just terrible taste in fashion, son.”

William pulled out a particularly obnoxious tank top, with a graphic of a snake slinking on top of a bag of bricks. Jesus Christ, Michael. 

He tossed it aside, to the floor, wishing to throw it away, but Mike would put up a fuss, probably. Or he’d know better than to put up a real fuss over a tank top, but he would still get these big sad eyes if William were to go around messing up his stuff. He didn’t need that right now; it was too nice a morning today. The sun was going to burn him alive later.

He turned back to Mike, got up close and placed his hands against his son’s face. He squeezed his cheeks, one hand on each so that Michael’s face was a sandwich and William’s palms were two bread slices (wheat, 12g of fiber) against his soft skin.

Mike didn’t change his expression so much, his soft eyes remained blinking and somber and a bit uncertain. They still had tired in them. William felt a wave of sympathy inside of his gut.

“Coffee. Or orange juice. Which would you prefer? You need one. Which one, Mike?”

“…Um. Orange juice.”

“Orange juice,” William repeated. That was easy. He hoped they had orange juice. Did they have orange juice? When did he last go shopping?

He asked Michael. Michael said he was pretty sure they didn’t have orange juice.

“We will go out for breakfast. You need breakfast,” William ruffled his hair, “get up and shower and get dressed and don’t wear something terrible today. It’s a good day.”

He let Michael alone for 24 minutes so he could get dressed. Then they drove to breakfast. Mike was in the front passenger seat, glued to the door, his head leaning against the window, he felt so far away.

“Michael, we don’t sleep in the car. Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Why so glum, Michael?”

Mike shrugged, 

“Sorry, Dad.”

“No, don’t be sorry, just answer the question. You’re so glum. All the time, you’re glum. You’re a somber kid. When did you get so somber?”

Mike made an odd noise in his throat, but shook his head,

“I don’t know, Dad.”

William extended an arm to his son’s shoulder, and Mike tensed and William remembered he had poor circulation, that his cold palm must be giving Mike a cold shoulder, so he pulled it up and reached for his hair again, to run a hand through it.

“You need a haircut, Mike. Do you prefer to be called Mike?”

“Anything is fine, Dad.”

“Nonsense. You prefer Mike. I could always tell. But Mikey is cute. I hated it, but today it feels nice. Clara loved calling you Mikey. I think you used to love it too, Mike. You were little, though, I think you would’ve liked anything she called you. Even Shithead,” William laughed at his joke. But Mike did not, he just chewed on his hoodie string, like a child.

William grabbed it from his mouth,

“How old are you, Michael?” fell from his lips. The words were unkind, harsh even. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, whoops.

“Sorry, Dad.”

“No. No…I’m asking. How old are you, again?”

“16, Dad.”

Really? 16, huh? No, he knew. William knew his own son’s age, of course. But 16 already? That happened so quickly. Where did the time go? This was why days like this were so magical. To remember and feel time. Let it slow down.

“You look so much younger than that,” William commented, taking his eyes off the road to drink in a long look of his son, sitting next to him in a gray sweater with no graphics and no stains. He had a blue and white flannel button-up with a white (unstained) t-shirt showing beneath, forming a triangle where the top buttons of his shirt were left decidedly unbuttoned.

His hair was combed. But it was still too long, too shaggy. It wasn’t as long as it was three years ago, but it still swooped a bit at the back. William needed to fix it more than anything in the world.

“Do you have scissors with you?”

“What? Um. No, Dad. Sorry.”

They pulled over at a pharmacy. William bought scissors and a bunch of candy (Mikey loved candy, that kid loved sweets more than life itself). He opened up a candy bar and handed it to Mike and brought him into the public bathroom of the pharmacy, which had been semi-clean (but not really clean at all, just barren really) probably only because it went unused by patrons, given the toilet seat was slipping off the toilet and the lock on the stall door was broken and the soap was no longer there—the little dispenser was cracked and the pink liquid had been oozing from the push-button to the tile floor below.

But there was a sink and a foggy mirror, and that’s all they needed. William pulled Mike in front of the reflective glass and squeezed tufts of curls between his finger and thumb, he twirled the freshly shampooed locks. They were no longer greasy, they were soft and baby thin, Mike had such thin hair, like an infant. It felt the same as when he was small.

“Keep still, won’t you?” William steadied his head and had him face the mirror.

He tried to envision what he was going for, before recalling that he had just needed to trim the locks that swooped here at the back of his neck. They felt uneven. Or something. Something was terribly off about them.

William snapped the scissors several times. Then he grabbed a lock of hair and looked at the mirror once more. Mike’s eyes were shaking a bit, he had hardly touched his candy bar, and his face was a bit peach.

“Mike, why are you peach?”

His son blinked, then cleared his throat,

“Sorry, Dad. Just…feel a little silly. Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Michael. You sound so pathetic when you do that. You need to be strong. Speak with your chest. Why are you so quiet? You’re always quiet. But why are you so pink in the face? You don’t want me to cut your hair?”

Mike shook his head,

“No, no it’s fine. Whatever you want. Is fine. Of course.”

Mike was lying, why would he lie to his father? William hated that.

“Don’t lie to me, Michael. What have I taught you? Have I taught you to lie to me?”

Mike shook his head more harshly,

“No, Dad. Sorry. No, I don’t want my hair cut. I feel silly.”

William noticed how heavy his son’s eyes had looked. He brushed a hand over them, caressed his cheek, and took a moment to think. There Mike was, eyes getting all big and sad, so unfair of him to do that. He needed to fix him. This was important, 

William leaned down and kissed his cheek hard and held him close and then told him he loved him and cut his hair and Mike was so still, William didn’t even have to tell him not to move again. He held his head anyways, though, just in case.

They exited the restroom and William gifted Mike the scissors and more candy because he didn’t like how sad Mike was at his haircut but it needed to happen. Mike’s hair was always so unruly, William could only allow it for so long. He looked respectable now. Especially in his flannel shirt,

“You did great at finding an outfit today, Michael. You look smart.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Mike kept his eyes on the road. They walked back to the car and then they were driving again, they were going to get breakfast.

“What will you order, Mike? Pancakes, right? You love those. Blueberry. Do you still love those?

“…Yeah, Dad.”

William felt some odd orange color bloom in his veins, flush citrus in his blood, swirl and dip some sugary sweet sticky slices of mandarin or cuties deep inside his organs,

“Hey, look,” William took note of the orange trees they drove past. There were beautiful rows of orange trees over by the wayside.

“Bloody good, isn’t it?”

Mike nodded, looking out at the orange trees.

William felt sugar in his blood at this too. Mike’s eyes shone a bit, he must’ve thought the sight was beautiful too. 

Someone honked at William. William did not honk back, he laughed. They arrived at the breakfast diner.

“It’s closed, Dad.”

William and Mike were standing outside the diner, and he hadn’t actually remembered the walk from the parking lot to the entrance, probably due to the fact that the glass was so dark on the tinted windows of the diner, and that was very distracting.

“Dad, it’s closed. We can wait in the car if you want?”

William waved a hand, 

“Don’t speak to me like that, Michael. Why are they closed? It’s breakfast time.”

“They’ll open soon. We can wait.”

William felt so disappointed. Not at the black darkness of the diner’s tinted windows, or. Well. No, yes. That was awfully depressing. They could be closed and still not cast everyone out like they were a shadow. And the rest of the world was the burning sun.

But he was also disappointed in Mikey. Why was he talking to him like this? He was talking to him in an odd manner. This is when he chooses to speak up? To express the obvious to him?

“Hush, Mikey. C’mere,” William pulled Mike into a cradled hug while he looked into the diner, he held Mike close to his chest and held his lips against the back of his head, left them resting there like an unmade kiss, like an unmade bed, he was the blanket and Mike was the barren mattress.

“I love you, Mikey. It’s cold out. Are you cold?”

“M’fine, Dad.”

William squeezed him,

“Don’t talk to me that way you had before, okay? I love you too much for that. You know I love you, don’t you?”

Mike said yes.

“Then why are you so damn tense? You’re so rigid, kiddo. Why are you so still? Why are you trembling? Let’s get you warm. There’s a coffee shop over there. Let’s go. You need coffee. Or something warm.”

Mike was led by hand, by William to a coffee shop. They wandered through the doors, and William held his hand while they were in line and when they got to the counter, and then William set his hands on his son’s shoulders and squinted up at the menu.

They ordered coffee. They sat down.

Mike was flushed. He kept his head down. His peach face turned closer to a soft salmon. Deeper.

“What’s wrong, Michael?”

Mike shook his head,

“Nothing, Dad. Just feeling silly again. That’s all. Do you like your coffee?”

Why does he feel so silly? Mike was not silly. Well, no, he used to be. But not anymore. He was a very cute kid, actually, very silly come to think of it. Mike used to love his mother much more than he did William. He loved his mother because she made him laugh and he made her laugh and they laughed so much William didn’t even know what the jokes were. They laughed too long and too hard to tell him what was so funny. He would demand that they let him know, but by that point everyone knew the joke was over and there was a sudden and odd silence to his presence.

Mike twitched. He kept looking to the side.

“Michael, stop that. Look at me. I hate to see you so on edge, why are you always so on edge? You’re 16, you shouldn’t be so on edge…” how could William fix that?

“Sorry, Dad.”

Mike jumped. William had slammed a fist against the table. Huh. He hadn’t meant to do that.

“Don’t apologize , Michael. What did I tell you earlier?” He can’t follow a simple direction, my poor stupid son.

A beautiful blonde woman wandered over to them and asked if everything was fine. Mike said everything was fine. William asked her her name.

“Susan.”

“What a beautiful name, do you go by Sue?”

“No, sir. But thank you, I hate my name,” she laughed.

Mike stared down at his coffee.

“This is my son Michael.”

Why was he shaking? He needed to stop that; William hated it.

“Hello, Michael. Nice to meet you.” 

She was too old for him, you should know. Early 20s. She might’ve been too pretty for him too, come to think of it. Shiny blue eyes, dirty blonde ponytail. She looked plain as hell in her all-black work outfit, and she still looked quite lovely.

“He’s an artist you know. Very sensitive. You would like him. I can tell you appreciate an artistic soul.” He took note of her numerous pins on her work hat. Colorful and aplenty.

She chuckled. Mike burned red now. He tugged at his hair and tucked his head down and took long swigs of his drink. William forgot what he was drinking.

“What’re you drinking Michael?”

Michael told him his ordered drink. William turned to Sue,

“Is that quite a good drink, Sue?”

She smiled, and her teeth were far straighter than Mike’s, she said,

“It’s one of my favorites, yes.” Oh, this was going swimmingly.

William had executed the set-up quite effectively, he just needed Mike to make a move, but he knew he wouldn’t, so he said,

“Would you like to have a drink with us, Sue?”

She laughed again, and William quite liked her laugh, it was warm. He felt his heart beat. He grabbed at Mike’s hand, but then remembered he shouldn’t do that in front of Sue.

“I’m sorry, sir. Duty calls. Let me know if you need anything, though. Have a good one you guys.”

“Thank you, dear,” William said sweetly. 

He turned to his son,

“What’s wrong Mike? You know I think you have a shot with her. You should talk to her before we leave.”

Mike held his head down low, he gripped his coffee cup tightly and chewed on his bottom lips. He breathed out,

“I don’t know, Dad. It’s Easter. We should spend time together. Right?”

William rolled his eyes,

“Don’t use that as an excuse,” he breathed, “but that’s quite alright. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to…is she…not your type, Michael?”

Mike’s deep maroon cheeks took on an unexpected pallor and a swirl of anxieties wandered in his pretty brown warm mother’s eyes and William could sense his heart beating fast even as he sat too far to feel him; even though he had not yet pressed a hand to his son’s chest to make sure his organs were performing their cardinal duties, engineering warm, dark blood rushing beneath his ribs. Blood is dark if you were ever so curious. Depending where in the body you pull it from, it can come out tarry and black and oozy and quite clotted.

“Um. I don’t know. She’s nice. I just would rather…not.”

William put up his hands,

“Whatever makes you happy, Michael. I think I understand,” he cast a knowing smile, and maybe he even winked, he forgot already, but he smiled for certain, and continued, “Whatever you want. I just hope you find someone like I found your mother.”

Mike’s anxious eyes fell into a quizzical state. He squinted at William like the latter was blurry. His tense posture un-tensed if only a tad. William could not explain the confusion. Eventually, Mike spoke,

“…really?” Mike almost whispered. This is how William could tell his words were coming from an authentic place; a patchy, dirt field. Not lush and not green, Mike was born from a dirt field on an empty road. That is where he lied and lived and spoke. Unlike William (remember, his land was lush, and the sun was inside of his arms where the veins were).

“Of course,” William spoke faster than he meant to, the words rushed up out of him like a firework going off, “I’m quite progressive. And you know I don’t believe in holiness. As far as I am concerned, we will both be locked out of the golden gates if they exist. So. Homosexuality is quite alright, as far as I’m concerned.”

Mike shook his head,

“No, I mean. Yeah. No, that’s good. But. You actually want me to be with someone? That’s… funny.”

“That I want you to fall in love someday?”

Mike nodded, a bit uncertain, but speaking so lively and genuinely, it made William’s heart flutter.

“I thought…you wanted me not to meander with those things.”

William did recall saying something of the sort once upon a time. But that was so long ago.

“You were too young back then.”

“A few months ago?”

Hmm.

“Yes, perhaps. Maturity is a strange thing, Michael.”

Mike actually flashed a small smile. That’s his boy. There he is. Sweet as ever. Stupid, but sweet. That’s Mike for you, so sweet. Funny, how his son became so sweet. He used to be awful, you know.

He killed his brother; you probably have heard. Yes, but it was quite the accident. It was hardly his fault. He was only playing an intensely cruel prank on William’s then 8-year-old son. Frightening him and mocking him and grabbing him.

But you know, the thing is, William’s killed a couple kids too now, and he understands. He gets it. You gotta off kids sometimes. It’s nice that they can relate in this manner. His only living child had something so personal to share with him. No other child of his had, or likely ever would have had, this same tender little private thing. This shared grief and power. Mikey was just like him, then, wasn’t he?

William gazed into his salty brown eyes. And deep inside his stomach admitted that no, not really. Mikey was sweet in a different way. In a way that should have been preserved. William was too strong to be as sweet as Michael was born to be. He never should have killed. He was tainted now.

“Michael, you don’t happen to believe in purity, do you?”

His son flushed red again, and William shook his head,

“I mean, do you believe in souls?”

“Uh. Yeah. I do.”

“Good,” yes souls do exist. Because they hold this fascinating thing called Remnant . But that’s a large discussion and you’re probably not intelligent enough for it, so it’s not worth the trouble of dissecting here and now, “what do you make of your soul, Michael?”

Mike chewed his lip so badly that William knew it would end up chapped (they were always chapped).

“Um. I-I don’t know, Dad. I guess it’s…well, I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know anything about my soul.”

William reeled back, as if insulted, the movement was a tad exaggerated, the way he drew a hand to his chest,

“What a thing, not to know a single bit about your soul. Are you destined for Heaven or for Hell, Michael?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff…” Mike averted his gaze and William tapped on his cheek to remind him not to do that, they were having a conversation and it was rude.

Mike looked at him, and William spoke,

“The end doesn’t matter. We will find out when we get there, what I believe about the destination is not the question. I am curious as to where you believe you will go, because it is reflective of your psyche; of the journey you have been through and are going through. Do you understand?”

“…I think so.”

“And?”

“…I don’t know.”

Mike was lying. 

William just couldn’t stand that.

He sighed, tossed his coffee cup and pulled Mike by the wrist, away, over to return to the car.

They were driving again.

“what time is it” William didn’t mean to ask, but Mike whispered a short reply,

“8:15. AM.”

William wondered how it was so late already. They’d done nothing but get coffee. And get candy, and a haircut. And drive. And almost go to the diner but fail to do so.

“What kind of music are you listening to now, Michael?”

Mike swallowed, and his voice creaked with honesty,

“Only terrible stuff, Dad. You’d hate it all.”

William knew that, he didn’t need Mike to say that much. But without thinking, Willam played with the radio and found the station that people Mike’s age listened to. It was indeed something terrible, and they listened silently to something so egregious William was sure his ears must’ve been bleeding by the time they arrived at the grocery store.

He left the key in the ignition but applied all the brakes and then leaned back in his seat.

The parking lot was bare because the grocery store was hardly a grocery store at all, and no one ever came here because it was overpriced and more of a mini market. It claimed to be organic, which William and Clara never cared about too much, but William was quite fond of the lack of crowds present.

It was always barren here.

“This place might be closed too, Dad…It’s Easter and this is a small—"

William had pulled on Mike’s chin. He brought him close to his face and Mike’s eyes became wide. His hands gripped at William’s arm on instinct and William did his best not to hold it against him because the body naturally reacts this way.

“Mike, you know you need to treat me with respect, don’t you?”

William was having trouble remembering what his son had done wrong exactly. He just remembered that he was misbehaving earlier. He was being so ungrateful. He was being so damn meek. Why was he always so meek? He killed and now he acted so meek? That didn’t compute. That was so funny and so stupid and awful.

“Y-yes, Dad,” Mike stuttered like a damn lamb. Or kitten. Whatever animal stutters. Neither of those animals stutter, do they? What animal stutters?

“I..I don’t know, Dad.”

“You are so meek, Mike. Meek Mike. Aren’t you?”

Mike nodded. But it wasn’t a good nod, it was a weak meek nod, because William had still had him by the chinny chin chin .

“Michael, are you okay? You always look so small. You’re so tall but I don’t know about that soul of yours. I think it’s still a child’s soul. And it will always be a child, because I injected you as a little, sweet child last year, with Remnant, do you remember? I injected you and in a way your soul will be in stasis and that’s quite good because your Mother and your Brother and your Sister they will all remain the perfect ages. Evan is 8, and Elizabeth is 10, and you are 15 and your Mother is 36. Isn’t that perfect? And I injected myself last year too, so I’m 38. Isn’t that swell?”

Mike looked even more squished and William considered that must be because he was squeezing him more, his cheeks a bit. He had a little bit of fat on his cheeks. He was so slim but he would always have these youthful eyes and youthful cheeks, Mike always looked a little younger for his age, which made no sense at all because William had always looked older for his age, mind you, more mature and refined and classy. Mike didn’t like to look classy. But he should have been. He should like to be like his father. Poor thing. So stupid.

He brushed his son’s hair with his hand, smooth smooth smooth, Mike’s hair was so unscrupulous and messy and it looked so cute, but it bothered William, that it was never evenly distributed and smooth, the curls all looked off somehow. So befitting for this kid of his. Mikey always was off somehow, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?

“Aren’t you? Aren’t you always off, Mike?”

Mike nodded,

“Yes. Yes, Dad.”

William let him go, because Mike’s voice was doing that annoying (but fitting, but numerically or vocally or religiously right, and correct) thing where his voice wavered and he sounded scratchy and nervous.

Mike should have been named Nervous. He looked nervous 24-goddam-7. It looked good on him, to be nervous. But William wished his son didn’t look good in that color, wished he would wear something more royal like him. Something elegant and loyal and refined like violet like him.

Nervous, as a color, it would be beige or cream or green. Forest green mixed with beige, what color is that? That makes olive doesn’t it? Maybe something like a creamy green? Yes, we shall stick with creamy green. Oh, that’s perfect. Like nausea.

“Do you ever get nauseous, Michael?”

Mike nodded. And dammit. He’s doing that thing where he doesn’t want to speak. Meek Mike won’t speak, he’s nervous. Stupid,

“Use your damn words, Michael,” William reached to him, but Mike pulled away and with a flash of paranoid nervousness in his warm scared brown eyes that held so many souls, his Mother’s and Sister’s and Brother’s souls, he shone regret in his little irises.

William didn’t remember how he ended up on top of him. They were in the backseat now, they must have moved backwards or over to the backseat. Mike was underneath him, his skull back against the seat, the backseat in the back in the back of the front seats,

“M’sorry, I don’t.. I will use my words, Dad. I promise.”

Oh Michael, since when do you make me promises? You haven’t made me promises since you were small. You always broke your promises, remember? Have you learned to stop breaking them?

“I…yes, Dad.”

Why was he looking at him like that? With rainy confusion. His eyes were raining, dead tears leaking out of his eyes, since when do you cry so much?

“Sorry Dad.”

No no it’s okay. I like it. You’re sweet, Michael.

“Thank you, Dad.”

“You’re welcome. Come on. What do you want for breakfast?”

They were in the diner. When did they get in the diner?

“You realized the diner was open. We drove back to the diner. We can go to the grocery store after, you said.”

Ah. Yes. It’s Easter. You have to eat at a diner on Easter. You need to make sure Mike gets his orange juice. He already had his coffee.

“Pulp or no pulp?” the waiter asked. He was lovely, plain all-black clothes. William asked him his name and he said it was Elvis.

“Your name is fucking Elvis?”

William looked over at Mike. His face was hidden by his menu. William pushed it down, to find Mike had little to no reaction.

Elvis spoke rigidly,

“Ah,” he chuckled, “yeah, I had those kind of parents.”

He looked a little like Elvis, actually. You can imagine how Elvis looked, right? Just without the white suit. No don’t, don’t be weird about it. Without the white suit and instead wearing an all-black waiter outfit. Tall and handsome and with black hair that waved in all the right spots. Unlike Mike. Mike’s waved in all the wrong spots.

“This is Michael. His name is reasonable…Is it fitting or no?” 

Elvis put a hand on his hip and scrutinized the features of William’s son, and Mike’s face was peach, but not white as a sheet and not burnt salmon, so that was quite an improvement.

His eyes were a little foggy, though. Detached. His eyes were that of a sailor lost at sea. What sea might he be traversing? It’s dangerous to sail alone.

No, not to worry, Dad is here, Mike. He will always be here for you to breathe. No drowning for dear old Mike. Not even when he’s 39. He will never drown, he will always be 15, like his soul was to be.

“You look like a Mike. Am I right? Michael is a little too name-of-the-manager-of-this-diner-and-my-boss-who-I-kinda-hate. You look a little too chill for Michael, Mike,” Elvis smiled.

Mike’s lost eyes sparkled a bit, like the sailor stumbled upon the North Star. Oh, well. Michael was charmed by this young man, wasn’t he? How adorable.

Elvis was still probably a bit too old for Mike. 19, or 20. William would prefer Mike date someone his age or no more than a couple years older. 19 was fine, maybe. But another high school student would be far more appropriate. Probably.

They ordered. When Mike managed to sail back into oblivion, they ordered. Mike ordered pancakes with blueberries. William ordered something similar, apparently. He hadn’t remembered ordering.

They ate. William was very attentive, reaching over the table and wiping Mike’s face with a napkin every third bite. At first it was necessary (his kid was messy) but then he did it because he had to. Because for some odd reason it suddenly felt like if he didn’t, then the whole world would collapse. Then Mike and William would perish somewhere separated and they would learn to be alone before they needed to, and then Elvis might die too, which was fine, technically, because Mike didn’t stand a chance with him, but it was preferable that he live because could you imagine how sad that would make Mike? William engineered that crush, he didn’t want to use it to hurt Mike, not without a good reason he didn’t.

Mike’s face burned though, at this treatment of being cleaned up by William. He didn’t make a fuss, though, because Mike didn’t make fusses that much. When was the last time he made a fuss?

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

Mike wasn’t lying anymore. He didn’t say I don’t know, he said he didn’t want to talk about it. That was progress.

But William wanted to talk about it.

“I…put you somewhere, didn’t I? Last time you put up a fuss because I put you somewhere. Where was it?”

Mike’s eyes fell. He touched his throat. Oh (this is what a good ‘oh’ sounds like, by the way, not like Oh like Sorry like Michael).

If William had needed to punish him, he could understand why Mike would prefer not to remember or discuss it. William didn’t want to relive punishing Mike right now. It was Easter. But he also couldn’t stand not knowing, not remembering. William used to have excellent, picture-perfect, photographic memory as a child.

He still did, but the photos his brain took these days, they were so odd sometimes. High contrast. The silhouettes were off. His camera shutter was too high. Things never focused like they used to. You nearly hit your 40s and maybe that’s why, maybe that causes you to be a shitty photographer. Fuzzy, wannabe artsy shit is all he could make these days. He hated fuzzy artsy photos.

“I’m sure you were fine. I know you put up a fuss when…no. No, that wasn’t the last time.”

Mike let his eyes gaze up at his father. He suddenly held his elbows, like he was gingerly holding himself for comfort.

“Last time you put up a fuss I put you inside of my closet.”

Mike brows furrowed. In confusion, William realized, but initially it almost looked like anger,

“What?”

“Yes. You were so small. 12, I think. But you were short for 12. Well, maybe not that short, but shorter than you should’ve been with my genetics, I think. You’re lanky as ever now, don’t fret.”

“…That was a long time ago.”

“For you it was. 4 years is a long time when you’re 16. It’s a blink or a twitch or an itch when you’re 39. It’s quick. And I know I put you in a time out and you put up such a fuss, Michael. God, such a damn fuss you made.”

Mike’s brows remained in that furrowed position, like he was calculating something,

“O…okay. I just. Okay.”

“Spit it out. Whatever it is you’re trying to work out in your head. You’re no good at puzzles, Michael. Dad will help.”

Mike stuttered, then swallowed, then finally began,

“I hate when you…sorry. Yeah, ok, fine, fuck it,” William smiled because that was funny, to hear Mike swear in front of him, that usually meant he was finally pushed to the edge. William hadn’t meant to do that. It just happened. That made it so much more funny, William laughed a bit,

“You’re…,” Mike said, “okay, I’m confused. I’m so damn confused. Last time I put up a fucking fuss you were…” Mike’s voice got super low here, “…pushing me down against a fucking table in the garage and I was telling you to fuck off with that needle because the remnant hurt like hell and I couldn’t do it again, I couldn’t,  I…I…”

“Breathe, Michael.”

He obeyed. He took in three breaths, counted each, and did it again, then one more time, and he continued,

“I fucking lost it. That was the last time I put up a fuss. Not when I was 13.”

“12.”

“…I’m not disagreeing with you because I know you’re always right, Dad, but I think I was 13 because that’s when I tried to. That’s. I had some sort of. Episode.”

“You were not 13 when you had your first episode, Michael,” William laughed a bit. It hurt his throat, though, “you were 12.”

“…I think I would’ve remembered that.”

“Michael, I don’t remember coming to this diner. I don’t remember ordering whatever this shit is. Why would you remember something from when you were 12? For you that’s a quarter of your life ago,” William took a hefty bite of his pancake combo. He ordered it with bananas. He didn’t care for bananas, why would he order something with bananas?

“You said it started with a B, like blueberries. I think. I don’t know, it had to do with alliteration.”

“Ah.”

“But that’s different. I’m…ugh,” Mike groaned into his hands and William laughed.

William pet his head,

“No, no I know, you were a mess a few months ago. I’m sorry I had to be so... I didn’t mean to make you stress so much. It’s not healthy for a rat to get so stressed before you inject it.”

Mike sounded so hurt, he said,

“I’m a rat?”

William didn’t go to comfort him immediately, he sat back in his seat, the seat, the back of the seat in the booth, he sat,

Sat, rat, kitten. Meek. Kitten, lamb, meek like whatever animal stutters, what animal stutters? Do rats stutter? There’s an animal that stutters, you could bet your life that there’s an animal who stutters out there. Time to watch more Animal Kingdom ™.

“Do you think you’re a rat, Michael? Is that all you are, my little lab rat? Be serious.”

“…No?”

“ No. Of course not. You’re my son. I wouldn’t treat my lab rat to pancakes. I wouldn’t cut his hair. I wouldn’t help him flirt with the attractive waiter and the cute cafe barista. I wouldn’t do that for a little lab rat. You are not a lab rat, Michael. I love you.”

“…thanks.”

“I love you…”

Mike nodded, his throat dry,

“I love you too, Dad.”

“Mind your manners, Mike. Where are we off to next?”

They arrived at the entrance of the grocery store.

It was illuminated in bright white lighting. The stacks of organic fruits and organic veggies and organic muffins and organic pot roast filled the rows and aisles.

It was fairly empty, William noticed a couple of elderly women over yonder, but ultimately, he was happy with his choice to have come to the mini organic market.

Eggs. Low-sodium (?) salsa. Plant-based shampoo. Pastries. Organic candles. William was enthused to look around; how he would shop and shop and shop.

He blinked and he was on the kitchen floor, at home.

There were bags on the table, bags upon bags upon bags and Mike was on the other side of the kitchen, back to the counter, he was several long feet away, he felt so needlessly far, standing on the tile, hands on the granite counter.

William himself had been in a huddled position on the floor. His knees were brought up close to his chest, his arms trembled, his hands felt off and fidgety and like they were waking up from having been asleep, or maybe the opposite, like they were falling asleep after having been awake for far too long.

His chest hurt. His chest hurt and he almost felt winded, and out of breath. He placed a hand near his collar and breastbone and found the spot to be drenched, his button-up unbuttoned halfway, every article of clothing soaked through with sweat that was far too cold. He was supposed to burn with the sun today, but it felt as though he’d been plunged in a dark water, somewhere off the way of the pond over East, if you drive for 10 miles ahead you’d get there, it’s a quick drive anyone can make it, he took Michael there 2 years ago to teach him how to drive, even though he was too young, William felt you were never too young to learn to survive. His son should know how to swim and ride a bike and drive a car as soon as possible because what happens when he needs to run away and save himself from something?

No, that’s the thing, William didn’t teach him a thing about driving, he just drove him to the lake and told him all about it, told him all about driving. And he didn’t learn to swim there, either, Clara took him to lessons when he was quite small, and to be frank, and candid, and because you oughta be sworn to tender secrecy, William had never learned to ride a bike in his entire 39-year-life-span, so he hoped and prayed that Mike too did not know a thing about it, he wanted to make sure Mike didn’t even know what a pedal or a seat tube or a shift set or handlebars were,

“Michael,” William breathed, he breathed like cotton and hair were stuffed in his lungs, and they formed a cloud inside his chest that twisted and bloomed and rained inside of him, because the thing about cotton is that it absorbs and whatnot, and so the cotton must be absorbing itself, right? Does that make sense? No? So then, if you might make an entire boat out of cotton, will the cotton sink faster the more cotton on your boat or if there is less cotton will it sink slower? Wait no, he didn’t say that right, he messed up, shit-

“Dad, are you…what do I do?”

“Michael do not interrupt me,” he wheezed, and he realized his son must be scared because William looked up at his child, his tall, (but still too small , goddammit ) child and he raised his hands up to find they were shaking like deadly tremors, he wondered if it was something below the skin that caused this, then he remembered yes of course it is, because the brain is beneath the skin isn’t it? Idiot. Stupid. God, William when did you become stupid? Had that happened recently? You hit 40 or 39 but practically 40, maybe 40, maybe 42, because your parents hadn’t really known your age for sure, they were probably just guessing, like how they guessed everything else about you like your name like William, I guess we can call him William or Will or Willy, because surely that won’t haunt him on the playground, a nickname like Willy would make him tough and strong they must’ve thought that right? Not a nickname like Willy would get him bullied and berated and isn’t that perfect? Maybe they’ll kill him and we’ll get out of this whole parenting gig, because surely we didn’t want this, except for the part where we made him but that was an accident, it had to be an accident, God William hoped he was an accident because then he could feel good for having lived, like the heavens had elected to spite his parents by damning them with a child.

William was a good parent because he had just told Michael not to interrupt him and Michael was now tenderly silent. Michael now looked like he had just been gagged with silver shiny duct tape across his burning chapped lips, because he was a good son because William was a good parent, and a good father and a good thing for him. Because William understood his son needed him. Even when Michael didn’t know it, he still did deep down, because William taught him that, goddammit, that he and everyone else in the world will always need him. Hence the production of Remnant , do you need me to explain it to you? Are you so stupid you still don’t get what it is? Jesus, Michael, I thought you were at least a little bit lucid in that fuckhead of yours. You must get this from your mother because you sure as shit don’t get it from--

“Dad, please…!”

What was he whining about…oh.

Oh hmm. Hmmmmmmmm. Hmmmmmmmm.

Michael was not whining he was being very reasonable. You see, there’s so much blood in the sink and this is bad because first of all, it’s William’s blood and also, because he really doesn’t remember why he needed to spill so much into the sink.

His brain starts to process this situation, because it is suddenly urgent. And you know how the brain works, how it processes information, it looks around, first at the metallic sink coated in bright red that could be quite soothing in the right lighting (not in this lighting, not in this context and not in front of his teenage son for Chrissake, Michael is only 16) and then it looks to the palm, which is the source of all the red blood, it’s got a gash, and then it looks to the weapon in the other hand: yes, you could’ve guessed, it’s a kitchen knife (a knife typically held in the kitchen). He must have needed it to open something no, to defend himself from something? (he truly can't remember). But. He must not have been careful. Hence a pool of blood sinking into the sink. Don’t laugh. Sink in the sink, that’s funny but don’t laugh. We’re in public. Practically. We’re in front of our son. You’re in front of your son. He’s staring at you, for Chrissake, look at him and tell him everything is all right. Be a good dad for once and tell him something good,

“Michael do you know…” go on, collect your breath, it’s okay, “Michael, do you know how to ride a bike?”

Hmm. Hmmmmm. Hmmmmmmthat’snotwhatgooddadssayyoufuckingidiotwhycan’tyoujust.

“No, Dad.”

You can finally breathe again. You suck in air and oxygen and it tastes like candy and juice and coffee and pulp again, it rains like sunshine and you remember to go ahead and quell that feeling because it’s far too late in the day for the sun to come out. You do realize this. You do realize there’s something off about you. There’s something wrong about you, about how good you feel and how bad you feel, there’s something gross about it that should be calculated better or more fittingly by somewhere or something. The Galaxy that made you, the stars that birthed you, no not your mother, she was just a vessel, really, you came from the stars and maybe even something somewhere 10 miles ahead of the stars. Don’t call it Heaven, because that’s intimidating and the Smiths that Michael likes so much, they say something about how miserable it really is. Maybe that’s why William hated it so much, the music Michael, his son, (he’s 16) listened to. It was just so perfect, so mesmerizing and so unfitting for someone like him, except so fitting indeed. He too, was happy in the haze of a drunken hour, how did he get so miserable now? And did Heaven know? Was Heaven watching? Was Clara watching? She probably didn’t make it to Heaven, since you’re sworn to secrecy you should know, she probably didn’t make it to Heaven, not with how she watched William treat their son. Or their daughter. Or their other son. William can barely remember that last kid. Evan. He knew his name. He remembered that. He always wore band-aids because he was accident-prone and clumsy but also because he was the younger brother of Michael, which meant he was destined for a life of abuse and misgivings.

He smelled like apple juice, because William remembered how it would stain his cheeks. He would wipe off the residue, like a parent would. And he would touch his hair, which was thick and soft and even curlier than Michael’s. He was bony, and small, and William would tell him that was no matter, that someday he would be so strong he wouldn’t even think about it, and he would be like Superman. Because Evan liked Superman and Fredbear and Green Lantern? Who likes Green Lantern? Evan liked comic books. Evan liked stuffed animals and. And. And his mother. And his sister. And even Michael, he liked. He hated him but he liked him too. Because Michael was just as awful as William, he would torture that kid for days on end and then, when he really needed someone or anyone or anything in the world, Mike would hold his hand and give him medicine when he was sick and tell him you’re so stupid Evan, it’s lightning and we’re inside, what’s it gonna do? Come in through the window? That makes no sense, just get over here and watch tv, Jesus. Do you wanna watch that stupid puppet show? Will that make you chill the fuck out? Cool. Fine. C’mere.

And Evan wouldn’t touch Michael, because Michael would’ve lost his mind, fear in his eyes and heart, because he’s no good with physical affection, William made sure that would be hard for him, like it was for him. And when you’re 11 or 12 and a 7 or 8 year old touches you and you flinch, you get quite embarrassed and quite angry. So angry you need to remind yourself and everyone around you how strong and scary and tough you are, don’t you, Michael?

“Don’t you, Michael?”

Mike nodded. Will was on top of him. There was blood dripping onto Mike’s face. It looked like a painting. Sketchy lines on the sides, almost with a soft vignette bordering them, closing in on them, and the blood made it seem like it was one of those photos, where everything was monochrome save for one single color: red. Bright blood red. No color upon Michael, save for the red. But maybe that’s because of how pale his skin had become. Poor thing.

“Use your words, how many times do I need to tell you, Michael, use. your. words .”

“Yes, Dad…Yes. Yes. Fuck! Please get off of me! You’re hurt!”

“Hoping I bleed out?”

His son’s face twisted in anger and fear and then anger again, he tried pushing out, and William had to admit that Mike was stronger at 16 than he was at 15 and 14 and definitely 13, he used to be so skinny. He wasn’t so skinny anymore, he wasn’t as weak as he could’ve been, maybe William should’ve kept him weak.

Hoping I bleed out, Michael?

“Maybe!”

Mike breathed. Will stilled. Mike breathed harder. His eyes were wide at his words. He didn’t mean to say them. He hadn’t meant to say them. He didn’t mean them.

Mike was stronger than he was when he was 13. He was strong even. But he wasn’t stronger in a way that mattered.

Will easily pinned each wrist to the ground and kept his body in place on the floor. He kept his son still so he could examine the damage. Mike was unharmed. No fresh bruises. Will hadn’t done anything to him. And this was no surprise, because William never really hurt him when he was like this, when he was burning on the inside, his body turning itself inside out. His mind traversing roads and hills, searching. Lost. Somewhere at sea. But probably not, because William always preferred the wild roads. The streets. And if he were lost, he would simply go to the lake. He would bring his son. He would teach him to swim. He would tell him all about swimming, at least.

“Dad, please. Please fucking stop! I can’t. I can’t do this. Please? What do I have to do? What can I do? I’m sorry! Just kill me, okay?! I can’t take it back. I wish I could take it back! I would do anything to bring him back, I would, and you know it because You know everything. You do. I know you do. I know you can see it in my warm brown eyes like Mom’s and Evan’s, huh?! You know everything about me, right!?”

William let go. William didn’t like his son anymore. He didn’t wanna be around him. He left. He went somewhere. Not the lake. No, he went somewhere warm. He went somewhere else.

They clinked a couple beers. Henry rested his head in his lap after a very long swig. William played with his hair for a moment. Then he stopped, because he was beginning to get too conscious of how tender that was.

But both our wives are dead. Most of our families are dead. What does it matter now? Why are we still tiptoeing? Are you so scared?

Henry laughed, poured another drink and would say, Are you forgetting you have another son?

And Will would sip his drink elegantly, because he was superior to Henry (but only in this manner alone) and he would groan and say,

Oh, but I wish I could.

To which Henry would chafe and choke and laugh maybe because he couldn’t tell how serious or unserious William was being, or maybe, just maybe, because he hated Mike as much as William did.

Henry liked to behave as though Mike’s existence was the thing still keeping them so closed off from one another. This was an excuse; William was wise enough to realize. But it made him wonder if he could murder his own son, if that would make it so that they could live happily ever after or something halfway to it. Whatever the ostracized-by-society equivalent is. And really, maybe living happily ever after is always a thing ostracized by society. Maybe you can’t do it otherwise. Everything oughta be balanced. Everything requires a sacrifice. William loved Clara. So she had to die. Henry wouldn’t ever have to die. The world would always keep them apart by a little bit. There’s a comfort in knowing the world is the problem. Rather than you.

Henry moved a bit, reaching a hand up to keep William’s hand on top of his head before Will could pull it off. So now Henry’s hand held his hand while he held him. How tender indeed.

It was fun. Their little escapade. And William didn’t even feel guilty for not remembering every part of it, because Henry didn’t like to remember things either. He always insisted on getting drunk before they got so close, so intimate and so needy. Sober Henry was sweet, or he could be, but it was laced with trepidation that he learned to live in. Henry had a sort of emotional asthma, or maybe a physical condition in which his body became rigid at the thought of sincerity and care. Henry was a very fucked up 40-year-old man and William loved him for that. For being so good and so awful at the same time. That is a humanistic goal. Henry was so much better, and yet so inferior to him. That is where love is. Love resides inside of equilibrium. That is what they were. Two souls at equilibrium.

“S’good that Mike’s out with friends. Something fun about causing trouble on Easter when you’re a kid. Feels mischievous.”

William nodded. Mike was out celebrating Easter with friends. Probably drinking. If him and his friends come home, William would just feel so awkward. This is why Henry should let him in. This is why Henry should let his guard down and have a drink or two with him. This is why Henry should relax and let them become close. Because Mike is occupied, and he is alone, and they both could really use someone. They could both stand to be used, no?

Will pulled Henry very close, felt the skin to skin make contact and dragged kisses soft and slow and righteous along his jaw and neckline. He drank the sounds and trembling of his victim. He would never need to draw blood from this one. He would never need to kill this one. He would never need this one for his Remnant. But also, tragically, he would never be able to stick him with it. Never be able to make him immortal.

Henry belonged where he was. Henry had no place in his family. That is why they were in love. Balance. Tragedy. Equilibrium.

There’s a dull ache in his head when William does eventually return home, after a night that grew longer than he intended, it’s baby blue in the sky when he struggles to find his keys at the front door.

He didn’t sleep last night, though only half of that was his dear Henry’s fault. After the man fell asleep, tender in his own bed that William joined him in, Will just stared at the ceiling. He let his mind wander in the dead of night, and he got up and washed himself. Washed his face and hands and neck with water in Henry’s bathroom over and over again till the sky fell awake.

He still didn’t feel nice and clean. He would never be nice and clean.

He noticed his bandaged palm, the one that Henry wrapped up for him. He didn’t remember much of that couple of minutes when he first walked through his business partner’s door. He wished he could. It felt sweet. The idea of it. He would hope it could happen again.

He managed to get the key into the door, turn and push and wander into his home, hit with a wave of scent, the thick scent of your home. When you walk into your home after a long night, you can smell what it smells like to everyone else who doesn’t live there; you can smell what your home really smells like, the house smell that you’re well-accustomed to and never notice. It smelled like orchids and oranges (organic candle) and copper.

The living room was empty. The bags in the kitchen set to the side. They were condensed and set to the side, neatly.

The sink didn’t have blood in it anymore. The metal shone and the counter beside it was clean.

William poured a cup of water to drink. Then a cup of coffee.

He wandered into the hall next. He peered into the dark bathroom, didn’t bother to turn on the lights but caught a glimpse at his face in the mirror. His hair was messy (just the way Henry liked it) and his button up fully removed by this point. He wore a plain black t-shirt (excuse him for that, Henry spilled beer on him).

He didn’t bother to fix himself up before shutting the door and finding Michael’s room. The door was slightly ajar, like William demanded it be when Michael was young. Like he still demanded anytime Mike got in trouble.

His arms were crossed as he laid on his side, sneakers on his feet, dangling off the bed. He had changed his clothes. He wore deep teal jeans, they were an odd shade, with a sort of brown tint, dark at the knees. The way his socks were stretched past his ankles, you could see them for about an inch, between his red hi-tops and the cuffs of his jeans.

He had on his white t-shirt from last night, tucked into his jeans, only he didn’t have the smart plaid shirt over it anymore. William was sure he thought it looked nerdy, and it kind of did. But Mike could stand to look more nerdy. Instead of all…punk rock. Whatever it was. Less stereotypical teenage rebel.

But it was fine. He cleaned up everything. It was fine. He could wear those red sneakers. The dirty jeans (they were clean, but they looked dirty—that’s the point apparently?) and the bracelets. William did not care for the bracelets at all. Apparently rockstars wore them. Kids ought not emulate rockstars. Most of them die young.

But Mike loved rockstars. He didn’t like many things, but the few things he did like, he loved. Clara always said he had such a full heart, she was right. Mike liked art, and The Smiths and he hung posters that William presumed were from musical artists all over his room.

He loved to sketch things. Anything. He sketched the park, he sketched the animatronics, he sketched his nightmares. William invaded his privacy and would steal his journal to look at those ones. Mike was a good artist, the nightmares were vivid: bleeding bodies and mangled robotics and empty hallways (it was responsible parenting, to see into your child’s head and know what he was dreaming).

Mike loved sweets too. Not as much as when he was a kid, but he still had a habit of snacking: sour candies, salty chips, cans and cans of soda (don’t get that kid hyped up on caffeine, maybe that’s why he was such a little shit yesterday, he had coffee) and brownies and whatnot. Mike always came home with sweets from school.

Mike also loved being held. And protected. And told that nothing in the world will ever hurt him as long as I’m here. Mike loved being told that he wasn’t the worst thing in the world. And Mike clung onto the words for dear life, whenever his Dad told him he loved him.

William knew this. He knew this well. When he walked into Mike’s room, coffee in hand, he didn’t knock. Mostly because he never knocked, but also because it wouldn’t have mattered—Mike had headphones on.

There was a pile of cassette tapes beside him, on his bed. A couple on the floor.

Mike was laid down on his side, arms crossed, eyes closed (just resting), shivering.

It wasn’t warm out, but it wasn’t cold either.

William walked in closer, and even though he knew it was a bad idea, he reached for Mike, let a hand fall on the back of his neck.

Or try to. Unsurprisingly, Mike jumped away, startled.

He smacked the back of his skull into his wall, jumping away from William. His flimsy headphones slid off his head.

He was tensed up, legs tucked somewhat close to his chest, shoes on the bed now, his hands gripped the blanket beneath him. He breathed. William caught sight of his red eyes.

Without question, he came closer, and Mike backed away again. William disregarded that, because his son looked pretty rough his son looked like that mirror he just passed by and he wanted to look closer.

“Don’t move,” slipped out of William’s mouth on automatic and sure enough, Mike remained in place (save for his wicked trembling). He wished Mike wouldn’t shake so much; he was like a goddamn chihuahua at this point.

William was very gentle this time around, though. He was rough yesterday. Could’ve bruised the kid with how much love he had, anytime he squished his cheeks and cupped his soft face. He held his son soft and steady this time.

Mike’s eyes were exhausted, shadows beneath them. His lips were chapped as always, because he chewed the hell out of them. He had gum in his mouth now though, pink wad snapping between his crooked teeth. They really weren’t that crooked; he didn’t understand the fuss. No, Michael looked just fine with his unruly yellowish pearls. Sweet and soft and nervous. That’s what Michael looked like. 

“You didn’t sleep last night,” William said. It was almost a question, but not at all because it was so evident; so obvious. No, it was a statement. 

“Did you?” The other asked.

William shook his head.

Mike’s heavy eyes blinked at him almost mournfully. Guilty.

“Why not?” William’s son asked.

William smoothed his son's hair. William smoothed his collar. William started to tense, running out of things to smooth out.

“I was worried for you,” the lie fell out of him without much thought. No, to be fair, he was somewhat worried for him now at least. Worried because his son didn’t get any sleep last night, and he still looked sweet, but he didn’t like the idea of Mike staying up all night, getting into trouble. Doing things he ought not to do.

The words filled his son with something though. His eyes got a bit bigger, and damn William couldn’t stand it when he did that. When he fluttered his big eyes at him like when he was small and begging for something. Puppy eyes, he still had them. They usually only came out when he was downright terrified. Was Michael terrified?

“What’s wrong Michael?” William heard himself speak and was relieved to find that his mind had truly felt sharper this morning. He could speak before his thoughts rolled out. At least, he could hear himself when they did.

Mike shook his head. He hid his face, so naturally William grabbed at it, because Mike knew better than to hide his face. William knew it was instinctive. But he needed to kill it. It’s a bad habit. It makes people think you’re scared.

And William knew Michael was always scared around him. He wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t a bad thing, him to always be tentative. Alert.

You never know when someone’s gonna try to kill you. Or stuff you in an animatronic about to short-circuit and crush your skull in. Bitten.

“Nothin’ Dad.”

“Michael, we talked about lying.”

“Sorry. I just…I missed you. S’all.”

“Yeah?”

Mike nodded, swallowed, “yeah.”

William felt the tenderness in his words. William felt the truth behind them because Michael was the worst liar in the world. So he was telling the truth, as much as it seemed to pain him to do so. His face was peach again.

“Why’s that?”

He made a noise like a groan, but then tried to make it sound less exasperated, like a cough,

“I don’t know.”

Truth, once more. Mike had no idea why he could ever miss his dear father.

“Were you worried? My palm is fine now, Michael. Nothing to worry for.”

Mike nodded; face turned to the side again. Eyes low. William allowed it because it was contemplative. Mike wasn’t smart but he’s always tried. He’s always been contemplative. He’s just usually not fast enough to keep up with his brain. That’s all. The thoughts went by too fast for him, probably. Elizabeth could keep up with her brain. Evan was too young to tell. Mike, William could see it, how the pictures and words in his head flashed by and he couldn’t manage to get a good look at anything moving through his mind. His son thought too fast for his own good. His conscious mind was being bullied by its subconscious.

Equilibrium.

William continued,

“You still look concerned. Talk to me, Michael.”

Mike shook his head. Then did it again. He tried,

“I…Ugh” 

“How eloquent.”

Mike rolled his eyes at his father, something he’d never done before, and William allowed it because it was such a rare, authentic thing, that Mike hadn’t noticed at all.

“Dad, I. You don’t. I’m…” Mike breathed, “I’m sorry.” 

His voice began to shake, but William set a hand on his knee which signaled his son to continue,

“I’m. I’m sorry about what I said...About bleeding out. I. I didn’t mean it. I’d never want anything bad to happen to you. And I don’t know why I said any of the other stuff, I don’t even remember what I said. But it was probably awful, and I was so upset and I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

William couldn’t help himself, he said,

“You’re sorry quite often, aren’t you? You’re always sorry, aren’t you, Michael?”

Oh, there he goes. Tears. When did he start crying so much? He never cried at 13. A little at 12, but he hit 13 and he cried on his birthday and that’s it. Never cried again until. Ah. Until the remnant. Yeah.

Mike’s been crying a lot ever since that. A symptom, maybe then. William will add it to a list.

Mike nodded. Nodded as he cried silently.

William let a hand slip gently on his shoulders, glide around his neck (to which he shivered intensely) and held Michael close. William held him close and let him cry into his shoulder and then his chest, and he let him sob,

“Guilt is good, Michael. What you feel is so good. Everything you feel? It makes you good, Michael. So don't fight it, alright? Just let it hurt like it's supposed to. Some things are meant to hurt, Michael.

I love you more than anything else in the world. I love you because you are me. You will always be a part of me, an extension of me. And so we will always be together."

Mike just kept sobbing. He was sweet when he sobbed. Meek maybe. But it didn’t feel meek like this. It just felt like truth. It just felt like kindness and obedience and like he was his child first and foremost.

When Mike cried to him, William was a father to him. He felt like he could burn alive.