fifteen

The Cure
••• Boys Don't Cry •••


now i would do 'most anything

to get you back by my side

but i just keep on laughing

hiding the tears in my eyes

•••••



fanart!!!!

Artist: sixsnightmare

Artist: enpyvo

Artist: Yeet_Flan

Artist: nebulaegem

Artist: emo uwu rat boi

Artist: NANI?!?!

Artist: Anima A!

Artist: Venus_Penis

Artist: me! hehe :)




Updates will slow down significantly now as I'm back at uni. sorry! 







••• thirteen years ago •••



  "Happy legal age to drink even though we break the law and drink anyway!"

  I burst upright from bed, wide-eyed, stunned and disorientated from being so startlingly woken by a shout. My bleary eyes jumped to the doorway of my room, where Michael was leaning against the doorframe with a silly little party hat sitting over his curly, hickory hair. He grinned at me, perfectly handsome, while I was bewildered and just-woken-up scruffy.

  "Good morning, birthday Princess," he greeted.

  I dropped back onto my pillow and dragged my duvet over my head. His chuckle resonated around the room.

  "Wake up, superstar." He yanked the duvet down and I groaned, dropping my arms over my face. "You've got presents waiting for you."

  "The best present you can give me right now-" I snatched the duvet from his hands and pulled it back over myself. "- is a sleep in."

  Michael, unperturbed, grabbed the covers and hauled them right off of the bed. I loudly whined and folded my arms over my face again.

  "Come oooon!" Michael goaded. He grabbed my wrists and tugged them aside, shoving his beaming face into my personal bubble. "You're twenty-one! Let's celebrate! Party, rock on!"

  I rolled my eyes at his enthusiasm. Michael always went overboard with birthdays. He got overexcited and planned out each one with passion that even the posh mothers in the rich neighbouring suburbs couldn't rival. He was a modern day birthday connoisseur. 

  Michael never spoke about it, but I figured that his want to go all out with birthdays was a result of him never really getting to celebrate when it was just him and his dad.

  To make up for it, my mother began to host birthdays for Michael when we were a few years into our friendship, and his love for them grew ever since. His mood always improved whenever a birthday was approaching, whether it was mine, or Matt's, or my mother's and he would always be at the forefront of the planning. Not even William's awful mood changes could deter Michael's determination.

  He didn't forget his deceased siblings' birthdays either. Each year, we'd visit Lizzy and Evan's graves on their birthdays to leave a little cupcake of their favourite flavours with a candle. It was a tradition Michael started as soon as that first birthday rolled around without Evan there, and I was eventually adopted into it. We never really said anything, other than a 'hello' to the headstone and a 'goodbye' when we'd leave.

  Though Michael would, on the off chance, murmur a few sentences. I'd do my best not to listen in as I flicked the lighter over the candle.

  "Ready for a great day, superstar?" Michael cheekily asked with a boop to my nose. I huffed at the man who hovered painfully close over the top of me.

  "If you weren't paying half of the rent-" if I weren't madly infatuated with you "-I'd punt you into the damn sun." I'd not be thinking about how easy it would be to kiss you right now.

  Michael pulled back with a hearty laugh, amused by my empty threat, only to be cut short when a shrill beep pierced from the kitchen. He dropped the duvet onto the floor and swept out of my room before I could order him to put it back on my damn bed, the animal. I stared at the ceiling in exasperation.

  I hate him.
  I adore him.

  "Fall in love with your best friend," I mocked to myself under my breath as I slipped off of the mattress and picked up the discarded duvet like the clown I was. "It'll be fun."

  I could already smell the result of a cooked breakfast wafting from our little kitchen as I walked down our creaky-floored hallway. He was fluffing about the kitchen like a 50s housewife, pulling out pancakes from the oven that had been left to heat, flipping bacon on the stove, pouring a smoothie made from my favourite fruit to drink.

  Helium balloons tapped at the ceiling with curled ribbons as tails, while a 'happy birthday!' banner had been tied above the fireplace that we never used. A small pile of wrapped presents, some mailed from family and friends, sat on the corner of the bench, awaiting me.

  I stopped at the entrance and watched Michael as he slid some pancakes onto two plates and prepared it just the way I liked. The kettle stopped boiling and he rushed to ready some coffee.

  To anyone else, he would've looked anxious and stretched thin as he zoomed around our tiny galley kitchen, but I could see a certain joy on his handsome face as he prepared the celebrations. He once joked that he hosted better birthdays than Freddy's, and when it was just him and I, I was more than inclined to agree.

  I imagined him celebrating other holidays - Christmas, thanksgiving, Independence Day. I imagined an older Michael's beaming grin as he carted his kids around, towed along by an equally giddy partner.

  My heart ached. Was I selfish to want more from him? Was I selfish to want to be that giddy partner in my daydream?

  I couldn't imagine a little wife or husband stealing Michael away from me. Even just nights when he was out had me more solemn than when he was home. Being around Michael just always seemed to heighten my happiness.

  My greatest fear was losing him.

  Michael noticed me in the doorway and I pushed a content look onto my face to mask what tunnels my head had just traversed. He spread his arms wide, as if showing off a new attraction at a zoo, and beamed.

  "Happy birthday, superstar!"

  A genuine smile pushed past my mask and I ventured into the decorated living room. Even though it was like this every year, I was still so touched whenever he'd go all out just to celebrate the day I was born. I tried to match his energy for his own birthdays, but I don't think I was quite as successful.

  "It smells amazing," I complimented as I took a seat. He pushed my plate and drinks to me and eagerly sat across the table.

  "I have some news for you," he said with a giddy kind of smile as he watched me dig in. His cooking was always delicious. "Henry's offered me a job."

  "Really?" I gasped in delight. "Mikey, that's wonderful!"

  "Yeah, until you hear where it is!" Michael joked nervously, still keeping the same energy as before. My face dropped in confusion.

  "What?" I asked. "Where is it?"  

  Michael's smile faded just a tad, and I realised with a start that it was forced. He stared at his smoothie and lifted it to his lips.

  "At Freddy's," he muttered into the drink and took a guilty sip. My fork clattered at the words that struggled out of his mouth, slither of pancake falling back to the plate.

  He grimaced at the sound. I sat back in my seat, taking in this information as I stared at him. He couldn't meet my baffled eyes.

  "You're not going to take it, are you?" I asked. 

  Michael was quiet.

  "Mike!" I chastised as I leant forward. "Ever since Henry sold it, the place has gotten so scody! It's nothing more than a money-grubbing hell hole!"

  "I know," he reasoned. "But he thinks that it may help with the investigation." Michael reached across the table and grabbed at my hand. The both of his, nicked and scarred from his time at his mechanics apprenticeship that fell through, swamped my own. My heart gave an almighty thud as I watched them. "Admit it, Y/n, we've hit a roadblock. The place could have the evidence we need to get justice for those kids and closure for their parents."

  My eyes drifted to Mikey's, expression reluctant. I couldn't argue with his reasoning but I still wasn't a fan of him possibly entering a workplace that clearly didn't care for its staff. However, iI knew more than most that once Michael set his mind to something, there was rarely anything that would change it.

  Maybe I'd have a word with Henry about his offer.

  "So... I'm going to be moving back to Hurricane at the end of the year," Michael said slowly. The rest of the sentence was unspoken, but I knew what he was hinting at.

  'Come with me.'

  I stared at our hands with a conflicted expression. We'd moved to Nevada to get out of Hurricane. We'd spent years dreaming and speaking of where we'd go once we could leave, what we'd do, about how we'd never return. We vowed to leave that dusty place behind.

  It felt as though we were breaking the promises we made to ourselves when we were young. But what else could I do? Leave Michael? Even if I wasn't madly in love with him, even if he wasn't my best friend, I wouldn't let him return alone. Not when I was one of the few people he could call family left.

  No. We were in this together. We had been since we were thirteen.

  "I'll start looking for jobs in Hurricane for after I graduate, I guess," I sighed. Michael brightened, put the damn galaxy to shame, and squeezed my hand in gratitude. My traitorous heart stumbled again.

  "Thank you, superstar," he said with an appreciative look on his face that had me struggling back a pleased blush. He pulled his hands off mine and reached for the pile of presents at the end of the table with a beam. "Alright, birthday princess, time to unwrap some gifts!"

  I sighed at his eagerness with content, knew that I would rather do anything else than leave his side, and caught the first gift-wrapped box he threw to me.


⚡️🧸🤖🧸⚡️


  "Is that the last of the boxes?"

  Michael jumped off the back of the moving truck and aired out his grey tank with a huff. The Utah sun beat down its waves of heat mercilessly, and moving near-on thirty boxes and pieces of furniture from the small moving truck into our new rental on the outskirts of town made for quite the workout.

  "Yep," he replied and pushed back his sweaty hair. I looked away, less my heart gave out, and wiped at my perspiring forehead as I surveyed the neighbourhood that was now also ours. I squeaked when I was pulled into Michael's damp, warm side as he slung an enthusiastic arm around me. "What do you think, superstar? Quality home material?"

  "God, you stink, get off of me," I whined as I tried to wriggle away from his sweaty stickiness. With an evil chuckle, he pulled me deeper into himself. "Mike!"

  "Take a look at it and revel," Michael said loudly as he pushed me around to face the house. A giggle I was trying to hold back slipped into the air. "Is this not the best crib in the whole of Utah State?"

  I rolled my eyes. "It's practically a shack."

  "Yes, but-!" he pulled away to jump onto the lawn. "Look at the greens."

  I had to admit, it was pretty green. The lawn seemed to be well maintained, watered frequently to keep from dying in the desert heat of Hurricane. The house itself was one from the 60s, a small little two-bedroom box of a house that was no bigger than our student flat back in Nevada. We were still contemplating where to put Michael's work out gear. He said the garage. I opted for the large shed out back.

  "The greens are very green," I agreed. The porch out the front of the house was cute, too. I could picture us sitting down there and reading after a long day.

  "Hey, kiddos!" A voice called from the pick-up truck that just pulled into the curb. I gasped in delight when I turned and saw Matt step out and bounded towards him with a joyous yell.

  "Matt!" I barrelled into his chest for a hug. He stumbled back with a grunt. I heard Michael approach. "Hi!"

  "Hey, squirt," he chuckled as he hugged me back. Matt soon grimaced. "You smell gross."

  I pulled back with an offended scoff and sent Michael a look, bewildered. I was briefly stunned by the way his tan skin shone an attractive shade of copper under the sun but quickly recovered. "Can you believe the nerve of this guy?"

  Immediately understanding the joke, his face went dead serious. "I can't believe the nerve of this guy," he said.

  "The nerve of this guy," I scoffed.

  "The nerve." Michael shook his head.

  "Nerve," I finished with a huff.

  "Fuckin' nerds," Matt groaned. "Do you want my help to unpack or not?"

  After giving Matt a quick tour around our small, new house, we settled down in the living room to begin unpacking. Michael peeled off to unpack the bathroom's boxes and, after giving each other finger guns as he departed from the room, I found Matt staring at me with a very specific, intentful kind of look.

  "What?" I asked.

  "You sure you guys aren't a couple?" Matt asked in a quiet, forceful sort of a way. I fumbled with the couch cushion I was pulling out of a cardboard box and dropped it back in. "'Cause everyone in town seems to think you are."

  "Matt!" I hissed in horror and gestured at the door.

  "He can't hear us."

  "But what-" I broke off to grumble a sigh and busied my hands by placing the pillow on the couch and refluffing it. "I think I'd know if I was dating my best friend."

  "The lines have gotten very blurred from my point of view," Matt shrugged as he pulled out the cables for the old, crappy television that Michael had found trashed at his old apprenticeship and 'fixed.' I gritted my jaw. "Charlie agrees."

  I whipped around to send him a withering glare. He watched back, unamused, as I balled my fists in annoyance. "Have you been talking about us behind our backs?"

  "Of course we have."

  "Unbelievable."

  "You've been in love with him for years, squirt." Matt reverted the subject back to its topic and sent me a confused, desperate look. I pulled my eyes away and hated how my cheeks instantly bloomed pink. "Are you really gonna sit around and do nothing? I hate seeing you hurt whenever he gets a new girlfriend. What if he marries the next one? What'll you do then?"

  What if he marries the next one? A bloom of hurt erupted viciously within my chest and I felt winded. It was a scenario that I'd had nightmares about and, unfortunately, was a very real reality with the way things were going. I swallowed back the thickness that had taken an iron grip around my throat.

  "He's my best friend," I murmured and slowly moved back to the pile of unopened boxes. "I can't risk ruining that."

  "So, you're just going to hurt yourself."

  "Either way I hurt," I scoffed. I yanked open a box with a little more force than necessary and my hands stung in protest. "I just have to outgrow it."

  "Outgrow?" Matt echoed in disbelief. "Y/n, you've been in love with him for six years. Six. You're not going to outgrow it if you haven't already."

  I opened my mouth to send a sharp retort in response to the hurtful truth he'd just forced me to look dead in the eyes, but a creak in the hallway had my breath sucked back into my lungs. Our heads shot to the doorway, silent.

  "Just the house settling," Matt reassured the both of us after a tense few seconds of nothing happening. A clatter came from where Michael was still unpacking in the bathroom and I felt my shoulders lose some of their tension. "Y/n-"

  "Shut up, shut up," I seethed with a blistering glare shot his way. "I'm not talking about this when he could walk in at any second."

  Matt raised his palms in surrender and began to dutifully set up the tv. Face burning in fury and embarrassment, I continued with the boxes on my side of the living room.

  What if he marries the next one?

  
I worried my lip with my teeth as another wave of hurt hit me breathless.



⚡️🧸🤖🧸⚡️


  Michael cursed as he darted back inside the bathroom and knocked over a box full of toiletry supplies in his fervour. It went scattering across the floor, reminiscent of his current state of mind.

  He could feel it, his heart, drumming at a pace unreal. He could feel it thudding and racing and when he thought of his best friend's face after overhearing a few simple, life-altering words, his heart only raced faster.

  Michael clutched at his chest, damp shirt twisting like nooses around his fingers, and leant his clammy head onto the sink. Matt's words echoed in his ears, singing like sirens, taunting, teasing, cursing him.

  'You've been in love with him for years.'

  For years? How could he have been so blind? And she'd been hurting for those past six years? He'd been hurting her? Just the thought of Y/n being in pain because of him had his stomach twisting with a violently sick feeling of guilt. Not his Y/n, not his perfect, sweet Y/n. The last thing she deserved was to be in pain. 

  'You've been in love with him for years.'

  Michael raised his head and caught sight of his reflection. Startled by the entire redness of his face, he took a step back from the sink and stressfully ran his hands through his hair. He'd never blushed like that before, and the warmth wriggling like snakes in his gut was entirely foreign.

  "Oh, fuck," Michael whispered as he clasped his hands over his cheeks, as if to hide the evidence of his surfacing emotions that he'd been blissfully unaware of for so long.


⚡️🧸🤖🧸⚡️


  "What do you think?"

  I glanced up from where I was lounging on my bed, reading one of Michael's many books. He stood in the doorway to my room, haloed by the late evening light, hair washed and combed, security guard uniform crisp and clean and new.

  I sat up and gave the uniform an appreciative look-over and Michael awkwardly shifted under my gaze as he picked at the cuff of his purple button-up. It was tucked into black slacks that hugged him in a divine sort of way that had my mind diving straight to the gutter. The polished black shoes was of my own choosing when we went out to buy them for him.

  "Look at you, working man," I teased. Even his name was plastered on to a badge that sat against his chest. A Fazbear's logo was stitched into the material on the opposite side, and between them laid the tail of a black necktie. A security cap sat on his head and a heavy-duty flashlight was fastened to his belt. "You look good!"

  "I look like a moron," he groaned. "Who uses the colour purple for a security uniform?"

  "It suits you," I decided. I stood and crossed the room to brush some fluff from his shoulder, enamoured in the way the shirt sat tight over his chest. "I like it."

  Michael went quiet. I felt my stare linger on a tad too long and glanced up, only to find his cheeks flushed through with pink. My hand went for his forehead.

  "You're warm," I noted in alarm as I felt his skin for heat. His hazel eyes watched me curiously.  "Are you okay? Are you sick? Is it... is it because of your dad? You don't have to go, I can call Henry up and-"

  Michael's fingers wrapped around my wrist and he gently pulled it away from his face. An amused, grateful smile greeted me. His hazel eyes melted in the light of my room.

  "I'm fine," he reassured. "It's... just a little hot to wear. Thank you, though, superstar."

  I frowned in worry. "Are you sure?"

  He cupped my cheeks with a chuckle and my heart leapt an inch up my chest. "I'm fine. I have to go. I'll see you in the morning."

  The feeling of Michael's calloused palms over the soft skin of my cheeks had my breath stumbling over itself. Everything about him was simply intoxicating; from the charming crookedness of his smile, the wash of freckles across his tanned cheeks, the boyish gentleness of his ever-changing eyes. Even just his smell - the dust of Hurricane, the oil of his tinkering robotics projects in the garage, the artificial spice of his cologne, and the warm smell of something alive and breathing.

  It all called me in, made me surrender. I could continue to melt until I was nothing but a pile of smitten goo but I managed to corral myself back into control and nodded.

  "Okay," I replied. Michael stepped away, taking his palms off of my cheeks with him, and I balled my hand into the trousers of my pyjamas in response to the woe of losing sweet skin-on-skin contact. I followed him to the porch and nervously wrung my wrists. "I'll see you in the morning."

  Michael turned at my farewell and sent an easy-going smile. He ruffled my hair and I briefly squeezed my eyes shut at the action. "See you in the morning, superstar."

  I watched as he crossed the lawn to his car and chucked his bag into shotgun. With a farewell wave and a well-aimed kick to the sweet spot beneath the well, he peeled away from the curb and disappeared down the road.

  I leant against the porch post and held my arms. The more I thought about him working at Freddy's, the more uneasy I felt. It was a franchise that was basically one half of William's brain child and I felt useless, just letting him waltz back there as if he wasn't deeply traumatised by his father. Wasn't I supposed to keep him from doing something like this?

  Wandering back inside the house, I began shutting windows and readying the place for night. The silence was a thunderous whine in my ears, staticky and squealing with nothing substantial to focus on. It felt so empty without him.

  At least his shifts started late enough that we got to have dinner together. The thought of eating alone every night that he had a shift had me feeling all kinds of grief. I began turning the lights off, leaving a flood of darkness in my wake.

  Maybe I have separation anxiety? Maybe I came to depend on Michael's presence so much that I couldn't bear the thought of him not being situated in my daily life. Maybe I was just madly, madly in love with my best friend and equally as afraid of ruining everything that we had.

  I stopped at the door to Michael's room. There were less Star Wars posters taped to the walls than his childhood bedroom, and more robotic manuals and loose bits of evidence of our investigation into the missing kids sprinkled around. A stereo sat on top of his dresser with a lopsided, teetering pile of rock and metal CD's beside it. His bed no longer a single but a double. His space had grown with him.

  What if he grows too much and I can't keep up? What if he grows away from me and right into the arms of someone else?

  I didn't want things to change - but I did. I wanted the security of our day-to-day, but I wanted more. Who else could know that Michael loved Star Wars so much that he used to quote it while struggling to light his cigarettes before Charlie and I eventually coaxed him to quit? Who else could know that he'd began to chew bubblegum when anxious or craving nicotine to keep himself from scratching at his arms or chewing at flesh of the inside of his cheek? Who else knew what it was that made him anxious in the first place; shouting people, disappointing someone, anything to do with his father, the expectation of being emotionally open?

  I knew. I knew. But it still wasn't enough. He'd find someone and settle down and it was inevitable, as much as I pleaded and begged that the marching of time could stop just for us. As much as I wanted nothing here to change. I wasn't ready for change.

  Seeking bed, I crawled under the covers and stared at the darkness of the ceiling. The house would creak and groan as it settled in the wind, but it wasn't alive enough to soothe how alone I felt. I could pretend that Michael was still in the next room over, but I inherently knew that he was half-way across town, playing security guard for an establishment that probably reminded him too much of his father.

  And I wasn't allowed to be there for him.

  Six couldn't roll around slower. I tossed and turned all night, sleeping only in half-hour intervals. The night dragged for eternity and my alarm clock with its illuminated red numbers served as my personal tormentor. It watched sadistically as my eyes kept glancing to it and finding only mere seconds had passed between each check.

  When I did wake after finally managing to sleep for something longer than half-an-hour, I found it to be six-forty. I felt every wisp of oxygen release from my strained chest with a sigh and I listened out for any bit of human movement in the house - the clink of a ceramic bowl, the creak of floorboards underfoot or the screech of a kitchen chair against the tile.

  Nothing. He should've been home by then, surely. Michael's shift ended at six and it was only a twenty minute drive to the pizzeria.

  As I restlessly laid in bed, I tried to convince myself that everything was normal and okay. It was the first shift of his new job, he probably got caught up learning the ropes or introducing himself to the day-shift team, or exploring the place for clues to what happened to those kids.

  But I could feel something twisting in my gut - something ugly and horrific and maybe I was just being paranoid or maybe I was genuinely understanding that something was wrong. The disgusting, slimy feeling that slithered its weight into my chest had me all but launching out of bed and venturing to the front door to check for Michael's car. It was there. Where was he?

  I saw him outside then, sat on one of the old chairs tucked into the corner of the porch. He was hunched over, shirt untucked and once neat umber hair a strangled mess. The line of his sharp jaw had caught in the sunlight of the growing dawn, painting it saffron as he feverishly fumbled to stick a lit cigarette into his mouth and drag a desperate inhale.

  My hand found the doorknob. It was cold, freezing, licking my skin with ice the same temperature as the shiver that had rocked across my back. I stepped out into the suffocating chill of the morning with a squeak of iron hinges.

  "Mike?"

  He flinched, dropping his box of cigs and sending the tiny sticks scattering across the wooden boards of the porch. Some fell down the gaps. When his hazel eyes landed on me, I reeled back from the look of acute terror that he pierced me with. It was a bullet of a daze.

  "Mike," I breathed in shock. He pulled the stick from his mouth with a tremouring hand and a cloud of smoke fogged from between his parted lips. He never smoked. At least, not anymore. "... are you okay?" 

  He let out a startled kind of laugh at my question, one that immediately had a sob break from between his teeth. Alarmed, I inched closer, only to gasp when he stuck the cig back between his lips and hauled me into his lap. While I certainly wasn't opposed to straddling Michael's lap while he hugged me so tight that it bruised, it only served to make my fear and confusion skyrocket. My arms instinctively found their way around his neck.

  "Mikey," I said quietly once I'd recovered. I pulled the cig from between his lips and a cascade of smoke followed. The saffron had taken to the curve of his nose, licking against the knob of his cheekbone. I caressed it. "Talk to me."

  He dropped his forehead onto my shoulder. I curled my fingers through his hair. The sun peeked from behind the line of mountains and begun to slowly drown us.

  "They almost killed me." His response was husky and cracked, as if he'd yelled his throat raw. He sounded like a man dying of thirst. "I almost died."

  I stared at the line of his shoulder as I played with his hair. It shuddered under the occasional, violent tremble, betraying the look of broad strength he usually so effortlessly portrayed. A hollow sensation had me feeling lightheaded. The cigarette draped between my fingers glowed.

  "Who?" I asked.

  "... the robots."

  The robots. The robots had tried to kill him? As much as I thought it was impossible and absurd, I knew that Michael wasn't just pulling some elaborate, cruel prank on me. He wasn't one for them. His fear was too real even if he was.

  I stared at the disheveled curls that my fingers were carding through, trying my best to process this after a near-sleepless night. Michael tried to match his erratic breathing to my own, to the rhythm of pleasant tugs against his hair.

  "The robots?" I asked for confirmation, voice quiet and genial and probing for an answer while trepidly skirting his fright. He nodded in response, forehead rocking against my collarbone.

  The robots had tried to kill him. It was fucking absurd, a new kind of insanity that if anybody else spoke the same words Michael had just uttered, I would've laughed and expected it to be a joke. Because it was crazy. It was mental. It was impossible.

  But he had spoken them. It was him who said it. So instead of brushing it off as a joke, I felt an intense rage burst wildly within me. It filled my head with bees and snakes and gave me a tunnel vision tinted merlot. I stomped the butt of the cigarette to the underside of the chair and dropped it onto the porch to be cleaned up with the rest of them later.

  Michael lifted his head to watch me shuffle from his lap. My fingers left his hair and it was even messier than before. His crumpled uniform, I noted, was covered in dust. He watched me, slumped on his seat, as I grabbed his car keys from the chair beside him and nodded for him to follow.

  "Get in the car."

  He tearily blinked. "What?"

  "Into the car, Mike."

  Bewildered, he followed as I stormed down the driveway and hauled the creaky drivers door open. Michael tentatively took shotgun, gaze flickering from the empty, morning street to my furious face, chin jutted as I tried to keep myself under control. I gave the area under the steering wheel a harder kick than necessary. The motor spluttered to life.

  "Where are we going?" Michael asked as I revved the car away from our house at a speed that would raise some eyebrows. He eyed my white knuckles around the wheel and clutched for the grab handle above the window just in case. "Y/n?"

  "Quiet," I demanded from under my breath. Michael stared at me for a few, long seconds before turning his attention to the road. He didn't speak again until I pulled onto a familiar street and stopped outside a house. Alarmed, his gaze widened. "Wait- wait, Y/n-"

  Ignoring him, I shoved myself from the car and beelined for the door. I couldn't care less if the occupants of the old farmhouse weren't awake. I couldn't care less that I were still in my pyjamas. Michael reached the porch just as I was putting the spare key into the lock.

  "Y/n," he hissed, eyes wide as I stepped inside. He grabbed my shoulder and I shrugged his hand off. "Y/n, come on, let's go home-"

  Fortunately, for me, the occupants were awake. Henry Emily stepped out from the kitchen in confusion before breaking into a warm smile when he realised who had entered his home without permission.

  "Oh, hello, kids," Henry greeted with a tired grin as I paced towards him. "We just put some coffee on, would you like-"

  Henry, poor old Henry. Henry, who did nothing but want to help, didn't get a chance to finish his offer. Instead, he choked on his words as I grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him down to eye level.

  "What the FUCK is WRONG WITH YOU?!" I yelled. The bees and snakes had been let loose. The merlot turned blood. Michael pulled me back by the waist with strength I couldn't fight and I struggled in his arms as Henry's shirt slipped from my fingers. "You're FUCKING CRAZY!" I screamed and clawed at the purple sleeves around me. "HOW DARE YOU!!"

  "Y/n, Y/n!" Michael corralled my writhing body into a tight hold. "Calm down."

  "Don't fucking tell me to CALM DOWN!" My fury was directed still at Henry, who rubbed at where his collar had caught on the back of his neck. "I can't believe you'd do this to him! First you send him to that fucking place, and now he's telling me robots were trying to FUCKING KILL HIM!!"

  Henry's weary eyes travelled to Michael's. I was still spitting curses like a wrathful, maddened dog.

  "Ah," the man said with an age to his voice that made him sound ancient. Charlie poked her head around the corner in alarm. "You didn't tell her."

  Through the buzzing of my fury, I managed to at least catch the inclination of that. I stopped struggling and stared at Henry with a blistering glare, panting.

  "Tell me what?" I spat.

  "The bots," Charlie piped up. She looked me in the eye when my glare switched to her. "They're possessed. We think by the kids who William killed." Her eyes jumped to Michael. "He knew about it."

  "I didn't expect them to try and fucking kill me, Charlotte!" Michael defended.

  "What?" Her face ran pale. "They haven't done that before."

  "Kids, kids, please," Henry groaned and held his hands out in a placating manner. "It's too early to be starting world war three. Let's-"

  "Ghosts don't exist," I seethed incredulously at the middle-aged man. Henry sighed. "Possession doesn't exist. I don't care what excuse you pull out of your ass, you put Michael in that position."

  "Michael knew what he was getting into and he didn't tell you!" Charlie argued with fervour. "You should be having a chat to your boyfriend instead!"

  "Charlie!" Henry barked. I slumped a little in Michael's arms at Charlie's words, head ringing. 'He didn't tell you.' "Enough."

  "I'm right!"

  "Charlie."

  Charlie threw her hands into the air in exasperation and stormed back into the kitchen. I stared at the polished, wooden boards of the hallway flooring with bleary vision. He didn't tell me? He didn't tell me.

  "Y/n?" Michael asked quietly. Henry followed after his daughter, leaving us alone.

  "You didn't tell me?" I asked. The hurt I was feeling was immeasurable; it peaked the richter, it eviscerated the scale. My hands gripped tight over his arms. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  Michael couldn't find an answer immediately. I turned in his hold and sent him an anguished look. I desperately wanted anything but what was clearly the truth, I wanted an excuse to live in denial. He deflated under my pained stare.

  Michael didn't tell me. He really didn't tell me. I thought we told each other everything? I don't understand. I don't understand.

  I'd always hated change.

  "Y/n, superstar-" he sighed. I forced myself out of his hold as soon as the pet name slipped from his lips, unable to handle hearing such affection from someone that withheld such important information from me. He followed my path to the door.

  "Don't call me that."

  "Please, just listen-"

  "You can take the car."

  "It was getting too dangerous-"

  "No shit, Michael!" I scorned as I whipped around to face him. "Possessed robots? Yeah, that does sound fucking dangerous!"

  "Y/n," he said in a gentle kind of way - not infantilising, nor in an effort to calm me, but just to show his genuine guilt as he cradled my face. "I'm just learning the extent of what William's done, what he'd been doing. It's fucked up. It's dangerous. I don't want you getting hurt."

  "Well, congratulations." I sent him a bitter smile as I pulled away. "I'm hurt."

  Michael's face crumpled. His empty hands grasped around thin air. "I'm sorry. I thought... I thought I was doing the right thing."

  "We've been in this together since we were seventeen," I reminded. My infuriation had finally began to cede its strength and my throat grew thick. "You don't get to decide when it's too much for me. That's not fair."

  I took a step forward and poked my finger into the chest of his shirt. He stared at me sombrely, but my vision was growing watery and incoherent, anyway. 

  "I'm doing this for you," I hissed to the blurry visage of him. "And I'm doing this for those kids. I'm not stopping, okay? You can't tell me to."

  "Okay," he whispered.

  "Okay," I nodded. A silent moment passed and we stared at each other, his face grimy with dust and tears, mine copying the latter.

  Michael almost died. He almost died.

  "Shit," I breathed a cry as I remembered what kind of horrific night he must've had. The robots were possessed and he almost died. My hands instinctively went for his face, sweeping the hair from his eyes, brushing off smudges of dirt. "Are you okay?"

  Michael removed my hands from his face and grabbed me into a hug instead. He all but smothered my shorter body and he squeezed tight, as if he could just simply hug out all the fear. Elementary thinking, but he had a pass.

  "I'm sorry," he said into my hair. "I should've told you."

  I hugged him back just as tight. For me, it was as if I could keep him in my arms for the rest of time - safe, certain, forever the same. Change couldn't tear him away from me. "I'm sorry for yelling."

  Michael shifted. He dug his face deeper into my hair. "You know I have to go back there."

  And as much as I hated to face it, I knew. I nodded.

  "They think I'm my father."

  "You're way hotter than your father," I sniffled. Michael laughed, on the verge of tears himself, and I could hear his fear in the rolls of his sad amusement. My grip tightened. "Don't you dare die on me."

  Michael pulled back so I could see his reassuring smile. His palms framed my face, and I envied the way he could still look so pretty even after a sleepless night in which he fought death hand-to-hand and on the verge of crying.

  "I don't plan on it, sweetheart."

  Sweetheart. That was a new one. My cheeks flushed with warmth and I stumbled for words so I could say something instead of standing before him like a loser. 

  Michael's smile faded as it just dawned on where we were; having a heart-to-heart in the Emily's hallway at seven on a Wednesday morning. I just recalled that I was in my pyjamas.

  "We should probably... go," I lamely managed to say. He nodded in agreement.

  We left a half-hour later, as Henry didn't let us go without some coffee and having a bite to eat. Breakfast was... awkward, to say the least, but Charlie and Michael were back to tormenting each other the way they usually did, so it can't have been all bad.

  Henry and I stood at the entrance to his house as we watched Charlie and Michael tease and jostle each other around like the unbiological siblings they'd became to be. There was a worrisome glint to the girl's eyes, though, and I knew that she was just trying to keep his mind off of his nightmare of a first shift. It seemed to be working, at least.

  "Sorry for- sorry for yelling at you," I whispered to Henry, unable to meet his eyes as I stared at my bare feet I didn't even manage to grab shoes before leaving. Henry patted my cheek before his hand dropped to squeeze my shoulder in that fatherly manner he'd seemed to adopt for Michael and I. It seemed as though I'd already been forgiven.

  "You just keep looking after the kid, alright?"

  I glanced back at Michael. He grinned at something Charlie had said. It didn't quite reach his eyes. 

  "Yeah." My answer was quiet, but it was as sure as the sky was blue. "Will do."

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