Palaye Royale
••• Dying in a Hot Tub •••

yeah, i'm here, and you're gone

i'll see you on the other side

yeah, i'm here, and you're gone

i'll see you on the other side

 •••••

Artist: BoyMarcel98

Artist: sageleafz

Artist: Lady Flame

Artist: ☆* stårry nîght *☆

••• eight years ago •••

  "Shit."

  Michael ducked his head into the hood of his jumper as he hid in the aisle of the gas station. It was a Wednesday night and it was late, very late, nearing on two in the morning. The bright, intense light from the ceiling overhead made doubly sure to mock him - there were no shadows to hide her face. There were no shadows for him to hide in.

  He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe his luck. Y/n had just walked in.

  "Shit," Michael repeated to himself as he fiddled to pull his sleeves over his stitched, rotting hands. "Shit."

  No one was ever in the gas station at this time, aside from the teenage cashier, but he was usually high as a kite and wouldn't notice that Michael's eyes glowed unnaturally from under the shadow of his cap. This was a time that Michael was finally allowed to venture out of the Emily's house.

  He didn't even know why he went to the gas station. Nostalgia, perhaps? He didn't need to eat, so there was no need to buy snacks or soda. Sometimes he'd flick through a robotics magazine that caught his eye, but they were rarely in stock. Everything the place had to offer was rarely in stock.

  Maybe he just went to the gas station because it was the only thing ever open. Because it made him feel a little bit normal.

  Michael glanced from out the side of his hood as he watched Y/n make a beeline towards the freezer and bring out a tub of ice cream. She was in their pyjamas and a leather jacket that used to belong to Michael, paired with sandals that were two years too old and falling apart.

  It would've been an unflattering look on anyone else, but Michael found himself unable to tear his gaze away. When was the last time he got to see Y/n like this? In full light, when he wasn't stuck in the shadows of Henry's house when she made her near-nightly visits to crash on his couch?

  He watched as she approached the counter, only to fumble when she didn't bring enough change. The high-as-a-kite kid watched her panic grow with an uninterested frown, probably in a different plane than them mentally. Y/n was cursing under her breath as she searched her pockets.

  Stupid move, Michael, he admonished himself, but he'd already approached and placed a handful of dollar notes on the counter. The cashier's baked gaze drifted to him while Y/n's eyes snapped to his shadowed countenance. He adjusted his cap to lie a little more lower over his face.

  "Thank you," she said. He gave a single nod and quickly left before Y/n could figure out what he was and then run away, screaming for the hills.

  If Michael had a working heart, it'd be racing. But alas, it sat still in his chest, wasting away, just as dead as the rest of his body. The scent of their body wash still lingered. His fingers twitched in his jacket's pockets as he hobbled as fast as his body could take him down the streets of Hurricane.

  Part of him screamed to turn back around and pull off his cap before her. But he'd seen himself in the mirror, he'd stitched and glued his peeling skin back into place. He knew he smelt like a corpse, he was a corpse, and he knew that his body was deteriorating at a rate that, to Henry's grim calculations, would render him immobile in two years or so.

  So, no. Turning back around wasn't an option. He'd rather spare Y/n the pain of watching his dead body die even more. It was agonising enough for Henry and Charlie to watch. Their pain was already branded into the back of his eyelids.

  He would see Y/n in an hour again, anyway. When her car would pull up outside Henry's house and she'd use the spare key to let herself in. The spare duvet sat beside the couch permanently now, a new home for it.

  She had said that her house was too quiet and empty to sleep in, but he knew that it was really because of the nightmares. The thrashing in her sleep, screaming-until-her-throat-ran-raw kind of nightmares. Nightmares that Michael was sure he was starring in, if the soft whimpers of his name was anything to go by.

  "You're back early," Charlie noted. She was in the living room, sat on the couch that doubled as Y/n's bed. Michael pulled off his cap and hung his jacket at the door. He may be dead, but home decorum was something Henry was steadfast on.

  "Yep," Michael mumbled. He rested his arms on the backrest of the couch and watched as Charlie tampered with a circuit board. "What are you up to, now?"

  Charlie held it up for Michael to see. "It's an improved touch receptor. Maybe I'll finally be able to feel the difference between cotton and linen."

  Michael watched as the seventeen-year-old slid back a panel on the inside of her arm and insert the board to join an array of others. Her eyes twitched as it routed, connecting to the system that was the robotic body of Charlotte Emily, before it slid back with a snap of plastic.

  He was still getting used to the idea that Charlie wasn't human. Henry explained it a few weeks after Michael had crawled onto his porch like a stray dog, and Michael tried not to let his robotics mind go wild at the concept of being fooled by a robot for seventeen years.

  Henry showed him what he called an 'illusion disc,' a device that tricked the mind into seeing Charlie as a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl who aged like a normal person and veiled her white, plastic body. She went to school, she ate, she drank, she acted like a completely normal kid.

  It was both terrifying and intriguing to Michael. Henry had always been far smarter than he gave himself credit, but looking at Charlie was like trying to decipher the Da Vinci code. She was so beyond the scope of his knowledge that the peak of its mountain was all but foggy in the distance.

  He knew that Henry was a present-day Daedalus, but this was insane.  

  Michael had once entertained the idea of a robotic body for himself - but it wasn't like he could just choose what to possess. Even Charlie wasn't the ghost of Henry's real-life daughter who was murdered by William when she was four. Charlie was an impressive headache of intense AI programming. Intense AI programming that read trashy romance novels, but impressive all the same (Charlie did turn around and say that he couldn't judge. She knew which trashy soap was Michael's favourite show).

  Michael watched as Charlie picked up a shirt from beside her and felt the material between her fingers. A delighted smile pulled at her lips.

  "How's it feel?"

  "Different," Charlie breathed. She rubbed the shirt along her arm. "It's... soft."

  "Cotton?"

  Charlie nodded.

  "Expensive cotton?"

  She nodded again.

  "Did you steal it from your dad?"

  Charlie pursed her lips and decided not to answer. Michael grinned and ruffled her hair, which in turn made her squawk in protest. Even her hair felt real.

  "Make sure you put it back in the morning," he said. Charlie went to argue when headlights in the street outside caught their attention. They stared at the window as the sound of a car turning off and a door slamming came muffed through the walls.

  "It's Y/n again," Charlie said with a small frown. She sent Michael a glare. "Why don't you just tell her?"

  "You know why, squirt," he sighed. She was on the porch now, so Michael slinked back into the shadows of the kitchen where Y/n couldn't see him.

  "I think she'd still love you even like this," Charlie pointed out as she followed him. "You know that she would, deep down."

  "Maybe," he relented, "but this is about what she deserves. She deserves a normal life."

  Charlie stared at him for a long minute. Her eyes followed the lines of stitches that crossed his face, done by both his own hands and Charlie's. The door opened. Y/n sneaked in, unaware that she wasn't the only one awake within the house.

  "You don't make any sense," Charlie said before silently retreating to her room.

  Michael exhaled softly as Charlie disappeared and Y/n pulled out the duvet for her sleep on the couch. He didn't make sense. None of this made sense - he was possessing his own decaying body, for god's sake. Sense was out the window a long, long time ago.

  When Y/n's breathing evened out and deepened, he took a seat against the back of the couch, where he always did. When Y/n's nightmares started, the crying, the thrashing, he made sure to talk her through them and adjusted the duvet when it would slip. And when Y/n's crumpled brow softened, he brushed a hand through her hair and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  "I don't know what to do, superstar," he murmured.

⚡️🧸🤖🧸⚡️

  ••• present day •••

  Freddy stared at a spot on the wall above me.

  I kept glancing at his face, unable to stop my eyes from straying from my task of cleaning Freddy's cavity of cake from a party whose kids ran a tad too rowdy. The quiet felt like swallowing bricks.

  It shouldn't have been so difficult. I'd cleaned him of cake and other substances before (children were messy) and the proximity had never bothered me then. In fact, I'd almost say that I enjoyed it. It was a simple task, one that kept my hands busy, but usually we'd make conversation.

  Sometimes Freddy would say an innuendo about my hands being inside him and I'd tug on a wire that made him flinch in retaliation. He made no such jokes now. He was dead silent.

  I suppose I should stop saying 'dead' around him.

  A stressed exhale hissed from my lips. I missed our conversations. I missed the way things were before I learnt about who he really was. It was nice, it was comforting, we had a camaraderie that came as easy as breathing. It may have been a lie, and it may have been only so easy because it was Michael, but at least I was blissfully unaware of it.

  I swiped the rag down a piston, collecting icing in its fibres. It was the proximity that was making my heartbeats shallow. So electrifying, so vivid and cold. I could feel the words we both wanted to say weigh down on us like a heavy atmosphere, muggy, making my hair stick to the back of my neck. But my fear kept me silent, and my silence kept Michael silent, too.

  At least I could put on an act for the kids that'd come around and beg to hang out with their favourite rockstar. Freddy could, too, though not as jovial as he used to be. But maybe they couldn't see it; the sadness in his eyes, the forcefulness of his bright disposition. It wasn't as if they spent nearly everyday with him and learnt his quirks like another language like how I had.

  I pulled my arms from his chest cavity and it slid shut with a quiet click of metal. The sickly-sweet smelling rag fell into a bucket of soapy water, gone pink from the icing. I wiped my hands on the towel over my shoulder. Job done.

  I faltered at the door. Speaking to him made me feel like Sisyphus, pushing his boulder up the mountain. It was emotionally exerting.

  "I'm going on my break..." I was meaning to announce it in a voice that betrayed nothing, but it died near the end and my words trailed. His ear perking my way was my only indication that he heard me. My teeth sunk into my lip, hesitating, before I quickly slipped from the room.

  I dug my fingers into my thighs as I weaved through the crowds decorating the Row. Freddy's curtains would be pulled open now that his cleaning was done, and he'd put on his blinding smile and wave to the kids peering inside the fishbowl he was trapped in.

  My throat was dry. It felt like I had swallowed sand. He'd have to pretend that he was okay while I would inevitably weep over a burrito in the corner like I'd been doing for the past three days.

  I caught sight of Bonnie crouching with a small pack of kids tugging on his ears and playing with his piercings. He lifted a hand in greeting. I smiled back something that probably looked forced.

  I hadn't been able to spend much time with Bonnie after I returned from my week away, though with no ill intention. It just so happened to fall that way; whenever I wasn't stuck to Freddy's side, then he'd be with his best friend. And time spent away from Freddy was the only breathers I'd get, so hanging out with the two of them was currently out of the question.

  At least Joey would spend his break with me when they'd overlap. Amanda, too, though she was in a whole different department. Her breaks didn't coincide usually, unless she snuck away. Hanging out with them was nice, if it weren't for the looks in their eyes.

  I tugged on my sleeves as I waited for my order to be made, leaning against the counter of El Chips. I saw Roxy and Chica peek inside the restaurant, scanning the crowd, before Chica's gaze locked onto me and she spoke something to the wolf. Her yellow eyes found me then, too.

  They began to head over and I mentally prepared myself. It was a miracle no kids were hanging off of the wolf's tail or tugging on Chica's arms. Peace in public was a rarity here.

  "Hey, guys," I greeted when they arrived. "Where's Drake and Gabby?"

  "They-"

  "We lost them in the crowd," Roxy said plainly. Chica swatted at her arm and she recoiled with a curl of her lips. "What? It's the truth."

  "We agreed not to tell her that!" Chica whispered a little too loudly. I watched with raised brows. "I don't want to get in trouble."

  "Y/n's the least likely of all the handlers to write us up," Roxy replied. She turned to me. "He's wallowing. And I actually feel bad for him."

  I know. I know. I know he's wallowing, god dammit, but I need more time to process things. My name was called from the monotone voice of a staff bot.

  "Rox, please," I sighed as I retrieved my burrito from the pick-up zone. "Not right now."

  The wolf followed me on my trip to a free booth in the corner of the fast-food restaurant, trailed closely by a quiet Chica. I hated that this... rift between Freddy and I had made them like this. Roxy was clearly unsettled (she never left Gabby's side during open hours) and Chica, usually a bursting, yapping ball of energy, had strangely kept to herself.

  "It's not like I mean to be a home wrecker," I muttered to myself as I grumpily ripped off the tinfoil from my lunch. "It's not my fault, either."

  My lack of sleep had made me all irritable and grouchy, and I hated how I'd begun snapping. But it wasn't like I could control my nightmares and their contents, so I was stuck suffering, and so was everyone else around me.

  I took a bite from my burrito and cursed myself for thinking about Michael - even in here, he got me my favourite type of burrito. Fuck!

  "He's been crying," Chica said sadly as she perched on the too-small seat beside me. "I don't think we're supposed to be able to cry."

  "Crying?" I repeated in surprise. "I didn't realise he could- wait, dammit! No!" I slammed my fist into my thigh in frustration. Roxy and Chica watched with wide eyes. "Can we please stop talking about him?"

  They shared a look.

  "We're just concerned," Roxy said. "He hasn't been performing well. Management's starting to talk."

  "I know." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I know. But I can't just- magically make myself feel better, okay? It doesn't work like that. I wish it did, but it doesn't."

  Not to mention that I was still checking every shadow and cautious of every blind corner, waiting for William to crawl out in that decrepit, mangled body of his. There was so much going on all at once and I was exhausted trying to keep up with it.

  I already had management breathing down my neck. I already had to deal with sad looks from Freddy and Bonnie's impatience that he thought he hid well but didn't. Pressure from Roxy and Chica was the last thing I needed.

  I mean, fuck, Monty's been the most supportive one of them all, really. And he's fucking Monty.

  He wasn't waiting impatiently. He wasn't badgering for me to get my emotions into check and hear Michael out already. His nonchalance soothed me and my frazzled mental state. I should've hung out with him and Arty for my lunch, god dammit.

  "We won't speak about him," Chica promised, though there was a sullenness to her gaze that spoke a thousand more words. "How have you been?"

  Roxy sent Chica a dry look. "Really? You're going to ask that?"

  "What's wrong?"

  "What's wrong?" Roxy said incredulously. "Are you serious?"

  "What?" Chica asked, baffled. Her purple eyes jumped between Roxy and I. I took another bite of my burrito, nonplussed. "I'm confused."

  "You can't ask that when someone's been depressed!" Roxy seethed. I choked on a bit of bread before forcing it down. "It's rude."

  "It's fine, Rox," I assured before her rant could go on any longer. "Thank you."

  Roxy leant back in her seat with a huff and a cross of her arms. Chica stared at the table, frowning. I bit my lip as I studied their expression, each downturned, though Roxy's was half-hidden by a scowl. I didn't like seeing them so forlorn.

  "Why don't I stay behind after closing for a bit?" I suggested. I held out my nails for Roxy to see. "I think I need a new colour."

  Roxy's ears pricked at my offer and her gaze snapped to my hand. Her muzzle scrunched.

  "Fine," she said curtly, disinterested, though I could hear her mechanical tail thumping against the seat. "But only because you asked."

  "Can I pick the colour?" Chica eagerly asked. When I nodded, she giggled in excitement and began suggesting shades to Roxy. I continued eating my lunch, wondering when the heavy feeling in my chest would leave.

  But the girls were smiling. At least theres's that.

⚡️🧸🤖🧸⚡️

  My dark blue fingernails tapped against the leather armrest.

  "I think I'm going to talk to him today," I said. As if I hadn't said the same thing a week ago, when I sat in the same chair, in the same office, to my same therapist.

  Catherine Lebrowski nodded encouragingly. "Did you write down those cards that we spoke of?"

  "I did," I answered. They sat in the drawer of my desk at work, waiting for the day where I'd finally use them. They had all the questions I wanted answers to so they wouldn't escape me when I'd finally speak to Michael. I went over them more than once a day, and the penned queries had been all but branded into the backs of my eyes. "I just... need to muster up the courage."

  Catherine placed her notepad down onto her lap. Her eyes had always been soft, yet they could see everything: each shift of weight, each drift of my gaze, each tap of my nails. It used to unnerve me, being studied the way I was, but Catherine had been my therapist for over four years, now. It had become that of a comfort.

  "Speaking to someone who feel betrayed you is a very demanding thing," she said. "The hardest part is admitting to yourself that you want to speak to him in the first place. Not many people succeed in tackling that hill, I'm very proud of you, Y/n."

  My smile was tight. "I think finding the courage is the hardest part for me, actually." Wanting to talk to Michael came easy. I'd been wanting to talk to him ever since he left.

  And yet, It had been almost a week of silence. Long days with not a word spoken, aside from 'excuse me' or 'we have a party at three.' Even that felt like a mission to say.

  "Meeting at a mutual place is a great way to establish an emotional boundary," Catherine said. "Why don't you ask Michael out for coffee? Go out for lunch?"

  Kinda hard to ask him out for coffee when he's an animatronic and stuck in the Pizzaplex. And it wasn't as if the food court, which was usually bustling with people at all hours during the day, was an appropriate place to have a chat of... this magnitude.

  Still, I nodded, and if I looked unsure then Catherine missed it. She was probably expecting me to come back next week with the same "I'm going to talk to him today." She was probably right.

  The hour came to a close and I shrugged on my coat. We bade our farewells and I braced myself for the silence of my drive home, where I would analyse everything I said during my session and wonder if I spoke too much.

  She knew about Michael, of course. She even knew about Freddy, who had become a workmate subordinate to Catherine's knowledge. It was going to be... hard to explain why sweet, workmate subordinate Freddy was suddenly out of the picture.

  It wasn't as if I could say that they were the same person to her.

  As I stepped out into the lobby of the building, a blonde ponytail caught the edge of my vision. I stopped in surprise as I watched her enter the elevator without noticing me. It was Vanessa, the security guard from work. I didn't realise we went to the same therapist.

  I managed a good look at her downturned face before the doors could shut. Her skin was pale and there were dark bags under her eyes that carried the weight of her transparent exhaustion. I frowned as I recognised the low slump of her shoulders - I had carried the same posture myself, I sometimes still did.

  She must've been going through something pretty devastating to look that... dishevelled.

  Not my business. I left the building and tried my best not to think too much about Vanessa. I knew that if somebody saw me headed to a therapist's office with a disposition like that, I'd rather they didn't say a word and forget they saw me at all.

  I got into my car and leant my head back against the seat. 'I'm going to talk to him today.' I couldn't stand my hesitance but I just couldn't bring myself to speak to him. I had so many things to say, so many questions to ask him, but they were all lost from my head as soon as I saw Freddy's face.

  Well, I bemusedly thought as I started my car, at least I didn't fall in love with an actual robot. He's just a ghost within a robot. That's way more acceptable.

  And I almost believed myself.

  I was tempted to go straight home. I was tempted to put it off until tomorrow, because really, I wasn't even meant to be at the Pizzaplex today, it's my day off, so leaving it until tomorrow where I'd be there anyway just made logical sense.

  Then I realised that I was stalling again and pressed down harder on the gas. It was like a band-aid, right? It's better if you rip it off quickly. It stung less that way.

  I pulled the keys from the ignition as soon as the tires skidded to a stop in the employee parking lot. My stride was fast as I entered the lobby and swiped my I.D at the gates, but my head was spinning faster. It was almost closing. There was nobody around.

  Bonnie was crossing the Row when the elevator opened and a long ear flicking backwards was the precursor to him turning towards me. My heart was beating as though I'd ran a marathon, the simple idea of talking to Michael already rendering me exhausted.

  "Champ?" Bonnie asked with a confused frown. We met in the middle, stood under the photo of the Aftons and Emilys. "You're not supposed to be in today. What're you doing here?"

  "I-" My tongue suddenly felt heavy. It was a though I was trying to talk through a mouthful of molasses. "I want to talk."

  "To..." he hesitated. "Mike?"

  I swallowed. My hand tightened its grip on my sleeve. "Yes, but... also to you."

  Bonnie's frown deepened. He stared at me for a good couple of seconds, and I could imagine his CPU assessing whether this was a good idea or not. Finally, he relented with a sigh. "Let's talk in my room."

  I nodded. He led the way, opening the door for me to enter before him. I took a seat on his couch and he copied, tugging nervously at his ears. I'd realised that I'd never really spent any proper time in his room before, and I convinced myself that taking the decor in wasn't stalling for time.

  His room was very... purple. Bowling balls sat in a pile in the corner and an arcade machine stood beside it. His name was on the wall in obnoxious, neon yellow lights, much like the other green rooms, as if the multitude of Bonnie-themed plushies wasn't obvious enough as to whose room it belonged to. 

  When there was nothing more for me to take in I made myself inhale a steadying breath and turned to the bunny. His pink eyes regarded me carefully.

  "How long did you know about Michael?" I asked. "Has everyone known? In- in the band?"

  Bonnie's ear creaked as he tugged on it tighter. "The others only found out a few months ago. But... I knew from the start. I was the only one who noticed that he wasn't... like us."

  "How?"

  Bonnie's eyes drifted to the side as he recalled his memories. "When we all woke up, we knew nothing. We all had to learn a lot of stuff before we could be released for the public. Y'know, to make us as personable as possible. Freddy he- he picked it all up fast. Too fast."

  I stared at the star on his chest as I tried to imagine that - newly built, newly programmed. Essentially babies, in an AI sense. And then Michael, probably confused. Probably feeling so isolated and alone, being neither AI or human.

  "Management thought that he was just golden," Bonnie continued. "They thought it was due to his programming being a little more advanced than ours - main attraction, and all that. But I knew better."

  I lifted my gaze to his. "What did you do?"

  "I confronted him about it. I dunno, back then I was..." he struggled to find the word, before his lips tugged in amusement. "More robotic, if you'd mind the pun. I saw a machine more efficient than I was and I wanted to know how he did it. I wasn't very kind in asking. I didn't have my stellar personality like I do now."

   I rolled my eyes as he chuckled shamelessly. Speaking with Bonnie was always nice. I could feel my elated heartbeat normalising. "What then?"

  "He told me," Bonnie said. "He didn't need much prompting but back then, he didn't have anyone to talk to about it. I think he thought that I wouldn't believe him, chalk it up to fiction. But I did."

  "No wonder you guys are so close," I murmured. "Does he hate it here?"

  Bonnie hummed in thought. It was a complex question that must've required an equally complex answer. Michael was never black or white about things.

  "I think he enjoys it here as much as someone can while being stuck," he replied. "He loves the kids and he loves being helpful. Said it's like being the older brother he should've been."

  That hurt. That one fucking hurt. That one tore my heart from my chest and stomped on it with a steel-heeled boot. But it made so much sense - how he looked after Mandy, how he loved and looked after the band. They were to him what Evan and Lizzy should've been, if they'd survived.

  "But there's times when he... hates it," Bonnie continued. "But who wouldn't in his shoes, right? I mean, I don't have anything from the outside that I miss."

  A double banger. I was shot and shot again. I knew the truth would hurt, but fuck, did it have to hurt this bad?

  "Yeah," I said with a watery smile. "That makes sense."

  Bonnie's droopy ears lowered as he watched me roughly wipe away a tear. Surely I was getting dehydrated from how much crying I'd been doing recently, but I couldn't help it. Everything was so loud and confusing. Crying was the only thing I knew to do.

  "He loves you," Bonnie said gently, "an absurd amount. Every time that he spoke of you, he'd get this look in his eyes. It was like he was really alive again." He paused. "I know that what he did was... awful, really, but he thought that he was doing the best thing for you. His intentions were good, but..."

  But it failed. He didn't have to finish his sentence for me to know how it ended.

  Bonnie gave a helpless look. "You don't hate him, do you?"

  "No," I breathed. "I don't know. It's so confusing. It's like - there's so much going on that I don't know what to think anymore."

  "... do you hate me?"

  "What?" I spluttered in shock. No wonder why he'd been so nervous around me. "No, of course not, Bon. Why would you think that?"

  "Because I kept this from you," he murmured guiltily. "Because I knew and you didn't."

  "Oh, buddy." I grabbed his hand. "It wasn't your job to tell me. Don't beat yourself up."

  He let my words sink in a little. The more they did, the more his ears lifted.   

  "So, we're cool?" he asked when his ears were halfway to the ceiling in hope. "We're still friends?"

  "We never stopped being friends," I reassured. He gave a sigh of relief and squeezed my hand. His ears swung back into their normal position with a mechanical click.

  "I have to get going," I said. Nerves had my voice wobbling a tad as I got to my feet.

  "So, you're going to talk to him, then," Bonnie said quietly. "Are you going to be okay?"

  "No," I exhaled, "but I have to do it."

  "Do you need me there?" Bonnie asked. "Moral support?"

  I sent him a grateful smile and began to make my leave from his room. "Nah, it's okay. Thank you, though."

  "You got this," Bonnie said, before frowning. "I think."

  I paused at the door to send him a dry look. "Thank you for your vote of confidence."

  Bonnie replied with a thumbs up. I steeled myself before stepping out of his room and made my way towards Freddy's room. The gold star enamel on his door stared down at me and I tried to not look at my shit-scared reflection in the gloss of the metal.

  I knocked to give warning before hesitating with my I.D against the scanner. I could see my hand visibly shake with my card outstretched and I stared at it, lips trembling.

  You got this, I told myself. I think.

  I swallowed and pressed it against the reader. The door slid open.

  It was nearing the end of the day and all parties and shows had been completed and done. There were no children clamouring to see Freddy in his room before leaving the Pizzaplex, nor were the curtains drawn to let them see, anyway. It was a rare occasion where Freddy was totally secluded from the guests and not to charge.

  Freddy (do I still call him Freddy? Do I call him Michael?) was sat on his couch, hands between his knees, staring at the ceiling. He was slumped in a look of total defeat.

  "Mandy, please," he murmured, "I don't want to finger paint with Chica."

  My breath hitched at the accent. The accent. The beautiful way his British-Utah inflections draped over his consonants and vowels, the way his fading voice sounded in my memories. I wanted to clobber myself over the back of my head. It had all been staring me dead in the face.

  The door shut behind me. I guess I was doing it, finally, after two weeks of no communication. I balled my fists and willed Henry for strength (unless, of course, Henry was also still kicking. But I doubted it).

  "That's a shame," I said shakily. "Finger painting with Chica sounds like fun."

  A full-bodied flinch made Freddy jolt to his feet. His eyes, wide with shock, zeroed in on me. He breathed my name in that stupid voice of his - his real one, not Freddy's - and I had to close my eyes at the tidal wave of hurt that hearing it again sent me.

  I bunched my hands in the front of my shirt. "I have... questions."

  Freddy was already nodding. My eyes drifted along the floor, trying to find the first word to begin this inevitable train wreck. Shit. I left my cards in my drawer.

  "Y/n, I'm- I'm so sorry-"

  "Please." I sent him a desperate look. "Please, I don't want an apology. Not yet. I just want answers."

  "... of course," he whispered. "Anything you want, it's yours."  

  My knees had begun to feel weak, shaking just as much as my hands were. He noticed it my unsteadiness and took a seat on one end of the couch. It was an unspoken invitation.

  I hesitated, eyeing the couch, before finally stepping forward and curling up on the opposite end. My feet dangled over the edge of the too-large sofa and I stared at my laces. They were untied. I should tie them again.

  No. Stop. I dug my nails into the fabric of the couch. I needed to focus. I had to focus.

  I glanced at the side of Freddy's face. He was staring at the carpet, expression frozen in a look of stilled fear. My eight years were agonising, but how were his? How did he suffer without me? Like how I did without him? How long had he been in Freddy? Did he miss the sun? How long had this place been his neon-lit tomb?

  "Michael," I softly called. I shuffled closer, ignoring the ache of my chest with each inch traversed. Calling him by that name had my limbs shaking. "Mikey."

  He winced. His eyes closed. I bit my lip and held my breath, before finally reaching up to his cheek and turning his face to me. His gaze, half-cast, agonising, held mine with a weight that was almost suffocating. His shell was cold beneath my skin.

  "Michael," I whispered. Freddy leant into my palm. His lidded eyes had never looked so sad. "Tell me what happened."

  An exhale, a rush from the fans cooling his systems, escaped from between his blunt fangs. It brushed down my arm and I repressed a shiver at the chill.

  "It's not a happy story," he mumbled.

  "I figured that one out long ago," I said quietly. "How did you end up here?"

  He paused again, either collecting his thoughts or gathering the courage. His gaze had fallen to the couch.

  "My sister." His voice was almost inaudible through his sorrow. "My sister killed me."

  I think my heart stopped beating.

  "It's not her fault," he continued. "She thought I was our father. I would've killed me, too."  

  My hand fell from his face as his words sunk in, and when they did, an empty feeling of horror settled within me. Lizzy? But Lizzy was dead, unless...

  "She was at that location," I murmured as I began to connect some dots. "That fire, the one where I- I thought you died. She was in a robot, too."

  Freddy slowly nodded. A nauseating sensation had my stomach twisting over itself. I could recall the fire, the blistering heat of it as it stretched to the sky. I recalled begging it to give him back to me. I recalled being dragged away from it.

  "You did die that night," I whispered. "But a week later; the locket, the note. I don't understand."

  "That's the thing about being an Afton." Michael spoke with almost amusement. His expression spoke otherwise. "Death is not a companion of ours."

  I helplessly shook my head. "I still don't get it."

  Freddy's face fell away again, dipping out of view. I noticed then that his hands were gripping at his thighs, hard enough for the casing to yield and bend under his pressure.

  I had to be brutally honest, I was half-expecting to be the one being consoled when it came to us speaking again. I think I still needed it, but I yearned so eminently for those answers more than to step in here and allow myself to be coddled. And clearly, those answers were hidden deep within Michael's own pain.

  My brow knotted at the look on Freddy's face and I tentatively placed my palm on his arm. He instinctively rested his other hand atop mine, swallowing my grip whole. His silicone paw-pads sunk against my knuckles. 

  "I have to know," I gently urged. My thumb stroked against his casing. "Please, tell me."

  Freddy closed his eyes. "They used my body."

  My thumb paused. "What?"

  "The endoskeletons," he answered. My spine tightened at the mention of the creatures roaming the underground. My calf stung in a pain that no longer stained it. "They used my body to escape."

  The knot between my brows tightened as I tried to piece together what he was saying. I didn't like what my mind was coming up with, I didn't like the images that were forced into being. I didn't like the agony that he undoubtedly must've gone through.

  "'Used your body?'" My echo was barely louder than the air between us. I could only imagine what he meant by 'used.' I swallowed back a sudden, constricting feeling that had begun to strangle my throat and set my aching eyes upon his face. I forced myself to not think about being nauseas. "Oh, Mike..."

  "When they left my body I was still there, stuck in a corpse," Michael said. He let out a dry laugh that sounded strangely thin. "I wanted to die, Y/n, but it just wouldn't come. I made my way to Henry's and he and Charlie stitched me up. Then I..."

  I followed his gaze as his eyes drifted to the vanity, where a silver locket sat there, coiled by a leather cord. I felt a sway of relief careen through me at seeing the trinket there. 

  "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked. I snapped my attention back to him and pulled my hand from his. "I- I could've helped you. I could've- I don't know, done something."

  Freddy was staring at the floor. "I thought it was the best for you. I was decaying more every day. You deserved better than to see me like that."

  "Because a robot's an improvement," I muttered. His expression tightened in sorrow and I thinned my lips with a quick punch of guilt. That slipped without meaning. But I continued on. "Why did you leave the note?"

  "... thought it would've been better if you thought I was still alive."

  "You should've just let me believe you were dead." I swallowed back the thickening of my throat. "It would've been easier if I believed you were dead."

  His head ducked further. "I know."

  "So Elizabeth's in a robot," I said, continuing as I pieced this massive jigsaw into place. I didn't want to dwell on Michael's guilt and trauma. I knew that I would cry if I did, and I had plenty of time to cry later. I swiped my thumb over the line of my teary eye. "Where is she now?"

  "Gone," he answered. "I hope. She and the other souls from the fire." His blue eyes found mine. "That was when I really died... Henry, too."

  I sucked in a sharp breath. Both of them, dying because of William's crimes. Where was Charlie? How did she feel, losing her father like that? And how did she feel about keeping me in the dark about Michael?

  Wait, other souls? Did that mean that he and Henry succeeded? They've all been released? I decided to tuck that bit of information away for later; it had a potential to derail the line of conversation.

  "That was a year after you..." I couldn't finish the sentence. I sniffled. "Then Freddy. How? I thought- I thought the souls could only possess the robots because they were close to them when they died."

  Freddy closed his eyes. It seemed as though he was expecting this kind of question.

  "Do you remember the old pizzeria below?" he asked. "Where the sinkhole is?"

  "Yeah." I slowly nodded. "It was all... gross and burnt and-" I stopped myself as a cold feeling began to well in my stomach. "No. Holy- holy fuck, Michael, don't tell me that..."

  His sad smile was enough of an answer. I gripped the shirt over my belly as my skin began to grow clammy and sweaty - we were right above where he died. He was stuck in a tomb above his own deathbed.

  I was still deep in horror and shock when Michael began speaking again. There was a distant kind of wanting in his voice, like the craving of a far-away dream. I forced myself to listen.

  "I hoped you would've moved on," he said sadly, wistfully. "If there was anything I could've given you, it was the life you wanted. The family, the kids, the suburban house. The dog."

  I stared at him. His gaze was far-away.

  "I thought that if you couldn't have that future with me, then at least you'd get that future with someone else." His expression greyed with guilt. "But I suppose that didn't happen."

  "No shit," I whispered, because I really didn't know what else to say. "I only wanted them with you. I only wanted a life with you. You were my everything. You always have been."

  He looked at me then, truly, finally. I had to marvel again at the amount of emotion that his fibreglass casing could hold because I was feeling every bit of sorrow that I was seeing.

  "And you're mine," Michael whispered. His hand threaded through the hair beside my ear. "I'm so sorry, superstar. If I could change what I did, I would in a heartbeat." He smiled, dry. "But I suppose I don't have one of those, anymore."

  "Stop it," I wept. I clenched my fingers over his, as tight as I could. Superstar. "Shut up."

  "Sorry."

  "So Charlie and Henry knew," I murmured. Freddy pulled his hand away and I watched it. That's Michael's hand. "God, I must've looked like an idiot. How did I not see you when I went to their place? I was there almost every day."

   "I was hiding." His voice was deep in dull memory. "I remember you having nightmares. I'd talk you through them."

  I stared at him with wide eyes. "You did?"

  He nodded. I shook my head in disbelief. I remembered those nights, so soon after Michael had disappeared. And then, a year later, Henry had died. Charlie moved away. It was hit after hit.

  "I always went back to Henry's because I thought I slept better in his house," I mumbled. "But it was you."

  Freddy picked at a loose thread on the couch. "It was the only thing I could do for you."

  I didn't know what to do with all this information. Answers were nice, closure was good, but how was I meant to process all this? And how was I meant to process it all without breaking down?

  How did he stand it? All the pain, the loneliness, being trapped in here like some zoo animal? How was he still sane? What was I supposed to do with all this?

  Monty said not to forgive him because I felt compelled by his pain. He said not to forgive him, because he didn't really deserve my forgiveness for making me believe I wasn't good enough for him for eight years - but how could I sit here and ignore all that and focus on only my pain?

  I was caught between crossroads. I didn't know what was the right answer.

"Why didn't you tell me who you are?" I asked quietly. "I've been here for almost a year. Were you ever going to tell me?"

  Freddy closed his eyes. I watched as his expression twisted and folded, following a path of guilt and shame and regret.

"I wanted to tell you that first day, but... I was scared that you'd freak out and wouldn't come back." He looked around his green room. "It's not as if I have any way of going after you. And the longer I kept quiet, the more I got scared."

  I guess I could understand that. But still, he left me so out of the loop. 

  His gaze turned to me. "It was selfish of me, I know. All I've been to you is selfish."

  I sat back with a heavy sigh as I took everything in. His gaze had dropped away again, staring at his hands that fell between his knees. We sat in silence for a period as I digested the information.

  "I don't know if I can forgive you yet," I murmured quietly at the ceiling. "Yet," I reiterated when his understanding, forlorn gaze lifted to the side of my face. I turned my stare to my shoes. "You left me in the dark. That hurt. That really sucks."

  "I don't expect to be forgiven." He shook his head. "It's okay if you don't. Just..." He inhaled sharply. I looked at him. "Please don't leave me here alone. It's the only thing I ask."

  And how could I? When he looked so hurt and defeated? He was a visage of a man broken by life, caught in the shell of a robot. And it wasn't my responsibility, I didn't have to stay. But he was a man that I loved, and he was my best friend before that, and our lives had been entwined and fucked up for years already. What was the harm in staying?

  I didn't have to forgive him. Monty said that, and Michael said that himself. But I could still be there for him, the way we'd always been there for each other. Even if he did make a mistake that hurt me. What is humanity without mistakes, right? At least, that's what I told myself.

  "I'm not going anywhere," I promised. The relief on his face was insurmountable to a point where it'd look like I'd see him break his body's physics and weep. I winced as I realised the time - if I didn't get a move on, I'd be locked inside all night. "Except for right now. I have to go home."

  "Yes, yes, of course." Michael's words were slurred and jumbled, releasing in a rush from his maw. He was hesitant before continuing. "Are we... friends?"

  Ah, back here. Hello, friend zone, my old pal. I decided not to verbalise the joke. It didn't seem to be the time for it, and I was so tired that I'm pretty sure my delivery would just be sad.

  "I think so." I got to my feet and wiped at my damp cheeks. "Walk me to the exit?"

  He was already standing before I finished my question, eager to do as asked. It made me smile a little I amusement. There was the Freddy I cherished. There was the Michael I loved.

  When we left his room, four animatronics were 'acting natural' suspiciously close to the door. Chica pretended to fluff her feathers. Roxy studied her nails. Bonnie was fiddling with his piercings and Monty was sitting on a bench with his arms crossed, unashamedly staring at us.

  Freddy and I stopped in surprise. Even Joey was there, scrolling a little too intently on his phone.

  "We were spying on you," Monty said.

  "Monty!" the others chorused with glares his way. A shit-eating grin lifted over his fangs.

  "Seriously?" Michael asked dryly. I gave a bewildered smile - this was still so, so fucked.

  "We just want to know what happened," Roxy defended. "So? What happened?"

  "Is my life already not under a microscope?" Freddy admonished. "I don't need it from you, too."

  "I told you," Bonnie murmured.
 
  "Shut up, cottontail," Roxy snapped.

  "Insufferable," Freddy huffed. He placed a hand on the small of my back and began guiding me towards the elevators. My spine tingled under his touch. "Get your entertainment elsewhere."

  Our audience dispersed with grumbles of displeasure. Freddy shook his head and called up the elevator.

  "They're annoying at the best of times," he muttered as his hand dropped away. His irritation was as amusing as it was familiar. I smiled to myself.

  "What's family if they aren't annoying?" I hummed. The elevator arrived and its doors slid open. I glanced at him after we entered. "I... kept going to Lizzy and Evan's graves after you..."

  "I know," he said genially. "Thank you. I'm sure they would've appreciated it."

  "I mean, I had to. I love 'em." I shrugged. "Of course, I never actually met them, but I love them."

  "They would've loved you, too," Michael said softly. "Evan, for sure. You probably wouldn't be able to get him off of your leg."

  I grinned. "A hugger?" I already knew the answer. We'd spoken about his siblings many of times, but I loved to hear about them. I hadn't been told about them in so long.

  "Oh, yes," he sighed. A sly look came my way. "So... what's this about a cat named Mike?"

  The beginnings of a peaceful feeling was immediately balled up and tossed in the trash. I scowled at him.

  "Shut up. Shut the fuck up right now."

  Michael chuckled. "I distinctly remember you calling me an asshole."

  My warning look made his humour simmer. He cracked a half-smile.

  "Sorry," he apologised. "Too soon?"

  "Yes." My disbelief was incredulous. "Yes, it's too soon."

  "Sorry," he said again.

  I released a breath through my nose and shook my head in frustration. "You're still infuriating, you know that?" 

  "You're still beautiful."

  "STOP! Stop it!" I snapped as I turned to him, cheeks red. The elevators opened to an empty lobby. "God, let me process this! You can't just lay this on me and then immediately start flirting, you- you- MAN WHORE!"

  "Man whore?" he echoed.

  "Man whore!" I hissed. I stormed from the elevator with a stomp to my step. He caught up quickly and caught my arm just before I could leave through the employee door. My glance back at him was withering.

  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He futilely tried to remedy my ire. An elated grin was struggling against his serious expression. "You're right. Too soon. You were right about me being an asshole."

  "Damn straight, dickhead," I huffed. I glanced out at the darkened parking lot. My car was one of the few left. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

  Freddy's expression fell a tad. The amusement fell away completely as he released his gentle grip on my arm. "Right. See you tomorrow."

  I faltered. It felt as though I should say more, or mention something, or reassure his worried face that yes, I promise I'll be back in the morning, but I didn't know if I should. Why must goodbyes be so awkward?

  "Okay," I said, and left.

  I glanced over my shoulder as I scampered across the empty lot and found his silhouette still waiting at the door. I swallowed back a sudden thickness in my throat, shook my head to recentre myself, and got into my car.

  And if I cried on the way home, then that was okay. Because I was allowed to. Because Freddy Fazfuck Fazbear was my ex-boyfriend and that was absolutely crazy.

  "What the fuck," I whispered to myself as I began to drive myself home.