Chapter Text
It is the 4th of July, and William despises American holidays with a vengeance befitting his home country. He has been here all of twenty minutes, and already the neighborhood looks like a madhouse: fireworks going off prematurely in the daylight, flags hanging limp and gaudy from porches, sweaty men hollering about freedom as though they’d invented the word. Not to mention the entire street smells of gasoline and scorched meat, beer bellies gleam in the sun, and shirt hems are straining under patriotic slogans in red, white, and blue.
A circus of mediocrity dressed up as patriotism.
How very stupid.
Still, appearances matter - always matter, if you’re William Afton, and especially in this country - so gatherings like this are expected: paper plates sagging under potato salad, lukewarm beer passed around like communion, small talk conducted with toothy smiles. A performance of family and community. As such, his children have been dressed accordingly - Elizabeth in a darling white dress with a bow, something straight off the Mayflower… or at least the sort of vision Americans cling to in their half-baked history lessons, and Evan is trussed up in jean shorts, a plain white T-shirt, and bright red Converse. Very American. Very holiday-esque.
Michael, of course, refused to match.
They arrive fashionably late, slipping in behind the crowd, blending seamlessly with the chatter.
The celebration is at the Emilys’, naturally. For them it’s an excuse for cookouts and friendly mingling. Lisa’s family has already claimed the best patch of shade with their sunny smiles, warm brown skin glowing in the heat, and dressed down in pastel polos, denim skirts, and sun hats. Whilst Rose, Henry’s mother, holds court at the picnic table, gossiping with the other grandmothers. Her vowels stretch wide and honeyed, Georgia sweetness clinging to every word.
Edith is here, too, trailing in with her husband Aung, who’d been scandalous enough take her surname. His glasses slide low on his nose as he beams politely at the crowd. Their daughter is already running wild with a gaggle of close friends, sparklers spitting golden sparks in the high noon sun, and she’s dragging Evan behind the group, demanding that he plays with them.
The air is dense despite the energy this particular holiday seems to bring out in the children (no doubt because of the excuse to blow shit up ), and the heat presses in heavy and wet, gluing William’s shirt to his back. He forces himself to look composed, pretending he isn’t sweating like a whore in church. Even the umbrella he skulks beneath offers little relief. Where is Elizabeth with his water? He checks his watch.
Barely twenty-three minutes now. And, with some mild annoyance, William notices a distinct lack of Fitzgerald out of the corner of his eye. Odd, since it has been three entire days since Michael stormed home from that so-called “beach trip,” slammed his door, and sulked ever since - impossible to pry open, impossible to reason with. Impossible to look at when he seemed so close to bursting into tears.
It was unsightly.
“Uncle Will.”
Sammy sidles by, awkward and half-polite, thrusting a sweating glass of sweet tea toward him. Not Elizabeth, but close enough. The boy has the kindness - or accurately pity - to notice when William looks ready to roast alive.
“Oh, yes. Thank you, Charlotte,” William replies smoothly, smirking behind the rim as Sammy groans at the name. Once upon a time it had been an honest mistake; when they were small, Charlie and Sammy were identical, Henry-shaped blobs underfoot. Now, of course, there’s no excuse. But he enjoys the slip even more now that it irritates when it used to make him giggle. How they grow so fast.
“Dad’s by the grill,” Sammy mutters, the nicest possible way of saying fuck you in front of polite company.
William knows a dismissal when he hears it, but Sammy is fortunate that William would rather be talking to his father anyway.
Henry is, indeed, stationed under the tree and manning the grill singlehandedly, an apron tied around his waist, a spatula in hand. He looks perfectly at home, broad-shouldered and easy-postured, with smoke curling up into the blazing sky as he flips burgers. Ridiculously tall, reddish-brown hair catching the sunlight, tanned from too many afternoons spent working in the yard. The kind of wholesome American image that grates against William’s teeth. His accent is still sharply Southern despite decades in Utah. Once upon a time William could hardly understand him; now he knows the cadences well enough to hear the judgment inside them.
William strolls up, nursing his tea. “You play house well.”
Henry glances at him, hazel eyes narrowed in amusement. “Somebody’s got to. Can’t all be brooding in the corner with a cigarette and a superiority complex.”
William smirks, lets it slide. He allows Henry his little jabs for old time’s sake. “At least I know a circus when I see one,” he replies. “All this noise, all this bluster. What’s it even for?”
“The kids,” Henry says simply, setting down a perfectly charred weenie. “It’s summer. They enjoy the fireworks and any excuse to run wild.”
William scoffs, rolling the word around his mouth. “The children,” he echoes, heavy with sarcasm.
Henry doesn’t rise to it. He just flips a burger, smoke wafting into William’s face until his eyes sting. “Michael seems down lately,” he adds casually, but his tone cuts under the words - a rebuke disguised as concern. “Lisa said he’s barely spoken. Haven’t seen Jeremy ‘round either. You know what’s going on?”
The thought pleases William more than it should. “Maybe they’ve quarreled.” His lips curls into a grin. “Summer romance doesn’t last long. First heatwave, and tempers flare. You know how it is.”
Henry turns to look at him then, spatula still in hand, with that look that makes William’s skin crawl. The one that says: I know you. I know exactly what you are. And I won’t respect you if you don’t at least try.
William hates it. His lips purse.
Talk to them, Will. Juliet wouldn’t want you to hole up.
The voice of a much younger Henry drifts through his skull, Juliet’s presence slotted into memory like a blade underneath his ribs. He swallows against it.
“You should ask him about it,” Henry suggests, pointing where Michael is with the spatula. “He’s been hiding since you got here.”
William’s smirk strains at the edges, but any excuse to escape his eternal haunting isn’t to be ignored, so he turns on his heel, trudges across the lawn, past sparklers fizzing, plastic cups overturned in the grass, and the laughter rising like cicadas in the trees to find Michael sat apart from it all, folded into a lawn chair at the corner of the yard, his arms crossed, sunglasses acting as a shield against the world - not even his friends are here. The silence it brings is telling.
It’s been very quiet for these last three days.
William clears his throat, but he doesn’t sit. He looms.
“Son,” he begins, already resenting the word. “If you’re determined to… see Fitzgerald - fine. Have your summer fling. Get it out of your system before school. Just… keep it a summer romance, hm?”
Michael blinks up, caught between horror and disbelief. He drags his sunglasses down his nose, squinting at William like he must be joking.
“Huh? What the fuck are you even talking about - ?”
Heat prickles up William’s neck. He ignores it. It, and the ghost sighing somewhere in the marrow of his bones. His grip tightens on the sweating glass of tea, regretting already that he let Henry’s gaze push him into this mockery of fatherhood.
“I am trying to speak with you. Man-to-man,” William says stiffly. “I don’t want to see you pregnant in an R.V. for the rest of your life, yes? A summer romance. Nothing else.”
Michael gawks. Fireworks crackle in the distance, children cheer, and William thinks (not for the first time) that America really is a godforsaken country.
“Well?”
“What the hell are you talking about?!” Michael squeaks, nearly jumping out of his chair. “We - we just kissed! And he rejected me!”
“That’s it?” William’s brows shoot up, baffled. “All you did was kiss and you’re acting like this?!”
Michael sputters, face red, his voice climbing in pitch. “What the hell did you think happened? That we - ? Oh my God, you’re such a creep! You don’t know shit, Dad! Christ! Don’t be stupid!”
William bares his teeth, but Michael either doesn’t notice or simply doesn’t care, too busy crossing his arms tighter and shoving the sunglasses back up like armor, trying to guard himself against William’s incompetence.
A pause. The grill hisses. Somewhere, Sweet Child o’ Mine wails from a boombox.
William forces a dry little laugh that sounds like glass breaking. “God help me, you are dramatic,” he mutters. “Why do you think Fitzgerald rejected you?”
Michael kicks the chair leg, hard enough that it scrapes the grass. “Better dramatic than pathetic.”
William arches a brow. Waiting.
Michael caves with a miserable little huff. “…He pushed me away when I kissed him. After. The, um. Beach.”
“Really, Michael?” William exhales, long-suffering. “You cannot simply talk about it? You’re making Henry intervene. I do not want to speak with Henry about this. Fix it.”
Michael stares at him. “Fix it? What am I supposed to fix? He doesn’t like me!”
William flinches at the volume, glancing around to see if anyone heard. A pair of little kids zoom past with squirt guns and nearly clip his leg. He sidesteps stiffly, scowling, but refrains from kicking the little shit closest to him. “Lower your voice. Everyone is staring.”
“No one is staring, Father. They don’t care,” Michael snaps, cheeks blotched red, half from the heat, half from the humiliation of this conversation.
William smooths down his stark white shirt, forcing composure, and makes a stab at sincerity.
“It isn’t… the end of the world… if what you think is true. Rejection builds character. Resilience.” He gestures vaguely with his tea, like he’s delivering a sermon. “When I was your age, I was rejected dozens of times.”
Michael blinks. “Yeah, I can’t imagine why.”
William’s jaw tightens, but he plows on. “The point is, one day you’ll look back on this and laugh. You’ll realize how foolish it is to sulk over one boy’s disinterest.” He pauses, trying to soften it. Awkwardly. Badly. “There will be others.”
Michael gapes at him. “Are you seriously trying to give me a pep talk right now? You sound like a bad after-school special.”
“Just take the advice, boy,” William mutters impatiently, his parental gusto dwindling by the second.
Michael snorts despite himself, quick, like he didn’t mean to let it slip. “This is a really shitty pep talk. Even for you.”
“It counts, does it not?” William sniffs, squinting against the glare of the sun. “You could do much better than Fitzgerald, really, Michael. You should count it as a blessing if he truly did reject you.”
Michael rubs his forehead, groaning. “Oh my God, you’re hopeless.”
William tries again, if only to nip this conversation in the bud and keep it from ever occurring again. “Listen. You are not unattractive. Girls - boys - whatever -“ he grimaces. He does not want to see another boy remotely near his property.
“Someone will find you tolerable enough.”
“Wow,” Michael drones from behind the hand. “Thanks. That’s a real confidence-builder, Father. ’Someone will find you tolerable enough.’ Great.”
Another pause. William stares at him, caught between irritation and something colder. He’d never been gifted with parenting, not like Juliet was. He swallows the thought down, harder, with a swig of tea.
“You’ll survive,” William says.
Michael mutters into his hands, “Jesus, I hope not.”
The fireworks pop again, louder and shinier, and for a fleeting second, William almost, almost, puts a hand on his son’s shoulder. But the motion sticks halfway, and instead he straightens his cufflink, too stiff, too late.
“How about I take you to that junkyard of yours tomorrow?” William offers stiffly, a consolation prize. “You’re still fucking up that ridiculous car, aren’t you not?”
Michael peeks between his fingers, wary. “You remember that?”
“You make it sound as if I never pay attention,” William snorts, derisive. “We have a deal then? I will take you, if you act accordingly. This is a party - smile.”
Michael does.
It looks like a grimace. “Fine.”
₊‧.°.⋆•˚₊‧⋆.
The rest of the party goes off without a hitch - or as much as it can, with their family. They mingle, they smile, they pose for pictures (Rose insists on a photo with both William and Lisa, both of them gritting their teeth in wide grins while Henry’s hands sit at their waists), and pretend like they remember the names of half the people speaking to them. William feeds Susie’s mutt chocolate; she retaliates by squirting him square in the forehead with a streaky plastic water gun.
She’s spared from him hurling his glass at her head only by Edith’s appearance. His sister’s gaze flicks from where Michael is sprawled on the grass, letting the younger kids braid his long hair and stick clovers in it, back to William, her brow quirked ever so slightly.
“You did good,” she says, and it’s startling enough that William’s witty little remark about her acknowledging his existence dies on his tongue.
“I did nothing remarkable,” he dismisses, watching ice melt in the sugary monstrosity that passes for Rose Emily’s sweet tea. “He’s sulking over a boy.”
“You’ve been there,” Edith reminds him, her eyes lighthearted in the golden wash of the low evening sun. “You wrote me every week about Henry Emily and all the ways he drove you to madness.”
William’s ears burn under the dark curl of his hair, his scowl deepening. “Do not start, Edith.”
“I’m only saying,” she continues blithely, “don’t be so hard on the boy. You were young and in love once too.”
He almost asks why she’s talking to him at all, why she’s pretending after all these years that they’re on friendly terms - but he doesn’t. Instead, William merely grunts, the familiar back-and-forth worn smooth into their bones. How many nights had been spent hidden under her covers, waiting for the worst of Logan’s temper to pass? He’d been her shadow once, until ambition cut them apart.
Edith has always been too softhearted.
“He thinks Fitzgerald has rejected him,” William says, his eyes sliding toward Michael out of the corner of his vision.
“I doubt that,” Edith murmurs, folding her arms. “I’ve seen the way that boy looks at Michael. Don’t let him lose hope, will you?”
William rolls his eyes. “And what would you have me do about it, Edith?”
“You’re William Afton,” she retorts, the edge of a smile tugging at her lips. “Figure it out.”
And what could he say to that? William Afton has never been good at refusing a challenge.
₊‧.°.⋆•˚₊‧⋆.
He, as promised, takes Michael to the junkyard two days later on the clock. A proper wasteland of old steel and bad memories: rusting sedans stacked like tombstones, chrome teeth flashing under the relentless Utah sphere, and the smell of oil and hot rubber clinging to the air.
Michael’s “beauty” waits for him there - although William thinks the word is generous, at best.
Chipped and yellow, sits a Ford Convertible, ’47 model, long and boat-like, with one tire missing, and its gutted innards slowly being pieced together. Michael refuses to take money for it, determined to pay with the cash he’s earned running the floor at Fredbear’s.
The car itself might have been the eyesore. But the real problem is the boy leaning against it.
William exhales sharply through his nose, adjusting his sunglasses as Michael spots him and freezes - his disbelief pouring off him like sweat.
“Jeremy?”
The kid is standing there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It rankles him, but William hangs back in the shade of the ratty shack, keeping the sourness to himself, curdling there in his chest.
Rufus, the old bastard who runs this junkyard, doesn’t even bother to look up from his greasy copy of Hot Rod. He just smirks. “Now I’ve seen everything.”
The man’s mixed blood - Black, Navajo - marks him in this town. He knows the sting of the looks, the whispers. That’s why Michael trusts him.
William doesn’t. William doesn’t trust anyone anymore.
Jeremy is gesturing wildly, Michael looks like a spooked animal. Their voices carry in pieces between the clank of chains and the hum of cicadas:
“…I tried to catch you at Fredbear’s but you were never there…”
”…Jeremy…”
“…I’m sorry…”
“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” Jeremy’s voice sharpens into focus as he reaches out, his calloused hand curling tenderly around Michael’s jaw. “It wasn’t rejection, Mikey. I just… I didn’t want you to regret it, y’know? I wasn’t kidding. I’m in it forever.”
“The sentimentality is revolting,” William sneers under his breath, though he can’t deny the way Michael melts at the words, watching it unfold with his own eyes.
“Boy says you asked him out here,” Rufus notes, arching his brow without looking up. “That true? This part of the yard’s off-limits.”
“I did,” William replies flatly, unamused. He allowed Fitzgerald back here - fool that he is - for Michael’s sake. Rufus knows this, or he wouldn’t have let Jeremy back here. “I’m fixing my son’s mess for him.”
“…You mean that?” Michael whispers, barely audible.
“I’m bearing my soul here, babe,” Jeremy insists, grin blinding, both hands cradling Michael’s cheeks now. His broad shoulders block them from full view. “I need you to believe me, or I might cry.”
William clicks his tongue, disgusted, while Rufus chuckles low and mean, enjoying the soap opera more than the heat of the day.
“Kiss the boy already!” Rufus hollers, smacking his magazine against the shack.
Someone needed to say it, or they might just stand there and stare at each other for the next millennium.
Michael startles, flushing red, but Jeremy just laughs and pulls him close. Tellingly, Michael doesn’t resist, and the kiss that follows is clumsy, wet, and so very teenage, his arms curling around Fitzgerald’s neck, letting himself be held.
Rufus whistles loud and proud. William gives them a beat before clearing his throat like a shotgun cocking.
“Alright, enough!”
His voice cuts sharp, carried by the howl of the wind. They don’t move. Jeremy’s fingers are inching dangerously close to his son’s ass.
William rips the magazine from Rufus’s hand, ignoring the man’s protest (“Oi, I was reading that!”), and swats Jeremy off. The boy pulls away with a wet pop, eyes glazed.
“Sorry, Mr. A,” Jeremy says dreamily, “I’ve been waiting to do that since I was twelve.”
Michael shoves his face against his chest, laughter lodged in his throat.
“I’m well-aware,” William snaps. He’s been watching this slow car wreck for years.
“He said you called him here,” Michael says, cheeks burning, embarrassed but incandescently happy. He hasn’t looked at William with that kind of boyish awe since he was small. “Is that true?”
“For the summer,” William grinds out. More for himself than any belief Michael will listen.
“Or forever,” Jeremy sighs, draping his arms around Michael’s waist like they’re already married. “Can I call you Dad now?”
“Fitzgerald, I’ll rip your tongue out before you get the chance.”
“Let the boys live,” Rufus mutters, leaning against the shack. “And, just so y’know, your new motor shipped in. That old man should start now.”
Michael frowns against Jeremy’s shirt. “I still needed to pay off the last--“
“Call it an early birthday gift,” Rufus interrupts with a scoff. His gaze flicks meaningfully between Michael and Jeremy. “You’re gonna need it, looks like.”
William certainly hopes the fuck not.
₊‧.°.⋆•˚₊‧⋆.
He kicks them out not long after - Rufus only ever has so much patience for socializing, and for the Aftons, in general - and Michael gets to drive his car home, Jeremy riding shotgun like he was born for the role. William trails sorely behind them in his own, headlights steady, keeping the boy on the road like Michael’s still on training wheels. The new tire glints dully in the beams, a going-away gift William never would’ve sanctioned, never should’ve spent good money on.
When Michael pulls into the driveway, his hand is already looped through Jeremy’s before William even has the chance to kill his engine. Irritation wedges like glass in his throat, but, he bites his tongue and follows at a slower, unwilling pace, the gravel crunching under his shoes.
Inside, Elizabeth looks utterly flummoxed when they come through the door like that, fingers interlocked, Jeremy practically glowing. He looks like he might break into song, start tap-dancing across the linoleum with jazz hands. She blushes for him, as though she’s the one caught in the act, as if someone dropped her into an episode of Twilight Zone halfway through. William hasn’t even said a word yet. That tells them everything.
“For the summer,” he repeats flatly, for her benefit. The phrase is becoming something of a bitter refrain.
Evan peeks around the back of the couch with Bon-Bon cradled in his arms, a grin splitting his face like he’s in on some great conspiracy. Jeremy grins back, and the silent exchange needles William deep. He’s corrupted one son enough already; the last thing William needs is Evan’s hero-worship stoked into something worse.
“Right,” Elizabeth says, at length, in that tone teenage girls have perfected, the one that means: and I’m the bloody Queen of England. Juliet would be proud of this little scene, William thinks. Chaos blooming inside his home like rot.
“Congratulations,” Evan chimes, the only one in the room behaving halfway normally. “We’ve been waiting for you guys to kiss. Cassidy’s going to freak out.”
Michael, habitually, flips him off.
Jeremy beams like he’s just been knighted. His hand is definitely on Michael’s ass now. He’s been working toward it for the last five minutes.
“Fitzgerald--“ William warns, his voice as thin as ice.
“I’ve made my decision, sir,” Jeremy interrupts, squeezing Michael’s ass with theatrical flourish. “I’m willing to accept the consequences.”
A pocketknife ends up buried in the upholstery. But as it isn’t Jeremy Fitzgerald’s eye socket, the police are not called and dinner is had.
That evening, while the boy is helping Evan with the dishes and William is pretending not to listen in from the hallway, he hears Evan tell Jeremy that ”Mum would have liked you. Michael’s said so.”
It’s too bloody true, William scowls, meeting her gaze, forever immortalized behind glass, and touches her cheek with the pads of his fingers, his hand curling into a ball and dropping at his hip. He did it for her. And their son. Just this once.
For the summer. Just the summer.
₊‧.°.⋆•˚₊‧⋆.
(The truth?
William’s been telling himself this every summer since Michael was five.)