He shouldn't be here. That's what he tells himself before he goes inside. No one knows he still has the keys (the police conveniently didn't check everywhere, just like he already knows they wouldn't as they're shit at their jobs) and as long as he's still breathing, he plans to keep it that way.
His leg's still fucked and his back kind of aches on and off, but that's the tip of the iceberg on the messed up scale here as he stumbles into the brightly coloured, yet dark walls of the corridor, the lights completely out as 7:00 AM blinked from the digital watch on wrist while he moved in closer. Daytime was easier, it meant he was safe.
It meant they couldn't hurt him, at least, not right now. So he hoped.
It's still as destroyed as he last left it, Abby and Vanessa clinging to him as he dragged them out, wounds and all. The ceiling lights are beyond repair, smashed into pieces, the tables and chairs they'd used to build that fort one time had stayed overturned, electronics as well as panelling all in a jumbled wreck. While he had the urge to fix it, he's not here for that reason, no, the reason he is here is further in the back, his feet seemingly sure of where he's headed.
He thinks he spies one or two of them - Bonnie was never a good hider from what he saw and Chica is always losing track of Carl from his tray on her hand - as he passes by as innocuous as he can be while he searches. Foxy and Freddy are nowhere in sight, but it doesn't matter. He's already half lost. The doors all look the same, abandoned and dirty looking, but as he's bracing himself for disappointment (and the headache of retracing his steps back to the front entrance), he finds it.
The one door out of place.
It's a door that most likely leads to a storage room or maybe another entrance to the security office or something, or so he guesses, but it's got some deep dents in it, wood splintering in the shape of fingers, like something powerful grabbed it and almost tore it off its hinges in an effort to either open, close it or both. It couldn't have been more obvious than if it was lit up in lights like Vegas. He's really glad that Vanessa is currently not awake to see him like this, see him sweating, shaking, knees practically clicking together on their own as he drags it open, only to stop and stand there, overwhelmed at the sight before him.
There's still drying blood underneath him, but he's used to seeing it by now on his own body, let alone someone else's, and his back is against one of the shelves from where it rests limply in his suit, still and unmoving as ever while the latter sways, low daylight flickering from every corner it can touch. He had chosen this time for a reason. Abby wouldn't know where he was going, he didn't need to find another babysitter and as he mentioned earlier, the other animatronics wouldn't see them.
It would just be the two of them. Together. Maybe, if his theory was right.
Shutting the door behind him, Mike hangs up his coat on a nearby box and shudders when he hears the first whirrs of motors and wires springing to life for when he's turning back around, white all powerful eyes are staring back at him.
He's still in there. Just like the kids he took. His own personal prison, complete with a pair of eyes to watch himself degrade and suffer. God, his eyes.
When he first met Steve, or he really should say William, the eyes of the guy held so much chill in them, like everything he stared at got broken down and analysed beyond reason. At least, that's how Mike felt when he'd walked in his office that first time, a lonely and hopeless mess. He'd looked over Mike like he was a young child, similar to a parent would do, but there was nothing parental about it at all when it came from him.
At first, when they had been talking, it was about jobs. He was supposed to be a career counsellor after all and given Mike's situation, it was part and parcel, but it took a more personal turn and Mike found himself being pulled and weaved in directions that a compass would find themselves lost from as Steve seemingly was interested in him one minute and then, back to his professionalism soon after. Talk about mixed signals.
Look, it wasn't the fact that Mike liked guys. He liked girls too. Each sex had their own attributes and he really hadn't been seeing anyone seriously for several years because of taking care of Abby and fighting off Aunt Judith (the old bitch now rested in pieces, though he hated the way she'd died), but he can say for certain that in the case of them somehow having Steve Raglan's eyes? They did not.
Those eyes, before and after Freddy's, followed him, haunted him in his dreams, teasing and hyper focused and never leaving him alone. Given that William was a serial killer, Mike wanted to fear him. Wanted to, but couldn't. Instead of fear, instead of disgust and hatred, lust and attraction bubbled under the surface of his skin and soon enough, it exploded in moments that had left him breathless and buzzing, but not sated.
As he'd already come to know, dreams were things he shouldn't mess with. He already had wasted so many years clawing after Garrett's killer and when he'd had him in his hands, he'd wasted the opportunity to really let loose on him and tell him how it felt for his little brother to vanish, how his parents didn't cope, how when his mother passed away of a broken heart not too long after Abby was born and adding salt to that wound, how his father jumped ship and let them alone in the world to fend for themselves.
Alas, that's not how it happened, as what /was/ happening right now was definitely not a dream. At l;east, Mike hoped. He also hoped that whoever was watching over him at that moment and had given him the luck of keeping Abby to himself and had shown him he could be that older brother he had been once had turned away so as not to see him stoop so low, but it didn't really matter as the eyes finally blinked, seemingly registering his presence in front of him and making Mike's heart stop for a few seconds as his knees finally gave out, his body dropping like a stone.
It seemed that William had felt like a staring contest today, as while the eyes watched him, the silence stretched out longer than Mike had ever felt when he was working here for that span of days that seemed so long ago now, almost as long ago as the memories of his family and Nebraska and-
He inhales as William's hand moves and reaches out towards him, the sound of crunching metal and bone following suit. He should have run then. He should have gotten up, wiped this idea, this fantasy from his head and took off. Somehow, he doesn't flee. Instead, he crawls.
Crawls towards it no less, until the soft fur (how does that stuff not become matted from the blood?) and leather touches his face and his whole body relaxes, eyes closing at the touch.
He knows this is risky, that William may strangle him like he did to his own flesh and blood instead of reciprocating what Mike's hoping to get from him and that haunts him a lot when he really thinks about it, but right now, he tries not to. He hasn't somehow thought about it before this, so why would he now, so far into this endeavour?
The fingers (can he call them fingers still?) move despite the constant grinding noises that make the hair's on Mike's neck prickle, stroking up and down his jawline, cheeks and even his chin, Adam's apple also not left untouched as the heat rising from the inner mechanisms burnt their way into his skin like oil.
It's only when the hand clamps down onto his shoulder does he stiffen, but it's not bone crushing - just unexpected and then there's tugging involved. Towards the suit, towards William. 'Towards salvation…' His clearly stockholmed mind whispers so eerily like himself as he moves closer and closer before he's swinging a jeaned leg over the thick, trunk like limbs of the yellow rabbit suit and sitting in the dip of its lap, pinned by hands to it and breathing heavily, face and neck starting to stain a bright pink as William runs the same creaky hand that reached out to him down his stomach, making him let out a quiet moan.
The hand holding him up moved at that, a quick flicker that Mike wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't on constant alert for anything that could interrupt this. His eyes flickered back open and for a moment, he spied the springlocks digging into William's slowly rotting flesh and was almost sick, but swallowed it down, dashing it from is mind just as quickly as soon as William's hand travelled further than his belt and dove into uncharted waters.
God, he could see it now, in his mind's eye. His mind, as clearly as it recalled the memories of Garrett being taken, built a alternate world, where William as Steve had locked his office door when he'd come to sign the paperwork to be employed at Freddy's - too fast for Mike to realised he was trapped until Afton was towering over him, pining his hands behind his back and pressing him against his desk, covered in papers, ink and cigarette ash.
Mike would resist at first, but William would know his resolve wouldn't last long, that was obvious, meticulously torturing him with dirty whispers and running hands that would slowly break him down bit by bit till he was whining, despate, much like he is now as the suit's rubbery, yet furry hands squeeze and stroke and make his skin buzz like the fluro above the desk does, back in his fantasy as his eyes start to roll in the back of his head.
Steve, or really William, would be pulling Mike's stupidly skinny jeans off by now ('god, michael, I should murder you for being this eager'), sticking his fingers into Mike's mouth to wet them with the amount of droll he's practically choking on before it runs down his chin in large droplets and those fingers work magic, opening his insides.
Mike would be shirtless as well, hell, they might both be, Mike turning on top of William as soon as he sinks into him, the younger man's legs spread wide around William's hips and his hands fisted in silvery grey chest hair that runs along his tongue and in his teeth like dental floss as his head is buried in his shoulder. He bites and he feels William's reaction of clamping down on his hips more and speeding up, practically spittling him in half.
Of course, this is all in his head, as he's pretty sure that a dead man can't exactly take his dick out of a ten ton animatronic (he doesn't want to imagine otherwise), but it doesn't matter as the rutting he's doing up against William's gigantic hand, the velvety texture feeling like silk against his skin - is working just fine as everything plays out to his liking, William's thrusts starting to make him breathless and blissful, his brain and vocals a constant stream of just noises and no consistent words leaving him.
Could the animatronics hear them? See them? See Mike? Maybe. Everything with this place was never so black and white. It was always…just fucked up. Always towing the line between real and not real. He wants the things this version of William, the version his head has created before and after he's technically deceased, to be real, but when he finally cums, the world and WIlliam fade into a haze of colours before the pizzeria reforms around him and the yellow bunny is in front of him, it's bleeding wounds now mixed with cream white that also stains Mike with shame and self loathing as much as it does gratification.
He can feel eyes on him again and he looks up from where his own were downcast to meet the rabbit's gaze, its stare just as intense as the whispers of the Steve in his mind and what he'd wanted to see coming here. Literally. He'd wanted this. /Wanted/. No regrets. There should be, but instead, his environment's white noise.
Feeling exhausted, he sinks down to the slick and sticky floor, pretty much into the blood puddle he'd hoped to avoid, his cheek against one of the rabbit's brightly coloured legs, his eyes closed and body attempting to re-regulate itself.
Just has he's drowsing off, the shadow of a hand comes over the meagre amount of light he can still see and while he flinches at first, the hand continues to move before connects to his back and starts stroking his head and down his spine in one smooth motion, making him sigh and kiss the spongy thigh next to his mouth and nose before he's eased into sleep, his soft snores filling the cavernous room and former restaurant, the hand only stilling when he's well and truly dead (hah, dead!) to the world.
In his dreams, he's back in Nebraska, but instead of that picnic table and that campsite, he's in the car, Garrett behind him playing planes in the back seat while Abby draws beside him and William's driving, his 12 year old self beaming up at him from the passenger seat as William gazes lovingly down at him, not hearing the screams of his parents chasing the car or encroaching darkness as William asks him for a kiss and he obliges, the skyline starting to fade into sunset as he does.
When he pulls back, he's an adult and it's night and they're alone again, just the two of them, William dressed in Steve's suit and Mike in his normal jeans and hoodie. The rain outside makes the same hum William does before turns towards him from over the steering wheel and asks for another kiss. If history has proven anything, it's not like Mike can say no.
Of course, he does wonder what happened to Garrett and Abby briefly, but it's soon swallowed by nothingless, just like his mouth is when William's hands touch his cheeks, back solidly against the car's window as they make out till light floods though his vision and envelopes them unexpectedly, the sound of early afternoon hitting his ears as he moves steadily towards wakefulness.
Hopefully when he wakes, there will be a next time. After all, he has the keys.
He could always come back.