Michael.
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5 Days Until the Party...
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Michael woke up to the blaring sun punching him in the face.
He groaned, burying his head under the pillow, hoping the headache would go away if he ignored it long enough.
It didn’t.
He peeked at the clock—11:43 AM.
Technically still morning. Barely.
Michael grunted as he forced himself out of bed, every muscle in his body complaining about the night shifts and shit sleep schedule.
He threw on a t-shirt and jeans, dragging himself into the kitchen like a zombie with back pain.
And there was Grandpa Afton, sipping his tea like he owned the place—which, technically, he didn’t, but he acted like he did.
Grandpa raised an eyebrow. “Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty.”
Michael grunted. “It’s still morning.”
Grandpa glanced at the clock. “For seventeen more minutes.”
Michael collapsed into a chair, head in his hands. “Kill me.”
Grandpa sipped his tea smugly. “Too much work. You’d haunt the house and judge my tea-making skills.”
Michael grunted again.
Grandpa leaned back, crossing his arms. “I don’t understand how you survive like this. When I was your age, I woke up at dawn, worked a full day, and still had time to flirt with pretty girls.”
Michael squinted at him. “That was, like, during the war or something. You probably didn’t even have TV.”
Grandpa sipped his tea dramatically. “And we were better for it.”
Michael rolled his eyes, leaning on the table. “Elizabeth at school?”
Grandpa nodded. “Yes. You’d know that if you ever woke up at a reasonable hour.”
Michael ignored that.
Grandpa leaned forward, eyes twinkling with something dangerous—the kind of look that preceded deeply uncomfortable questions.
“So,” he began, voice casual but clearly calculated, “any plans for the big day?”
Michael frowned. “What big day?”
Grandpa gave him the look.
Michael blinked.
“Oh. Right. Birthday.”
Grandpa raised his hands, mock applause. “He remembers!”
Michael sighed. “No plans. Not really the party type anymore.”
Grandpa tilted his head. “No plans with a certain girl?”
Michael froze mid-sip of water. “What?”
Grandpa smirked. “A girl. Perhaps… a crush?”
Michael almost choked on air. “Grandpa—what? No. I don’t—what?”
Grandpa sighed, with the weariness of a man who had been waiting an entire month for this moment.
“Michael,” he said, “I’m talking about Mary.”
Michael blinked rapidly. “Mary’s my friend.”
Grandpa deadpan stared. “Yes. And the sky is blue. And you’re painfully oblivious.”
Michael scrambled for words. “We hang out. That’s it. We… talk. Eat. I complain. She laughs. Normal friend stuff.”
Grandpa leaned in. “And you give her your jacket when it rains. Carry her on your back like she’s your bride. Worry about her like she’s the only person on Earth. Smile when you talk about her—which, by the way, is the only time you smile without sarcasm.”
Michael opened his mouth to argue—but nothing came out.
Grandpa kept going. “I’ve seen boys dance around their feelings before. Hell, your father was one of them. But you? You are textbook.”
Michael felt his ears burning.
“I—she—we’re friends. That’s it.”
Grandpa raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? Then why did you turn red when I brought her up?”
Michael crossed his arms defensively. “I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Michael groaned, sinking lower into his chair. “This is insane.”
Grandpa shrugged. “Or you’re just the last to figure it out.”
Michael sat in stubborn silence, staring at the table.
Grandpa watched him, patient.
And then—
The memories flooded in.
Mary teasing him about worrying too much.
Mary grinning when he carried her through the storm.
Mary falling asleep next to him while watching a bad movie.
Mary making him feel… okay.
Oh, shit.
Michael’s eyes widened slightly.
Grandpa smirked like he had just won a war.
Michael whispered it before he could stop himself.
“…Oh shit.”
Grandpa leaned back in triumph. “There it is.”
Michael buried his face in his hands. “Goddammit.”
Grandpa patted his shoulder. “Welcome to hell, lad.”
Michael groaned into his palms.
Michael sat there for a while, trying to process the emotional trainwreck that had just slammed into his brain.
Grandpa, satisfied with his victory, sipped his tea in smug silence.
Finally, Michael peeked through his fingers. “…So what do I do now?”
Grandpa shrugged. “Dunno. Figure it out. Maybe try not being a complete idiot?”
Michael glared weakly. “Thanks. Super helpful.”
Grandpa grinned. “That’s what I’m here for.”
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4 Days Until the Party...
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Michael was pretty sure this movie was trying to kill him.
Bright colors, singing ponies, and a plot that made absolutely no sense. He had tuned out halfway through, but Elizabeth was fully absorbed, sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the TV.
“Are they—singing again?” Michael muttered from the couch.
Elizabeth didn’t look back. “It’s called storytelling, Michael.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure this is called psychological warfare.”
Elizabeth threw a pillow at him without turning away from the screen.
He leaned back into the couch, trying to focus on anything other than the ponies.
But his brain wasn’t cooperating.
Because yesterday happened.
Grandpa had basically cracked open his skull and poured the truth in there—Michael liked Mary. Romantically.
And now he couldn’t un-know it.
Every conversation, every stupid joke, every time she smiled—his brain was replaying it all like a highlight reel designed to ruin his life.
And the worst part?
He didn’t know what to do about it.
Onscreen, a pony was being dramatically kidnapped by some blob creature.
Elizabeth gasped. “No! Not Wind Whistler!”
Michael blinked slowly. “Wind Whistler.”
Elizabeth shushed him. “This is serious.”
Michael smirked despite himself. “Of course. My bad. Kidnapped pastel horses—super serious.”
Elizabeth glanced back at him, unimpressed. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re a boy.”
Michael leaned forward. “Excuse me? Are you saying boys can’t appreciate high-quality cinema?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “You’re ruining the mood.”
Michael laughed softly, but his mind drifted.
Because he was ruining his own mood, too.
Michael’s fingers drummed on his knee.
He kept thinking about what would happen the next time he saw Mary.
What was he supposed to do?
Act normal?
Avoid her?
Confess his feelings like an idiot in a romcom movie?
What if he messed everything up?
What if she didn’t feel the same way?
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
What if he ruined the best thing he had—the only thing in his life that felt right?
Michael groaned under his breath, dragging his hand down his face.
Elizabeth glanced at him, concerned. “What’s wrong with you?”
Michael snapped out of it. “Nothing.”
Elizabeth squinted. “Liar.”
Michael smirked weakly. “You’re getting too smart.”
Elizabeth beamed proudly, then immediately got distracted by a pony narrowly escaping a lava pit.
A few minutes later, during a particularly intense musical number, Elizabeth spoke without looking away from the screen.
“You think too much.”
Michael frowned. “What?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “You always look like you’re thinking about something bad. Maybe you should stop worrying and just do stuff.”
Michael stared at her.
Because that was alarmingly good advice, coming from a nine-year-old watching singing ponies fight evil goo monsters.
Elizabeth, noticing his silence, looked over at him.
“What?” she asked, genuinely confused.
Michael shook his head slowly, half-laughing. “Nothing. Just… you’re not wrong.”
Elizabeth grinned like she’d won something. “I’m always right.”
Michael chuckled, leaning back into the couch. “Sure you are.”
But her words stuck with him.
Stop worrying and just do stuff.
Maybe…
Maybe she was right.
Michael nudged Elizabeth’s arm. “So, when’s the next pony movie marathon? Should I clear my schedule?”
Elizabeth gasped dramatically. “Are you saying you liked it?”
Michael grinned. “I’m saying I might be invested in Wind Whistler’s character development.”
Elizabeth beamed. “You liked it.”
Michael laughed, feeling lighter than he had all day.
Because even if his life was a mess, and even if he had no clue what to do about Mary—
This?
This was good.
Being here. With Elizabeth. With family.
Sometimes, that was enough.
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3 Days Before the Party...
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Michael’s palms were sweating, which was stupid because this was just a conversation.
With Mary’s dad.
At their house.
About Mary.
Michael briefly considered turning around and never speaking to another human being again.
But then the door opened, and there he was.
Mr. Schmidt.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with that perpetual look of a man who had seen some shit but also knew exactly how to handle it.
Michael had no chance.
“Mike?” Mr. Schmidt asked, mug of coffee in hand, looking mildly curious. “You alright, kid?”
Michael scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah—yeah. Uh… Mary’s here, right?”
Mr. Schmidt nodded. “Night shift wiped her out so she is sleeping like a newborn. You need something?”
Michael paused.
This was the moment.
He could back out now, say it was nothing—but no. He was doing this.
Michael cleared his throat.
“I—uh. I actually wanted to talk to you.”
Mr. Schmidt’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Me?”
Michael nodded, feeling like he was about to throw up. “About… Mary.”
Mr. Schmidt’s expression shifted—just a little—but it was enough to make Michael want to die.
“Come on,” Mr. Schmidt said, motioning to the garden. “Let’s walk.”
The backyard was quiet, sun filtering through the trees.
Mr. Schmidt took a slow sip of coffee before speaking.
“So. You came to talk to me. About my daughter.”
Michael nodded stiffly. “Yeah.”
Mr. Schmidt glanced at him sideways. “Son, you trying to ask me for permission to date her?”
Michael opened his mouth—but before he could answer, Mr. Schmidt grabbed a shovel leaning against the fence.
Michael froze.
Mr. Schmidt held it casually, resting it against his shoulder like he’d done this before.
“Well,” Mr. Schmidt said, voice calm but very clear, “if you’re asking for permission, you ain’t getting it unless you get hers first. So shoot your shot, man. But if you break her heart…”
He patted the shovel.
Michael held up his hands quickly. “Wait, wait—I’m not asking for permission. I mean—I am interested in her—but I came for advice.”
Mr. Schmidt stared at him.
Slowly, the man’s face cracked into the most dangerous smirk Michael had ever seen.
“You—hold on.” He set the shovel down, laughing already. “You’re telling me you came to the father of the girl you like for romantic advice? And you thought that was a good idea?”
Michael blinked.
Realization hit him like a truck.
“Oh my god,” Michael muttered. “That’s so stupid.”
Mr. Schmidt bent over, hands on his knees, wheezing with laughter.
Michael started laughing too, because it was genuinely ridiculous.
For a solid minute, they just laughed like idiots in the garden.
Mr. Schmidt wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “Jesus, kid. You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”
Michael shook his head, still half-laughing, half-mortified. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Mr. Schmidt grinned. “Clearly.”
They calmed down, and the mood shifted to something gentler.
“You really like her, huh?” Mr. Schmidt asked, voice softer now.
Michael nodded, feeling weirdly vulnerable. “Yeah. I do.”
Mr. Schmidt sipped his coffee, eyes thoughtful.
“I figured. You’ve been obvious for a while now.”
Michael winced. “That bad?”
Mr. Schmidt shrugged. “Not bad. Just… noticeable. She lights you up. You think I don’t see it?”
Michael felt his face heat up.
Mr. Schmidt set his coffee down.
“Look. I could give you a grand speech about relationships, but you already know what matters. Be honest. Be kind. And don’t overthink it.”
Michael nodded slowly.
“You won’t know if it’ll work unless you try. So—try.”
Michael exhaled. “And if it doesn’t work?”
Mr. Schmidt gave him a look. “Then you respect her. And you both move on.”
He picked up the shovel again, but his tone was more teasing this time.
“But if it does work… and you break her heart—”
Michael nodded quickly. “Shovel. Got it.”
Mr. Schmidt grinned. “Smart kid.”
Michael felt lighter.
He had expected this to be terrifying—and, okay, it was—but it was also… good.
Mr. Schmidt wasn’t just Mary’s dad. He was a guy who cared. About her. And maybe, now, about Michael too.
Michael extended his hand. “Thanks. For not, you know, burying me in your garden.”
Mr. Schmidt shook his hand firmly. “Yet.”
Michael laughed.
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2 Days Until the Party...
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Michael leaned against the Parts & Service doorway, arms crossed, watching as two employees struggled to maneuver the bulky Fredbear suit onto a dolly.
Ralph stood beside him, sipping from a soda can like he was supervising a construction site he had no intention of helping with.
“I give it five minutes before one of them drops it,” Ralph muttered.
Michael smirked. “You’re generous. I was thinking two.”
The Fredbear suit tilted dangerously forward, making both employees yelp and scramble to steady it.
Ralph raised his soda. “Called it.”
Michael chuckled, but his thoughts were half elsewhere—still stuck on Mary, on Grandpa’s talk, on Mary’s dad laughing at him in the garden yesterday.
Ralph glanced over, noticing Michael’s distracted expression.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” Ralph said. “Dangerous territory, man.”
Michael snorted, shaking his head. “I’m good.”
Ralph narrowed his eyes, then smirked. “This about the Candy girl?”
Michael froze for half a second, then tried to play it cool. “What? No. Shut up.”
Ralph grinned like a shark-smelling blood. “Oh, it’s totally about her.”
Michael groaned, covering his face. “I hate you.”
Ralph patted his shoulder. “That’s fair. But, seriously—after what you pulled yesterday with her dad? You’re braver than me. I would’ve moved states.”
Michael let out a weak laugh. “Yeah… that was a choice.”
Ralph grinned wider. “So? When’s the big date?”
Michael rolled his eyes. “There’s no date.”
Ralph raised his eyebrows. “Yet?”
Michael sighed. “Look, I’m… not asking her out. Not right now. Maybe in a few months—if things still feel right. I don’t wanna mess things up.”
Ralph tilted his head. “Fair. That’s surprisingly mature. Annoying, but mature.”
Michael shrugged. “I’m full of surprises.”
Ralph walked behind the workers into the main room where the Marrionate was being placed into a different box, smirking. “You know, if it works out, we’ll be calling her Mrs. Afton someday.”
Michael almost choked on his own breath. “What—no. No, no. That’s, like—future future shit. And who says she’d even take my name? What is this, the 1800s?”
Ralph grinned devilishly. “I’m just saying, it’s got a ring to it. Mary Afton. Future Mrs. Afton. Maybe I should start practicing—"
And then it happened.
The Marionette’s head snapped toward them.
Not a glitchy twitch. Not a subtle camera shift.
It turned. Slowly. Deliberately.
Watching.
At the same time, the Fredbear suit suddenly tilted and crashed over onto the floor with a heavy, metallic thud.
The employees swore loudly, scrambling back.
Michael stiffened, heart lurching.
Ralph jerked upright, startled. “Holy shit—”
Michael’s skin crawled.
Ralph shook his head, still watching the employees struggle to lift Fredbear back up.
“Man, I knew this place was a death trap, but that thing’s out for blood,” Ralph muttered, pointing at the suit.
Michael forced a laugh, though his eyes flicked back to the Marionette—still as a statue now.
His chest felt tight.
Because he couldn’t shake the feeling—
That it had been listening.
And it had cared.
But that was impossible.
Right?
Michael cleared his throat, trying to shake it off. “Anyway—can you not call her future Mrs. Afton? Like—ever again?”
Ralph grinned. “No promises.”
Michael shoved his shoulder. “I hate you.”
Ralph laughed, but Michael’s mind stayed stuck on that brief moment—
The look from the Marionette. The timing of the suit falling over.
A coincidence.
Had to be.
Right?
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Evan.
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Evan watched Michael from afar, or whatever “afar” meant when you didn’t really have a body anymore.
His stupid older brother was blushing.
Michael Afton. Blushing. Over a girl.
The boy who bullied him until he died was now awkwardly navigating teenage romance like a complete idiot.
Evan scowled. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Cassidy, hovering nearby, snorted. “It’s pathetic. And kind of hilarious.”
Charlie, watching with arms crossed, smiled faintly. “It’s… cute. In a weird way.”
Evan shot her a glare. “It’s disgusting.”
Cassidy grinned. “You’re just mad he’s happy.”
“I’m mad he’s breathing,” Evan snapped.
Susie drifted closer. “But, like… isn’t it kind of nice? He’s not just… you know, being miserable all the time?”
Evan glared harder. “No. He should be miserable all the time.”
Fritz poked his head into the group. “I dunno. It’s kind of funny watching him panic over a girl. Remember when he used to act tough?”
Cassidy grinned like a shark. “Yeah. Now he’s scared of a girl with freckles.”
Charlie gave them all a look. “You all realize we sound like a bunch of gossiping grandmas, right?”
Jeremy floated past. “Ghost grandmas.”
Everyone laughed—except Evan.
Evan crossed his arms, but his scowl was cracking slightly.
He hated this.
He hated seeing Michael like this—human, nervous, almost… normal.
It was easier when Michael was just a target. A bully. SOMETHING HE HAD TO DESTROY BUT NOT WITHOUT MAKING HIM SUFFER!!!!
But this? This was different.
And Evan didn’t know what to do with it.
Cassidy leaned over, voice low and sharp. “Don’t forget what he did. None of this changes that.”
Evan nodded stiffly, but his chest felt tight.
Because part of him remembered Michael as something else, too.
Not just the bully.
But the brother who used to pull him out of trees when he got stuck.
Who used to read comics with him when Dad wasn’t home.
But that Michael was gone.
And this one didn’t deserve to be happy.
Right?
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Mary.
1 Day Before the Party...
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Mary was about ten seconds away from punching a wall.
Or maybe quitting her job and setting the entire restaurant on fire.
Either option felt equally reasonable after another night of dealing with The Rat.
That thing had been worse than ever. It was lingering outside the office for longer, moving in ways that didn’t match the others.
Carl had half-joked that it was evolving. Mary was 90% sure it was trying to emotionally break her.
So, by the time she dragged herself back home, still smelling vaguely like fryer grease and existential dread, she was done with everything.
And then Michael showed up on her doorstep, awkwardly shuffling like he had forgotten how legs worked.
Mary leaned against the doorframe, raising an eyebrow. “You here to drag me to another movie marathon, or did you finally come to admit I’m funnier than you?”
Michael snorted, but there was an edge of nervousness to it. “Nah, you’d get too cocky if I admitted that.”
Mary smirked but watched him closely. He was fidgeting—hands in his pockets, shifting his weight—classic Michael Trying to Be Casual But Absolutely Not Casual At All behavior.
That set off alarms.
“…What do you want?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
Michael rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, so… tomorrow’s my birthday.”
Mary blinked. “Yeah. I know.”
Michael paused. “…You do?”
Mary rolled her eyes. “We hang out all the time. I know things. Continue.”
Michael cleared his throat, trying and failing to look nonchalant.
“Some of my friends are throwing this… thing. Kind of a small party. Just hanging out, nothing crazy. Thought maybe you’d wanna come?”
Mary opened her mouth to politely decline.
She had planned on sleeping for twenty hours straight. Maybe eating something that wasn’t pizza or fast food.
But then she thought about The Rat.
The stress. The fear. The exhaustion.
And then she thought about Michael.
Him smirking at her dumb jokes. Him making her feel normal when everything else was hell.
God, she needed a break.
“…Yeah,” she blurted out before her brain could argue. “Yeah, okay. I’ll come.”
Michael blinked like he hadn’t expected that to work. “Wait—really?”
Mary laughed weakly. “Why do you sound surprised?”
Michael shrugged, smirking. “Figured you’d rather be sleeping or plotting the Rat’s demise.”
“Oh, I’ll still plot his demise,” Mary said. “But I can multitask.”
There was a pause, the kind that lasted just a second too long to be normal.
Michael’s eyes softened a bit, and Mary felt that now-familiar twist in her chest—the one that said this was more than friendship, but she was absolutely not ready to admit that.
She ignored it, because that was the mature thing to do, obviously.
“So,” she said, breaking the moment before it could kill her, “who’s coming? Anyone I should mentally prepare for?”
Michael laughed. “Kelly, for one. So, brace yourself for alcohol.”
Mary grinned. “I won't be drinking then.”
Michael shifted again, but this time, it felt different.
Like he was relieved.
Like having her there mattered more than he was letting on.
Mary noticed—but didn’t call him out on it.
Because she got it.
She knew his home life was a mess.
She knew birthdays probably weren’t exactly happy celebrations in the Afton household.
If this party—this dumb little gathering—gave him something good?
She’d be there.
“So,” she said, grinning to lighten the mood, “should I bring a present? Or is my sparkling personality gift enough?”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Just show up. That’s the gift.”
Mary mock-gasped. “Michael. That was almost sweet. Who are you, and what have you done with my emotionally constipated friend?”
Michael groaned, shoving her shoulder lightly. “Yeah, okay, regret inviting you now.”
Mary laughed, and for the first time in days, it felt real.