"Let me play a song for you!"

“Daddy?” A voice echoes through the. . . honestly depressing, barren excuse of a workshop. Nothing as it was before, but then again, nothing in my life has been. No, not since that day. I can't find the energy within me to turn my head to face my. . . daughter. Should I call her my daughter? I fear that would be continuing to feed my disconcerting delusions. I'm not quite sure I even have the confidence to look her in the eye. All those eyes do is reflect my own grief. I cannot bear to stare into my own depression any longer. Those eyes. Eyes I made with my own hands. Charlotte—no, not Charlotte, the robot I crafted in the image of Charlotte—staring at me with those lifeless eyes. I can't look at those again. I can no longer take it, not once more.

Gently tugging at my brown canvas pants, Charlotte looks expectantly to me. I look back, as revolted as the action makes me. “Can you take me to the park, daddy? I know you've been busy with your work, but I miss going to the park with you.” She—it? No, that's too dehumanizing, even for her. She was made in the image of my daughter, after all. I shan't disrespect my Charlotte. This robot didn't ask for my own baggage, did she? No matter.

I debate her question. I have been nothing short of neglectful, haven't I? A pang of guilt surges through me. We used to spend time often, no matter the occasion. A warmth akin to a content winter afternoon in front of a crackling fire, slowly sipping on a hot chocolate came to me in every action. Even through moments where I’d been too delved in my work to acknowledge her existence, her presence kept that nostalgic warmth alive within me. Seeing her cheerful face playing with her toys on my workshop’s floor infected my heart with love.

Now, I cannot stand her presence in a room. In fact, I'm not sure if I've spent more than twenty minutes with her before I couldn't stand it any longer. Sometimes I'm convinced she sucks the energy out of me when I draw near. Though she isn't doing so physically, my brain is shriveled and dried. When I look at her, I see nothing but what could have been, and what was taken from me. I've tried to push myself back into the delusion—it would have been easier. So, so much easier. However, every day I continue to be reminded more and more of the elaborate lie I've built for myself. I am too far gone to be brought back up, yet I have no will to draw out this lie.

I suppose I owe this last trip to the park to Charlotte, especially to make up for what is planned for today. “Of course, sweet cakes. We'll go to the park.” The smile I attempt to force is nigh impossible to give her.

Her excitement that would normally bring a smile—a real one—to my face, causes a suppressed frown. I can't seem to find joy in something I programmed her to do. “Get some shoes on, I'll go grab my keys.” I gently drift my hand around her scalp, her hair flowing around my fingers. Artificial hair, like the ones on those dolls she’d play with.

Charlotte swats my hand off of her head with a giggle, and runs out of the workshop. I'm almost—no, not almost. I'm definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, relieved to be alone. My hand reaches to rub my neck, it glides along the skin with ease, sweat wetting my skin enough to be a waterslide. I doubt I have the willpower to make it through today, not with how I acted just then.

Despite myself, I exit the workshop and into the main house where I see Charlotte pulling at the velcro straps on her Kinney sneakers. From what I can remember, those shoes don't fit her at all anymore. She has to fold her toes to fit into them. I've bought her new ones, though she still insists on those, and I've lost the energy to fight over it. I find my keys sitting on the side table next to the door. “Ready, pumpkin?”

“Yep!” Her shrill voice rang through the house. She stood on her feet, and I could hear the slightest wince slip from her throat. I fight the urge to shake my head in disapproval at her stubbornness. Such trivial things won't matter soon anyhow.

When I turn the door knob, Charlotte is already to my truck before I can get a foot out of the house. She repeatedly jerks the passenger side handle, a silent way to say “Hurry it up!”

Reaching and unlocking the driver’s side door, and then the passenger’s, I take a seat on the brown leather bench seat within the truck, then hold a hand out to Charlotte when she almost slips and falls on her ascension into the Chevrolet. “Careful, sweetie.”

“Not my fault your truck is so high up!”

Not quite as cute as it used to be. “Be sure to buckle-up, dear.”

“I know, Daddy.” While I don’t see her pull the seat belt over herself, the clicking noise assures me of her compliance. I bring my own seat belt over my body. I put pressure on the brake and insert the key’s car into the ignition switch. Turning the key twice to start the car, the engine whirs in response. Releasing the brake, I pull out of the driveway. “You ready to drive this thing yet?” Not that I would be there to see it. Perhaps this drive would be better if I keep my mouth shut.

“No! Driving is scary. Carlton told me about his dad being the lead on a case of a hit-and-run that killed somebody! I don’t wanna drive something that will kill other people.”

Driving into a tractor-trailer may be an easier way of doing this. At least Jenny won’t be faced with the embarrassment of a brother who killed himself in the manner a coward would, though everyone already knows me for one. “Well, you have a good eight years before you’re driving. You’ll get the hang of it, I’m sure. You’ll probably be learning in this very truck.”

“Nuh-uh! Not in a bajillion years.”

The car falls silent. All that remains is the engine’s low purring and the horrid screeching of the brakes. When was the last time I changed the brake pads? Or the oil? God, I’m not sure I’ve stepped foot in this thing in a while. To be fair, I only ever used it to go to Freddy’s and back with the occasional trip to the grocery store, or Charlotte’s school every so often. I’ve really ignored every aspect of social life since the incident. Then again, life hasn’t had much meaning since then.

Cruising down the familiar path towards the park continued my mind wandering. I never took the real Charlotte to this playground. All the fond memories there were all my own mechanical prowess and delusions in a dreadful conglomeration. My face scrunches in on itself thinking of the way parents looked at me with pity and disgust as they watched me push that doll that I convinced myself was my daughter on the swings. No wonder the whole town is convinced I was the murderer of those poor children, I’ve already proven I’m nigh insane.

“Daddy!” Small hands grip my right arm and shake it fiercely. “You’re gonna hit the tree!”

Jostled out of my head-in-the-clouds state, I slam my foot on the brake on instinct. Fully coming to my senses after a few moments, I see the large tree trunk in front of the truck, maybe a half-inch away from the grille. “Jesus pumpkin, I’m sorry. My mind just. . .flew off, I guess.” I put the truck in reverse and slowly pulled back into a parking spot, jolting upward as the wheels fall from the curb.

Charlotte leaps out of the truck before I can even put it in park. I follow reluctantly. Weights must have been placed within my shoes, for I slog as if I were walking through mud. More realistically, these “weights” were brought upon by my own mind’s resistance. A waterfall of memories flow directly into my mind, meandering through the lobes of my brain while a heavy storm rages on. This is the last place I would have chosen to go. What did David Wojnarowicz say? “Hell is a place on Earth. Heaven is a place in your head,” I believe. I fear he was right, at least in my case. However my Heaven has been one built off agony, sorrow, and delusions. Now that I have rid myself of the delusion, I see that it is really just a second Hell I have forged for myself.

Charlotte skips through the playground and to the swings cheerfully, unaware of the mental ball and chain I drag. “Could you push me on the swings? Please?”

“. . .Sure. Sure, dear.”

Charlotte springs onto the swing’s seat, waiting for me with enraptured delight. I plodded my way around to stand behind her, pushing her back lightly to hoist her into the air, and repeating the act when gravity tugs her to the ground. I just have to get through this. It will only be a few hours. Only. I am not sure if I can hold out that long.

The rest of the park visit was an obfuscated amalgam of short snippets of memory. I had functioned on “autopilot,” for lack of a better word. From what I gathered with the little I was conscious of, there was not much to be missed. Swings, seesaw, slide, merry-go-round, repeat. We have made our. . . fifth? Trip to the swings, and my wrists begin to ache from repetition. You know, perhaps I had been nutty, but at least I still found it in me to enjoy the park. I know I cannot say the same now.

While I shove Charlotte into the air, I catch a glimpse of my watch. Five-twenty-six. At that moment, I freeze. I can see Charlotte turning to look at me with a puzzled expression in my peripheral vision. “We have to get back home. It’s, uh, getting late.”

A frown pulls at Charlotte’s face. “Five more minutes? Pleaseee?”

Why must you make this more difficult than need be? “Sorry, sweets. Sun’s gonna be going down soon. Let’s get back to the truck.” She slides off the swing with her head hung low. “Oh, don’t be like that. I can take you tomorrow. I can even call that John boy’s parents and set up a playdate.”

“Really?”

“Really.” With the lie I told to this poor girl came a scorching fire that burned my heart from the inside out, engulfing my insides with flames that could rival even the strongest forest fires. As hard as I try, I can never completely view this child as one who is not my daughter. I am well aware that she is not, and that I have believed such for way, way too long. However, when you convince yourself of the opposite for seven years, it is hellish to bring yourself out of that thinking.

We walk to the truck and get situated in our seats inside. This time there is no need for any reminders of seat belts, as I can hear the faint clicking of the seat belt into the buckle.

During the entire ride home I could not stop myself from taking glances at my watch at every chance I had. I watched the minutes change fearfully, the pit in my stomach that began to fester back at the playground only growing larger in size. I’m losing time.

The sun has set over the horizon, making way for the warm and inviting array of colors splattered in the sky. A vibrant pink and pallid orange interlace, forming a peachy midtone between them. It would have been wonderfully serene if I were not in the predicament that I am. I eventually am able to see the driveway to my house in the close distance, and I release a breath I did not realize I held.

The truck rides over the bumpy gravel driveway to the house with ease. Tires roll over the mass of tiny rocks and pebbles, creating constant crunching noises. I slam on the brakes abruptly and it jostles me and Charlotte forward. I check my watch. Five-forty-two. How did it get so late? I hop out of the truck and rush to the door, Charlotte following close behind me.

I swing open the door with a sense of urgency and throw my keys to the side table. “Go play in your room, honey.” I mutter. More like a croak, in all honesty. “I must speak to your Aunt Jen.”

“. . .Okay.” The slight creaks that shadow her steps as she climbs the stairs drive me to near madness. God, just get to your room already. Where is that robot? I believe I left it on the table of my workshop. Christ.

Paper. I need paper. A pen, as well. I can rip a piece from my sketchbooks in the workshop. What time is it? I try to bring my wrist to my face to gaze at my watch, but my arm feels frozen in place. Instead, I squint to view the distant wall clock within the living room. Five-forty-four . I won’t have enough time to go down there. Lord, why must all my creations work against my favor? I just had to program that thing to a specific time.

Hastening through the house and to the kitchen, I rummage through the counter drawers for something that may service me. In my search, I hear a creak from the back door.

There it is. Just on time. It slowly opens until the door hits a cabinet with a thump. In a silent house, the turning of gears and clicking of servos has the volume of a symphony. A constant whir bringing me back to today’s earlier events. The thing’s lifeless eyes do the same. I find myself back in my workshop, Charlotte’s eyes staring deep into mine while she fights with my current project —my final project— for my attention. God, those eyes. My eyelids clamp down as hard as they possibly can, and I hope, even though I have not felt hope in a long, long time, that it will make everything just. . .go away.

A childish belief, of course. The thought that pulling your blanket over your head might just save you from the monster hiding within your closet. The only difference is that I have created my own monster, and I cannot be saved by concerned parents hearing my screams in the night. Do I really want to die like this? Well, no, but what else is there for me? My passions have been ruined multiple times, by the same man no less. My remaining family outside of my dear Jenny either hates me or is dead, and everyone in this town believes me to be a murderer. There is nothing left for me on this Earth. I have wasted my chances, and all that is left is that I join my daughter in Heaven. That is if Satan does not await my presence in his realm.

Loud, heavy clanks ring on the linoleum floor. It’s moving. Allowing my eyes to open, I see the thing making a slow but steady approach towards me. I’ll have to do this quickly.

I go back to the drawers, picking out a stray ballpoint pen with almost no ink. Searching through old discarded mail for something blank enough to write on, I finally notice an empty piece of laminated paper. Flipping it over, there’s a picture of a politician with a name I couldn’t care enough to remember. It will work.

Slamming the empty side of the paper to the wooden countertop, I click the cam of the pen and scribble lightly on the paper to ensure that it works.

And for the last time, I write a letter to my sister.

My dearest Jenny, it begins, as all letters to her do. Tears prick my eyes like thorns. My heart pours into every word that I rush onto the paper, cloudy eyes causing the letters to look as if they are dancing along the empty space. They are dancing to mock me, to cheer for my demise. They are giddy to form the words that are admittance of my pathetic life and end, one that is long overdue.

. . .I now only see loss, endless, debilitating loss. My writing hand quivers horribly, penmanship worsening to the point of childlike scribbles, though the rest of my body feels as if it is going through rigor mortis. I fear it is not quite time for that yet.

My heart pounds expeditiously in my chest. The constant pumping reminds me of blowing up a balloon. Pump, pump, pump, inflating until. . . Pop. My heart may pop at this rate, with the pieces splattering all over my ribcage. Faster. I must write faster. The slow and methodical stomps behind me are like a timer, however I would have hoped for the timer to be an actual one, and not the noises that my large and clumsy suicide machine make. God, what does it matter? I would be dead either way.

I feel its presence behind me. It looms over my body, casting a shadow onto the counter and my pitiful letter. At any moment it will strike, and I will bleed out on this floor. Charlotte will come down and see my limp body. She will stare into my lifeless eyes in horror, and her artificial tears will stain her porcelain cheeks. Long streaks of water dragging ever so slowly to her chin.

I shake my head in attempt to rid myself of this thought. I must cease from humanizing her. It brings the overwhelming burden of guilt, something I already contain in abundance. I am getting too sidetracked. I must finish this letter before it brings my miserable life to an end. I lick my lips. They are cracked, pallid, and unbelievably dry. Comparable to the texture of sandpaper. I just have to finish this. It is almost done. I wipe the tears from my eyes with the heel of my palm.

. . . I am going to be with my daughter. There. Almost done. My hand grips the pencil intensely, the tips of my fingers turning white in color.

Suddenly, a tingling sensation rattles my bones, and a hot and piercing pain follows soon after. A large mechanical hand holds onto my shoulder to keep me in place. It has plunged its knife into my back, right into the spine. It seems my time is over. Blood flows down my backside, hitting the hardwood floor with soft drips. Accompanying blood loss was a loss in body temperature and energy at almost double the speed. I felt as if I were to turn to ice in any second, and I shrunk into myself, huddling for some kind of warmth.

I fought my weakening legs that yelled for me to collapse with what little might I had left. My pen drags slowly and rigidly on the paper. Almost completely out of ink, the letters begin to look incomplete. Finally, I sign the letter off with Love always & to the end, Henry.

I give into my legs’ pleas and plummet to the floor, the impact blurring my vision. It has backed away from me. The floor vibrates as its heavy steps move it away. My breaths are shallow, the whistles of air shaking my frame like a dead leaf on a November maple. I can feel my blood spreading, dampening my clothes, hair, and skin with its crimson color. It soaks into the wood panels, infesting itself between splinters. I am sitting there, laying in my own pain and agony for long, long minutes.

I expected some. . .light at the end of the tunnel. To see my daughter, or perhaps an angel waiting for me. Instead, I feel a constant nothingness. I do not feel any of the emotional motley that I had moments before. I am all too aware of my death. The eternal slumber calls to me, and I long for it more and more with each passing second.

I will see you soon, my daughter. May we be together in Heaven for all of eternity.

The metallic scent of blood lingered in the air. Streetlights illuminate dark sky, their buzzing acting as white noise.

They'd been fighting for so long that neither could remember who took the first swing. Shoes scuffed on the asphalt beneath their feet, the pair thrashing violently within the nigh empty parking lot as if it were a most amorous dance. With such skin-to-skin contact, these romantics were closer than anticipated.

“You're a sick son of a bitch!” Henry bellowed with a swift punch to William's gut. It took considerable concentration to actually land it, his glasses gone long before this moment. Though he hadn't known where they landed, Henry was sure he'd be buying a new pair. Crimson stained his fists and philtrum like paint.

“Come on Henry! Don't you think this has been going on for far too long?” William wheezed. A poor attempt at composure evident, his chest heaving to retrieve lost air to his lungs. The ab muscles tensed and ached, promising a bruise for the future. “We can talk about this!” Brown hair stuck to the round and sweaty forehead of Afton in a similar fashion to how his clothes clung to his body.

William's attire represented nothing of his behavior now. Adorning a white dress shirt, purple vest with a star pattern, black dress pants, a bright yellow bow tie, and a goofy smile that while usually present, is missing in the moment. It was as if the charisma he emitted at every waking hour drained out of him. Or that it was a shell, hiding true intentions. Henry was beginning to believe the latter.

“You killed my daughter, Bill! We’re past talking, you murderous bastard! I should've known it was you.” Henry's strikes to the plump man were rapid—and sloppy. Energy withheld from the adrenaline rush fading, his arms shook as they lost strength. William found Henry’s faltering a perfect opportunity to dominate—in combat, of course. Afton rushes Henry, nails digging into skin as he grips his shoulders and slams him to the ground. Sat on Henry’s waist to keep him firm beneath him, Henry’s head thrashes onto the hard surface, causing his already aching head to throb with much more intensity.

William’s hand balls into a fist. His knuckles pummel into Henry’s face, skin stretching in reaction. “Don’t leave your child outside of the restaurant with the door locked, Henry! If it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been someone else.” His words were almost incomprehensible, a consistent ringing sound in Henry’s ears acting as a buffer. Even so, Henry could hear the taunting tone. “Are you to say it’s my fault for your own incompetence as a father? Your negligence?” His relentless beating slowed. He seemed to be expecting a response.

“I.. I didn’t notice she was locked out. Some- Some kids were playing a cruel joke...” There was no point in defending himself. Henry knew it had been his fault. Too occupied with his work for the safety of his own daughter. His nights were now spent wide awake, thinking of Charlotte. Of how things were before her death. He pushed himself deep into his work, hoping it would help him forget the tragedy his life had become. All it brought to him were memories. He longed for the days Charlotte and Sammy spent with him in his workshop, joyful sounds filling the room as he worked. He’d never get that back, and he would never get Charlotte back. All that was left was his creations. Fredbear’s.. and the man who stood before him. His business partner. co-founder, and perceived best friend. The man with his daughter’s blood on his hands.

There was no denying Henry’s fluttering feelings for William. Their closeness in private proved so. Flirtatious jokes whispered into one another’s ear too frequently to be only jokes. Sending his family home when the diner closed to “get some extra work done after-hours” with William. Now, Henry wanted nothing but an end to this man, if he could even call him that. He felt disgusted and ashamed in himself for letting someone so vile get so intimate with him, and getting anywhere near his precious daughter. His life.

When Charlotte’s body was found Henry had a strong gut feeling. The name flashed in his mind as he stared into his daughter’s lifeless eyes. William. He pleaded to whatever God was out there that this intuition was wrong, but it persisted in the back of his mind. Asking William if he had any knowledge of Charlotte’s death, he was met with “I would never do anything like that, Henry! You know I cared too much for the little bugger to lay a hand on her! I was her Uncle Will!” and other such phrases during Henry’s doubting moments. He found it suspicious that William’s first response was to defend his own innocence, but he decided to look past it. Bill couldn’t murder his own best friend’s child, right? That was where Henry had been wrong.

Earlier that night, as Henry locked the front doors to the diner, his eyes drifted to what had been on his mind all day. The alleyway. Charlotte’s place of death. Her limp body next to piles of garbage bags as if she were trash. The dull, soulless eyes that once brought so much light into Henry’s life. He was reliving the moment all over again.

Everything he’d bottled up inside for months gushed out of him. He was a jar with a never ending spill of emotions. Henry let out all of his unsaid frustrations and violent thoughts he’s held on himself and the wretched thing that dared to lay a hand on his daughter. He went on and on about the things he’d do to the killer. William stood with him, a hand on his shoulder.

The two were there for longer than either of them wanted. When Henry finally cried himself out, he looked up to William to thank him. Through his tears he saw the smile. It was the kind of mischievous smile you’d find on a kid who knew they had done something wrong. A smile of joyous guilt. This told Henry everything. Anger swelled him like a balloon, ready to pop. Pushing William’s hand off of him, he began to accuse and throw insults. The only thing to keep him from wailing was the red hot fury that engulfed him.

And now, he was here. Taking punches from a murderer. Was he to let William kill him, just as he let him kill his daughter? No. He wasn’t.

Henry puts his hands firm on William’s chest, effectively pushing him back enough to pull away. Taken aback from the sudden action, William is too slow to respond, giving Henry a chance to grab him by the neck. His fingers clenched with an unfound strength. Seeing William gasp and cough for air as he clawed at Henry’s hands fueled him to keep going, to keep squeezing harder and harder. The bluish hue in Afton’s face gave Henry the exact satisfaction he was looking for. A deserving death for a wicked man.

That was until Henry felt a harsh aching pain in his lower chest, and he was shoved backwards. The wind was knocked out of him, and as he tried to catch his breath, his blurry vision focused on William. Though he struggled to process what had happened, William’s raised foot and the dirty shoe-shaped print on Henry’s orange flannel told him what he needed to know.

As much as he wanted to charge at the other man, resume his strangling without any interruptions, and watch him fight in the same way he made his daughter, he couldn’t. His body was close to giving out. William seemed to be in the same state. The two men were laid on the asphalt, propping themselves up with shaky arms and staring at each other with nothing but malice for one another. A stalemate—for now. Henry was determined to see the life choked out of Afton.

William was first to move. Henry was satisfied with the red hand marks left on the other’s neck. He had been so close, and it was time to finish the job. As William approached, Henry’s target was the jugular. Unfortunately, William had suspected as such. He grabbed Henry’s wrists in their ascend to his throat and pinned them down.

Henry never intended on letting William get the upper hand so easily. His arm was able to wriggle its way from the other man's grasp and claw at his purple fuzzy vest, ripping a hole in the fabric. It'd be a comforting texture, if not for the situation. William, infuriated at the damage to his clothing, tried to pull Henry's hand away from the vest, letting go of his other wrist in the process. Henry sat up, effectively pushing the irritated Afton off of him, and readied to swing. William showed similar aggravated energy, fighting back almost immediately. Scratches, bruises, scuffs, and blood covered the two men, their bodies open canvases for the other to paint. Both strive for victory, no matter the consequence, or the casualty.

A battle for power commenced, their bodies tangled like the overgrown vines of a long abandoned castle. The two tumbled about on the ground, tugging and pulling and punching and kicking. Somewhere in between the rough beating, a pinky grazed a bulge, a touch was registered by the other as more tender than it actually was, and lips touched. Unceremonious, unexpected, and sweaty.

Henry fell into the kiss easily. It took him a minute to even process the state in which he was in. Wide eyes stare into William’s closed ones an inch away. His mind yelled at him to pull away from this . . . monster, but his body kept him close. As vile as Afton is, this kind of intimacy feeds the previously dwindling part of his brain that longs for him. For Henry, William is like an addiction. He thinks he can go without him until that rough hand gently rubs his thigh when nobody’s looking, or those loafers ride up Henry’s leg under a table. Once he’s given a taste, a burning in his heart craves more.

Right now he’s cursing that scorching desire. His disgust goes from not just William, but to himself. William Afton, responsible for the disappearance and death of his daughter, for his divorce that caused him to lose his other child, Sammy. William has ruined everything in his life, yet Henry still gives in. But who else did he have? Who was there? His work could not replace human connection, no matter how much he tried to distract himself with it, and even if that connection was coming from someone who Henry couldn’t exactly call human. The only person significant in his life left was the man who destroyed it.

Well, was he really sure Will was the one to do it? It was William’s day off, he wasn’t at the diner during Charlotte’s disappearance. He wouldn’t just drive to Fredbear’s to do that, would he? That smile earlier tonight could’ve meant nothing. Bill has always acted a bit strange, and he’s been one for theatrics ever since Henry knew him. That’s what it was. Nothing. Henry jumped to conclusions out of hurt and a need for justice. That’s all. . .

. . .Who was he kidding? His gut never led him astray, and it sure as hell hasn't this time. William had done it, no doubt about it, and Henry was just as repulsive as William for giving into selfish pining over his own daughter. If anything, he might be more sick in the head. I’m sorry Charlotte, I’m sorry Charlotte, I’m sorry Charlotte. I’m so, so sorry sweet cakes. I’m a terrible father. Please forgive me. . .

A tug of his hair brought Henry back to the scene. William’s hand rested on the back of Henry’s head. Henry’s legs were spread slightly, William’s fitting in between them. Please forgive me, he pleaded once more. His hands reached the other’s back, pulling him closer. Fingers gripped the tattered purple vest.

Gave into him so easily. . .I’m pathetic. A pathetic, horrible man. Charlotte would be horrified and- and. . .revolted. She’d hate me if she were to see me like this. I’m a failure of a father. William’s tongue snaked its way through Henry’s lips. Though an awful intrusion, lust overpowered reason. Barbed wire laced with aphrodisiac, Henry thought of it as.

William’s icy, pale hand drifted over the expanse of Henry’s torso to his shirt collar. Reaching the sweaty tanned skin, he caressed it and twirled Henry’s curly chest hair with his index finger. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, rang in Henry’s mind, and he swallowed with a face flushed red. You’re horrible. Sick. Disgusting.

Nausea deep within his stomach accompanied his carnality, the contrasting mix perplexing him beyond belief. He was unable to comprehend his need for William’s hands all over him and his need to see him dead, and how they were both able to co-exist.

A tug at his flannel’s second button told Henry this wasn’t the time for pondering.

Reopening his eyes, Henry sees just how bad of a number William did on him. Holes and scuffs on his attire were plentiful. The first thought that touched him at the sight was of his wife patching up his damaged clothes. Every patch hand-sewn onto his shirts and pants, each with different patterns. She always refused to use the same fabric on one piece of clothing. Her care for relatively trivial things was endearing to Henry. Her dedication to the craft—even for things as small as Henry’s work clothes—never failed to put a smile on his face. It wasn’t like he’d ever see that again, though. It was now just a memory. Another thing taken from him. He’d frown if it weren’t for the tongue down his throat.

William began plucking at the rest of the buttons. Henry’s lips quivered and fought laughter whenever William’s evident eagerness caused him to make a complete mess of his fingers as he attempted to undo the shirt. William had to break away from the kiss to concentrate. “Havin’ some trouble, Bill?” Henry sneered. “Need some help?”

William shot a glare at Henry before returning to the painstaking task at hand. As far as William was concerned, Henry needed another beating for such a sarcastic tone. Whatever. They were far past that now. Henry’s staring at William’s fumbling hands just worsened his horrible mood. With as level of a voice as William could manage, he said, “Must you stare?”

Henry hastily focused on the vast black of night behind William, and exhaled at the poorly hidden aggravation. Around others, William holds a constantly happy-go-lucky attitude. Nothing ever seems to bother him. However, when it’s just him and Henry, his temper is off the walls. Highly prone to anger, almost anything Henry does that doesn’t fit exactly what he wants when he wants it throws him into a rage. Henry recalled a few times where he disconcertingly watched as William lashed out on his children while visiting his house. Hell, William has lashed out on Henry more times than he could even remember.

William wasn’t always this way, at least from what Henry has seen in the years he’s known him. Before, Henry admired William’s ability to keep composure in any given situation. It was like William was born with the charisma of a talk-show host. With their shared love of robotics and long history together, Fredbear’s Family Diner seemed like the perfect business for the two to start. Beyond perfect, even.

However, the closer the two got, and the longer they spent together, William’s odd behavior became increasingly noticeable to Henry. Henry excused it as the stress that came with running a business, as he’d taken on quite a bit of it himself.

Come to think of it, Henry excused a lot of William’s strange behaviors. Well- everyone has flaws, right? Lord knows Henry has them.

Palms run down Henry’s arms. He shudders involuntarily. Cold.

Blinking his way back into the present, Henry eyes his shirt that was now on the ground and William so close his head might as well be resting on his chest. He got it off already? Huh.

Henry often found himself in and out of the depths of his own mind no matter what occupied him. This situation was no different. Others—especially his wife—were frustrated with how oblivious he was with the world around him because of it. It wasn’t as if he could help it, of course. Whenever he was in that state it was like a personal appointment with his brain. Maybe a therapy session? However he wanted to think of it at the time. Right now he was sure it felt like a long, long therapy session with himself.

However it felt like, he was doing it again. Bringing himself out of such a state while actively in it felt like trudging through quicksand.

The first thing that came to mind to retrieve him from sinking was how freezing he was. It was only sixty degrees, but being shirtless in this kind of weather made it feel thirty degrees lower. “I don’t think I wanna be naked in a parking lot, Bill.”

William grunted indignantly, as if what Henry said was an absurd and unheard of request. ”Don’t you just love being difficult?”

“I’m not asking anything insane. It’s cold, and anybody could drive by. I’m sure at least five cars have come through. I don’t want the whole world to know of us.”

“You sure did all those times in the safe room, or in my office, or any of the unconventional public spaces we’ve been in. I’m surprised your wife didn’t divorce you sooner. I’m sure she’s found out by now.”

Henry could feel his skin sizzle. “You’re one to talk about divorcing wives. Your wife left you years ago.”

“I wouldn’t have given her the chance to catch me cheating on her with another man.”

“You got a hundred-and-ten other things that make you a shitty husband, I’m sure.”

William’s lips scrunched together in vexation. Henry was left satisfied by the silence, assuming it to mean he’s won their little “argument.” Henry wished for much more than winning a trivial dispute, but it’d have to wait. Plans for killing this asshole can be put on hold until they’ve finished their current business.

“Since you’re so insistent, fine.” William stood, albeit a bit wobbly. “Your truck has been lacking in action, I’m sure.” He smiled, amused at himself for simply being. “Is that satisfactory enough for you, Your Whininess?”

William was lucky Henry didn’t punch him square in the jaw. “Sure.” Smart-ass.

Henry grabbed his shirt as he got to his feet and brushed his jeans off with his free hand—as if that would do anything about the blood splattered and stained all over the denim. Wiping his forehead with the shirt, he realized just how much he’d been sweating. Henry’s forehead was completely slick, and so was the rest of his upper body. Turns out fighting your child-murdering best friend whom you have a homoerotic relationship with, then making out with said best friend in the middle of fighting, takes a toll on you. Who would’ve thought.

William closed the gap between the two men almost as soon as Henry stood. With his hands rested on Henry’s waist, his mouth intertwined with Henry’s. William began inching toward the truck, pushing Henry with him.

The two stumbled like drunken fools in their venture to the Chevrolet, stepping on each other’s feet and almost tripping over each other more than once. You wouldn’t want these two in a dance competition.

Henry slung his shirt on his shoulder and gripped William’s top vest button. Trying to balance kissing, undressing, and walking backwards might as well have been a circus clown’s juggling act, because it sure as hell felt like it to Henry. He accidentally broke a few buttons in the process. Oh well. If he can kill his best friend’s daughter, he can spare a button here and there.

Henry had just reached the second to last button on that God forsaken vest when he felt himself get slammed against something cold and hard. It felt like his truck. A pained wince escaped him, but it was easily drowned out by the plethora of other noises he and William were making.

With Henry’s sticky back pinned to the driver side door of his rusted 1978 Chevrolet C10, William’s fingers snuck to the carabiner attached to Henry’s belt loop, taking the pickup truck’s key and turning it in the key hole.

“You’re sick.” Henry snarled, though he didn’t fight the invasive hands that pushed him onto the truck’s bench seat.