Chapter Text
Michael has always been what one might call a "bad apple", but he doesn't agree.
After everything that's happened to him, to his family, everything his father does in the dead of night, he figures it's genetic predisposition for him to be fucked up.
Elizabeth wasn't, and Evan isn't, but someone had to take after their father. Might as well be him.
Their mom isn't around- Michael doesn't know if she's dead, too, or if she saw the way her husband looked at their daughter and jumped ship. Not that it matters now, Lizzie isn't here anymore for that problem to affect her.
No, instead it's Michael's problem, isn't it? He's the oldest, just turned 18, doesn't have the cash to move out yet, but at this point he doesn't know if he even could. His father is insinuating himself into every part of his life, pushing him to get a job at Fredbear's, and Mike can only resist for so much longer before the next beating is bound to put him out of commission. Maybe permanently.
He goes to school, dicks around all day, gets shit grades while his teachers insist he's, "not applying himself," and, "we know grief is difficult, but you have so much potential," and once, infuriatingly, even, "can't you be more like Elizabeth?"
He nearly decked his chem teacher right there. The only thing stopping him, really, was the knowledge that his father would find out and punish him severely for it.
He already gets enough shit from their dad. He hasn't been allowed to cut his hair short since Lizzie died went missing, something about how he looks like her (he doesn't. he looks like their father.), and why would he want to chop such pretty hair off? His dad buys him fucking dresses, for christ's sake, and the way he looks at him when he wears them is enough to make anyone sick. The way he touches him is worse.
The only good thing, he guesses, is that when Evan came out, William didn't even care. He's deluded himself so much into believing his oldest son is a pretty young woman that it was easy to accept his youngest as he is, and Michael was allowed to hand down most of his clothes to the kid. They don't fit just yet, but it's not like Mike is getting much use out of them.
It's a miracle Evan's turning out somewhat okay. The kid is sensitive, sure, but that's bound to come with the crap he gets at school. First his mom leaves, then his sister dies, now he's a boy, and children can be shockingly cruel. He comes home crying most evenings.
Michael isn't much better to him.
He's not going to make fun of him for the same things, he has no right. He's somehow standing in for their father's wife and daughter, and being forced into the position of housewife has made him more than understand how Evan might feel wrong in his body. But he can't help it. For as much as he tries to convince himself that he would never, never, ever put anyone else through what his father's put him through, every time he sees Evan crying he can't help but to enjoy it, just a little bit.
(More than that. More than he'd like to admit.)
So he teases him. He hurts him, a little bit. He goes out of his way to scare him, lock him in his room, and in the end it's for the best. It keeps Mike from getting in to hurt him worse, and it keeps Evan from coming out to see the extent of their father's abuse. Evan's own crying drowns out the sound of Michael getting beat and fucked just downstairs, though not always in that order. Drowns out the humiliating sounds of his moans, his father making him beg for it like a good girl.
But he can't avoid the kid forever, especially not when they live in the same house.
It's a few hours after school on a Friday afternoon, and William is blessedly away working. He told Michael he'd be out with "Uncle Henry", left some cash to order pizza, and told him to keep the house clean over the weekend.
As much as Mike wishes that would mean he can dress normally, stop wearing this frilly shit his dad likes so much, he knows there's cameras around the house. He actually thinks the only rooms without them are his own and Evan's, shockingly, but that awful Fredbear plush might as well count. Surveillance is surveillance.
He might as well make himself somewhat comfortable, opting for a soft blouse and a long skirt, tying his hair up into a loose ponytail. For a while all he does is wash dishes, sweep, set his father's clothes to wash, all the little things that need doing around the house. But Evan is just a kid, and a lonely one at that, so of course his fear of his brother eventually gets overridden by his boredom and desire to play.
Michael's not surprised when Evan creeps into his doorway, clearly trying- and failing- not to interrupt his game, but whatever. He wasn't making any progress, anyway. He tosses the controller to the side and levels the kid with a look and a heavy sigh. "What do you want, Evan?"
Even after everything, Evan is still clearly pleased at being called the name he chose. His little face lights up in a grin, and just as he opens his mouth to speak, Michael notices he's practically drowning in his shirt- and nothing else. It's Mike's. Fuck. "Um! I didn't- you don't have to stop playing!!" He stammers out, small hands clutching at the doorknob, making the hinges creak as he uses it to swing back and forth on his heels. "I just. I was kinda bored, and I don't have any games in my room like you do, and I thought maaaybe we should order pizza? Before it gets too late?" God, he's adorable.
Mike looks down at his hands, shrugs. If he keeps watching his little brother, innocent little Evan showing off just how childish he is, the skirt's gonna give him hell for it. "Yeah, whatever. You can hang out if you want, but I already ordered. Just sausage and onion, should be here in 30-ish minutes." He shouldn't be inviting him to stay, hopes his dismissive tone will scare him off, but Evan walks into the room and scoots up onto the mattress behind him without much hesitation.
"That's good! Um..." He trails off, fiddling with his too-long sleeves. "Can I ask you a question?"
The way he says it, it seems like something he's been thinking about for a while. Sitting on it, waiting for a good opportunity. Mike hopes it's not anything about his classmates, or else he'll have some tiny asses to kick. "Shoot."
"How come you wear dresses?"
Well. Definitely not what he was expecting, and not a question he's prepared to answer either, but he's saved a couple moments to think by Evan's nervous rambling.
"'Cause, I know I used to wear skirts and stuff, and I'm a boy," he says, as if he needs to defend the point, "but you don't- um. I mean, dad and I still call you Mikey. And- boys aren't supposed to like dresses. Right?"
Michael sighs, leans his back against the wall. "I mean, it's not like I'm really a huge fan of 'em. They're comfortable enough, I guess, but you're right. I am a boy." Evan squints at him, criss-crossing his legs and moving further onto the bed, making the mattress bounce under them. "Listen, kid, it's not important. You'll get it when you're older."
It's more of a cop-out than anything. God, he hopes Evan doesn't find out why he's always dressed this way, even when he gets older, he hopes he never has to know.
"Is it... Like dress-up?"
Immediately, a cold electricity runs down Michael's spine. It's been years since they played dress-up, not since Lizzie was alive, and the last time... Evan doesn't remember. Right? He can't remember, he'd been so young, then.
He scrambles to answer nonchalantly, and fails miserably. "Uh, yeah, I guess. I guess it's sort of like dress-up." More like fucking crossdressing, he thinks to himself bitterly, but whatever. "Do you want to play?"
Evan scrunches up his nose. "I don't wanna wear any dresses." And then, like it's the most normal thing in the world, "Why can't we play like we used to?"
Jesus fucking christ. This kid is going to be the death of him.
Mike tries to play dumb. "What do you mean, like we used to? I still don't fit in your playclothes, kiddo."
Evan is fiddling with the hem of his shirt, now, rolling it over his arms like he's thinking about taking it off. "No, I mean.. Like. Last time. You told me to- totakemyclothesoff." He says the words in a rush, clearly embarrassed by the request. "Can we play that game?"
Okay. Alright. So he clearly remembers.
There's a pit opening up in Michael's stomach that he wishes he could climb into and disappear, but at the same time he feels the all-too-familiar swirling of hot arousal. He should say no, he should yell at Evan, hit him, do whatever it takes to get him out of his room so he can take care of the growing issue in his boxers on his own. So he won't hurt his brother again.
"Yeah," he says instead, and his mind is half-screaming at him, half-singing in joy. "Sure. We can play."