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William never did want a child. He’d been clear about that from the start. Children were loud and expensive and touched everything with their sticky hands. They got sick constantly, dragged germs home from daycare and demanded never-ending attention. William had seen what happened to his colleagues who had kids, back when he still worked at the firm, long before he’d even considered opening a diner with Henry. He’d watched as they left early for soccer games and came in bleary-eyed from sleepless nights, noticed how their productivity dropped, how their offices filled up with ugly crayon drawings they felt obligated to display. No, he had ambitions, he had plans. Children were anchors who’d only distract him, and William had always meant to sail.
But Clara got pregnant eventually. Some matter of missed pills, she’d said, though her explanation had been characteristically vague. Her carelessness, at any rate, had ruined him. William had been so practical about it when she first told him, had laid it all out so reasonably. There were options, he’d said. They were young. They weren’t ready. But she would hear none of it.
It was funny how things worked out. Years later, with Michael sitting beside him on the same log, close enough that their shoulders would touch if either of them shifted even slightly, he found himself so infatuated with him. Clara had been right about one thing. The boy was his to keep.
Michael kept his elbows on his knees, slouching and hunched forward, worrying at a stick he'd found somewhere. His thumb moved over the bark in slow strokes, peeling it away in thin curls that fell between his boots.
William could see him without so much as turning his head. The slope of his shoulders, the locks of his hair falling past his ears. It needed cutting. He’d mentioned this to Clara twice now, but she kept hammering on about letting him “express himself.” As if the boy had any idea what he wanted. Michael looked like a vagrant with that hair hanging in his face, and he couldn’t stand seeing him look like something nobody cared for when he cared more than anyone. He'd take him to the barber himself next weekend. His mother didn't need to know.
And then there was his fidgeting. Michael’s hands never stopped moving, even now. This, too, was supposedly acceptable. It was only anxiety, Clara had reassured him, all teenagers fidgeted like this. But William had been fifteen once and he’d known how to sit properly.
“Elizabeth mentioned you’ve been having nightmares. She can hear you scream at night.” William’s voice cut through the quiet forest. The fire had finally caught properly. He’d built it the way his own father taught him (pyramid structure, dry kindling at the base) and now it burned steadily without much smoke. He could feel the heat on his face, see maybe fifteen feet into the clearing they were camped in before the darkness took over. Three hours from home. Three hours from all the noise, all the irritating questions and remarks of advice he’d never solicited.
He'd told Clara the trip would be good for Michael. Get him out of the house, give them some time together. She'd been so relieved someone had a plan that she'd practically packed Michael's bag herself.
Michael dragged the stick through the mud. “Yeah, well, maybe she should mind her own business.”
“Don’t mumble.”
His jaw tightened. There, that flash of anger. Good. William, however much irritated by it, still preferred honest rebellion to the pathetic crying that had dominated those first weeks after David. At least anger was something he could work with, shape, use.
“I said It’s really none of her business.”
A log shifted in the fire. Sparks went up and winked out in the dark. The heat felt good on William's face. Less so where Michael sat; the boy was blocking some of it. “Are they about your brother?”
The stick stopped moving. “Mostly.”
“What are they about the rest of the time?”
He shrugged limply. “I don’t know. Nothing. I don’t remember.”
Michael didn’t elaborate further and had instead gone back to working his thumb against the stick, stripping away another curl of bark. It fell to the ground, pale against the dark earth. Turn, peel, turn.
They were his hands. The same slender fingers, the same broad palms. In a few years Michael would have the same calluses William had developed from years of work, the same strength. Or he should, if only he’d stop being so lazy about everything. If he’d stop lying in bed for days on end, getting up only to take a piss or get yet another glass of water from the kitchen. Half the cabinet would be empty before William finally dragged the boy from under his sheets to clean the stacks of glasses that had built up on his nightstand and desk. Every time it was the same damn thing. William had to tell him, had to make him do even the most basic of tasks.
“Your mother wants to increase your therapy sessions. Three times a week instead of two.”
His head came up slightly. “Okay.”
“I told her no.”
He looked at William for a moment before his eyes skittered away. There was confusion there, and something that might have been hope. But three sessions a week was excessive. Michael was already gone from home Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, and it wasn't as if the therapy was producing any visible results. The woman kept claiming they were making progress, but, if anything, he'd gotten worse since they started. More withdrawn, more time spent in his room or out on the streets at night. All that sitting around talking about his feelings, dissecting every little thing, it just made him soft. And three sessions meant more time in that office, more conversations William wasn't part of, more opportunities for Michael to get ideas about certain things.
“You don't need it,” William continued. “What you need to do is stop dwelling on what happened and move forward. You need discipline and structure, not some lady asking you how things make you feel.”
“Yes, sir.”
The response was automatic, the words Michael had been trained to give. But there was something underneath them. Dismay, maybe, or a little anger. It was hard to tell in the uncertain light, but William thought he caught a flicker of it in the set of Michael's mouth.
“Your mother is so worried about you, you know. Though I wonder if you deserve all that concern.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, she coddles you. Makes excuse after excuse.” He paused for a moment. “But we both know whose fault it is.”
Michael stood abruptly, the stick falling from his hand. “I'm going to bed.”
“Sit down.”
“No, I’m tired.”
“Look at me when I'm speaking to you. I brought you out here to talk. We’re going to talk.”
Michael's eyes came up slowly. They caught the firelight, wet and red-rimmed, the whites visible all around the iris. He did look exhausted. After all, if the nightmares were as frequent as Elizabeth claimed, he wasn’t getting much rest.
The wind picked up. It carried smoke and the smell of pine sap, making the flames lean to one side. The shadows stretched longer across the clearing, then contracted when the wind died down again.
“Sit down.”
Michael stood there for a moment, his jaw working like he wanted to say something. Then his shoulders dropped and he sank back down onto the log, slowly, like his legs didn't want to bend.
“I’ve been so patient with you, Mike. God knows I’ve been. But my patience has its limits, do you understand?”
He nodded once.
“I've given you everything,” William continued. “The roof above your head. The food you eat. The school you go to. Every opportunity you could hope for.” He paused. “And you repay me by being such a burden? By rebelling and sneaking out?”
Michael’s face went pale. “I— no, I haven't—”
“Don't lie to me.” William's voice stayed level. “I can smell the cigarettes on your clothes. Your mother might be oblivious but don’t expect the same from me.”
“I— it was only a few times, I didn't—”
“How many times?”
“Four, maybe five. I'm sorry, I just needed to clear my head. To not feel so— so trapped all the time.”
“Trapped.” William let the word hang between them. “You feel trapped in the house I worked so hard to provide for you.”
“No, that's not— I didn't mean it like that.” Michael was leaning forward now, desperate to explain. “I meant in my own head. I just needed to get out, to feel like I could breathe, I wasn't trying to be ungrateful or—”
“And that girl,” William cut him off. A moth spiraled too close to the flames and vanished in a brief flare of light. “The one who keeps calling the house. Taking up the landline for hours at a time." He watched Michael's expression shift. Fear giving way to something more protective. "What's her name again?”
“Amy.” Michael muttered.
“Mm. Tell me about Amy.”
“She's just— we're just friends.”
“Yeah? Do your friends always make you rush to answer the phone before anyone else can pick up? Make you save movie ticket stubs in your desk drawer?” William had seen them when he was looking for a stapler; two tickets from three weeks ago tucked under Michael's notebooks. “You’re in love with her.”
“No, I'm not. I told you we're just—”
“I said don’t lie to me.”
Michael's mouth snapped shut. His hands had curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension. The firelight played across his face, catching the sharp line of his cheekbone and the slope of his nose.
No. William’s nose. William’s cheekbones.
He’d grown so fast, that boy. One morning, when he was about twelve, he’d stumbled down the stairs into the kitchen where William was drinking his cup of coffee, nearly an inch taller. After that he just continued growing and growing (Clara kept marking his height on the kitchen doorframe and shaking her head in disbelief). His frame changed, reshaped itself, becoming something closer to what William saw in his own mirror every morning. The same broad (though still skinny in his case) shoulders started to form. The same long line of the neck. His baby face thinned out, bone structure underneath beginning to show. His voice got lower, his skin turned unpredictable, some muscle began appearing where he’d been slim and delicate before.
He looked so very much like his father, but so very much more faultless in every way. Plump calves and full lips. Those eyes the color of the midwinter sky, lashes so long they nearly grazed his cheeks with each blink.
But he’d become so withdrawn, too. Now he flinched when William touched his shoulder or arm, answered questions in shorter sentences, closed the bedroom door at night even though he wasn’t allowed to. It was all so maddening. Michael had been so easy before. As a toddler he'd been almost unbearably clingy. He would follow William around the house on weekends, hovering at his elbow, tugging at the hem of his shirt and sleeves when William sat down to read or tinker in the garage. Had wanted to be held constantly, had cried when William left the room and insisted Daddy be the one to put him to bed every night, much to Clara’s dismay.
William had found it gratifying in ways he never told her. The boy wanted him. Needed him. Reached for him instinctively, without hesitation, the way a compass needle swung toward north. It never mattered how William spoke to him or whether he returned the affection or spent days hardly acknowledging the boy's existence. Michael came back every time. Climbed into his lap uninvited. Pressed his face against William's neck and stayed there, content to simply be close.
He tested it, sometimes. Would say something dismissive when Michael came bounding in with a drawing from school. A shrug. A glance that made it clear William had more important things to attend to. And Michael's face would fall, visibly crumple. He’d stand there for a moment, drawing hanging limp at his side, lower lip trembling. And then (and this was the part that fascinated William so) Michael would try again. Would hold the drawing up a little higher than before and say: “but look, Daddy, I drew this for you,” in that small hopeful voice.
William would take the drawing then. Sometimes say something neutral (“mm, it’s okay”) and sometimes say nothing at all, set it face-down on the table and go back to whatever he was working on. Michael would always hover for another minute or two before climbing into the chair beside him anyway.
Nothing, it seemed, could change the fundamental fact of Michael's devotion.
There was a time when he was seven, maybe eight, when William backhanded him across the kitchen. Clara was out shopping. Elizabeth sleeping in her cradle upstairs. Michael had knocked a glass off the counter and it shattered on the floor and William had been in one of his moods, one of those days where everything felt too loud and too close and the boy's constant presence was grating on him like sandpaper. He didn’t really think about it, and suddenly the back of his hand had connected with Michael's cheek with so sharp a crack it echoed off the kitchen tiles.
His head snapped sideways. He stumbled, caught himself on the edge of the counter, and stood there for a moment with his hand pressed to his face, eyes huge and wet, staring at William, trying to understand what had just happened.
William had watched it and felt a brief flash of regret, though only for the mess it might create. For the way Clara would react if she found out. It was years later that he realized she would only protect the children up to a point. The moment his attention shifted to her instead, she’d go quiet, and suddenly have somewhere else to be.
“Clean this up.” William had told him.
And Michael had carefully dropped to his hands and knees and begun picking up each shard of glass one by one. When he was finished he stood up and looked at William again. Still with that same expression, that bewildered hurt. Then, without being asked, he walked over and pressed himself against William's side. Wrapped his arms around his waist. Stood there with his face buried in William's shirt, shaking slightly.
He’d put his hand on Michael's head. Left it there for a minute. Then went back to reading the daily paper.
These kinds of altercations started coming in shorter and shorter intervals after that.
Michael looked so angry now, the flames throwing warm gold across one side of his cheek, the hollows under his eyes lit orange then dark then orange again as the fire shifted. This constant fury he seemed to radiate, had he inherited that from William, too? He liked to think he didn’t let his emotions dictate his actions the way Michael would. No, whatever this anger was, it wasn’t something he’d learned from his father.
Was it the girl, then? Was she the cause?
She’d gotten something from Michael that William had spent fifteen years of his life trying to get. Easy access to his interior life. Michael gave it to her freely, without being asked, without needing to be coaxed or cornered into it. He told her things. William was sure of it. Things he didn't tell William, things he kept locked away behind that careful blank expression. He shared with her everything William had spent years building.
But it was also the other direction. The fact that this girl, this Amy, was giving Michael something too. Attention. Warmth. Someone else was making Michael feel things. Someone else was the reason his face softened, the reason he smiled when he thought no one was watching, the reason he seemed to mope less about having to go to school. William had spent fifteen years as the center of Michael's world, the axis around which the boy's entire existence rotated. Who was she to now pull his attention away piece by piece?
William didn't know how long he'd been quiet for. Long enough that Michael had started shifting on the log beside him, weight moving from one side to the other, hands fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. “It's, uh—” He stopped and cleared his throat. Glanced sideways at William, back at the fire, then up to the sky. “It's pretty out here. The stars and stuff.”
William ignored him. “What does she look like?”
Michael's gaze dropped down. He blinked once. “What?”
“Amy. What does she look like?”
“Oh, she's—” Michael shifted. “I don't know. She's just. Normal looking. Brown hair. She's not that tall.”
“Is she pretty?”
Michael's fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket. “I guess. Yeah.” He said quietly. “She's pretty.”
“Has she kissed you?”
“What— no.” Michael blurted out in an instant. His face went red, the flush spreading quickly up from his neck and across his cheeks, visible even in the unsteady firelight. “No, we're just— we just talk. That's it.”
A moment passed, and he drew his knees up slightly, pulling his jacket tighter around himself like he was trying to disappear into it. “Can we just—” He bit on his thumbnail. “Can we not talk about this right now? It's just— it's weird. Talking about it with you.”
William turned to look at him. “Are you a virgin?”
“Dad— What?”
“It’s a natural part of growing up.”
A shaky laugh escapes Michael’s lips. “Yeah, but isn’t it, like— like, weird to ask your own son that?”
William hummed and placed his hand on Michael’s thigh, watching as his eyes darted to where his fingers rested, then up to meet his, then back down again. “I’m just curious.”
“Uh, why does it even matter? I—”
“Answer me, Michael.”
Michael shifted uncomfortably beneath William’s touch, his jaw tight. He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to his lap. His hands fidgeted restlessly at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he was fighting the urge to reach out and move William’s hand away.
“Well, I— I’ve never, um, done that with a girl. If that’s what you wanted to hear. I just— I thought maybe I’d find someone in college. But I dunno.” He produced another nervous laugh, barely more than a breath. “This is so embarrassing.”
William raised an eyebrow, heat pooling in his stomach. “Never? What, are you gay?”
“No, It’s just— Can we just talk about something else? Please.”
William leaned in close enough for his breath to drift warm against Michael’s cheek. He let his fingers drift higher, tracing slowly along the inside of his thigh. He could feel Michael’s leg bounce and twitch no matter how hard the boy seemed to press his foot into the ground. “Have you ever seen another man’s dick before?”
Michael finally turned to look at him, and for a moment they were close enough that their noses almost brushed. His eyes widened as a split second of panic flickered across his face. He inched back, just slightly, clearly trying not to make it too obvious. “Dad. I— no. I to-told you I’m not a fag.”
“Could you…” He continued, his voice coming out quieter than he probably intended. He shifted, swallowed, and gestured vaguely toward where William had gripped his thigh. “Could you move your hand?”
William noticed his chest was rising and falling a little faster now, breath coming in short, unsteady pulls. Each exhale seemed to tremble on the way out. The boy was enjoying this. He let his eyes linger on his heart-shaped lips for a moment, relishing in the way they trembled just for him.
“Don’t you love me?” He murmured.
Michael’s eyes went wide. “What–no, I—” His voice cracked, words tumbling out fast. “No, no, of course I do. I’m sorry,” he swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” His gaze dropped and he went silent, lips parting.
William followed his eyes down, and realized with a slight start that he was hard. His cock pressing obviously against the front of his jeans, straining against the denim. How long had it been like that? It’d been building for a while now, Michael had that effect on him. His flush had crept all the way to his ears and down his swan-like neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. William could tell his chest was heaving even beneath all the layers. He looked pretty like this.
“...Dad?” The kid’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Michael’s thighs were so soft. William squeezed his hand, just flighty, felt the give of supple flesh beneath his palm, the warmth of it even through the fabric. He let his fingers knead into it idly, thumb pressing in slow circles.
“Can you stop? You’re my— can you stop? Please.” Michael sounded like he was on the verge of tears, eyes darting everywhere but at his father, but William knew how good an actor he could be. He’d always play so coy. Always tempt him, then feign such ignorance. Oh, the way he’d run his hand through his hair or stretch in his chair when he knew William could see him, arms above his head, shirt riding up just slightly. How he’d sometimes bump into William in the hallway and then stumble, catching himself on the wall as if it was an accident. So naughty, that one. William had long grown sick of it.
And Michael was getting hard, too. William could tell. He kept shifting, pressing his thighs together, angling his hips away like he was trying to hide it, though he really only brought more attention to it. William inched closer, their legs now pressing against each other, his fingers lightly trailing over Michael’s crotch.
Michael stiffened in an instant, a high-pitched sound escaped him, unable as he was to contain his excitement. “W–What are you doing?”
William’s fingers found the button of his jeans and slid it open with one hand. “Just sit back, love.” He tugged the zipper down slowly, just enough, and let his knuckles graze against the skin just below his hip bone.
“Nononono, wait—” Michael’s hand suddenly shot out, as if he’d only now processed what was happening, grabbing a hold of William’s wrist. His grip was trembling, fingers white-knuckled but weak. William nearly laughed. There it was. Michael pushed at his hand, yanking it away as he tried to stand, stumbled, then sat back down hard. “Please—”
William exhaled faintly through his nose, raising his free hand to caress his cheek. “Come on, Mikey. Don’t be like this.”
Michael flinched under his touch, and when he spoke, William could hardly make out the meek words under Michael’s labored breathing. “You’re scaring me.”
William’s pants tightened further at this. “But look at how hard you are. Calm down, let me help you feel good, yeah?”
“Y-Yeah I know. But–but It’s not because of you—” Tears were forming in his waterline now. The fire reflected so prettily in his glassy eyes, turned the stray strands of his hair into glowing tinsel like a halo. “I’m sorry I’m hard I— sorry, please, please don’t.”
Clara had always been like this. This never saying what one actually meant. How she’d decline going out with William because she had something planned with her girlfriends, then get upset when he didn’t ask again. Everybody he knew was like this. He’d seen it play out often enough for him to recognize when a ‘no’ really just meant ‘convince me.’ When people were just too nervous to ask for something outright or would put up resistance just to see if you’d fight through it. It was a test, and if you took them for their word, you’d failed. But all they needed was someone else to take control, to make the decision for them so they didn’t feel responsible.
He moved the hand still held at the wrist by Michael back towards his erection, but Michael leaned forward at this and began shoving William against his chest with all his might, head shaking continuously, hissing a string of no’s and stop’s. It didn’t have much of an effect on William, scrawny as the boy was, but in an instant he felt his muscles tense up. Disrespectful. That's what this was. So goddamn disrespectful. When had things shifted so far that Michael thought he could put his hands on him like that? He'd never raised him to act this way, never given him reason to think that was acceptable.
He grabbed ahold of Michael’s hands, pulling them off and moving to push him onto the ground with a grunt, drawing a panicked yelp out of the boy. Now straddling his legs, the wet grass soaked through the fabric at William's knees before he'd even fully settled.
Michael trashed around so wildly, bucking his hips and twisting away under William’s hold, crying properly now. “Get off! Get off!”
William ignored this. It occurred to him, distantly, that he should clamp a hand over Michael’s mouth and silence him before anyone overheard and came to investigate, but in a place so far off the beaten track, his screams did nothing more than rouse the rabbits sleeping in their warrens. He wrenched Michael’s wrists into one hand and moved the other back between his legs, pulling the zipper down fully before sliding it past his boxers, fingers teasing and stroking.
He was so small in William’s hand, so still very much a kid. In a way, this thought made him feel a little fuzzy in the head, made heat flush through him. He eased some weight off of him to begin pulling at his waistband, wriggling it down bit by bit to his calves despite Michael’s panicked kicks and jerks of the knees presumably aimed at William’s groin.
Initially, he’d only planned to get Michael off a little. To wrap his hand around the boy’s cock and take his time with him, maybe even draw it out until Michael would be half-desperate with it. To help him feel nice, to make him see how good he could have it. But Michael was being such a brat now. That’s what he'd raised, apparently. All he’d given him, all the patience he’d had, and this was all his generosity bought him.
Clenching his jaw, he grabbed ahold of the fabric of Michael’s jacket and flipped him over onto his belly. The boy tried to get up in an instant, hands clawing at the dirt below as another string of desperate pleas spilled from his mouth. Cursing, William had to ball his fist in Michael's hair and force his face back down into the grass to keep him down.
“Stop, stop— I won't tell Mum if you just stop I-I swear I won't I'll never say anything please just let me go—” Michael's hands shot up, scrabbling at William's wrist at an awkward angle, raking angry red lines across his knuckles and wrist that welled up with blood. Pain flared where nails gouged into skin, but William only tightened his grip
“I could’ve made this so good for you, love. Shame you don’t know how to behave.” He remarked, swift to undo his belt and free his aching erection. He gathered some saliva in his mouth and released a strand of it above Michael’s hole. The boy gagged into the grass as the spit made contact with his skin.
With one hand placed on Michael’s hip, William began sliding his cock against him, slicking it up and just barely missing his hole every time.
“Nononono God what the fuck no—”
William pushed in.
Whatever else Michael might’ve screamed dissolved into a wheezing, reedy keening sound. He pressed his belly as close to the ground as he could, as if to escape William’s intrusion. The nails clawing at his wrist dropped back down to rake across the ground instead, pulling up fistfulls of the wet grass and thrashing his head about so wildly William was sure his iron hold must be ripping out strands of his silky hair.
He began thrusting with abandon, his panting growing louder, each movement sending out ripples of pleasure he could feel all the way in his spine. With the silence only interrupted by the crackling of the fire and Michael’s howls, every vulgar, wet sound of skin upon skin seemed amplified.
“Please, please.” Michael’s cries were muffled and so high-pitched now, full of hiccups like he was little again. He was hyperventilating, his shoulders hitching far too quick to actually be pulling in air, each breath barely filling his lungs before the next gasp forced it out. “I cant— I can’t breathe, please, I can’t breathe.”
William’s brows furrowed, and he yanked the hand in Michael’s hair back a little, lifting his face forward and off of the ground. “Come, come, you’re breathing right now, aren’t you? So—” He groaned. “So slow it down. In, hold it, out.”
His breaths only sped up, delicate fingers rigid and shaking, gasping the same thing over and over again. “It hurts.”
More heat pooled in William’s groin at this. He was getting close. With a grunt, he leaned forward, burrowing his face in the crook of Michael’s neck, dragging his tongue upward to his jaw. He could feel Michael shudder and flinch instinctively, hunching his shoulder up toward his ear with a wail in an attempt to push William away, though to little avail.
William paid it no mind. His thoughts were growing fuzzy at the edges, his gut began throbbing as he chased his climax. His free hand shot up to find the back of Michael’s, trembling and curled up and covered in damp earth, forcing their fingers to interlace. With a final few thrusts of his hips, his vision went white and his head felt like it was spinning on its axis. His muscles went rigid, and he bit down on Michael’s shoulder to stifle the moan it drew out of him.
He laid there for a moment, inhaling the scent of it all. The earthy smell mixed with sweat and Michael, Michael, Michael. William shuddered. This was his design. His creation. William had gotten distracted over the years, had let Clara interfere too much and allowed Michael too much freedom to develop in directions that didn't serve the larger purpose. But that could be fixed. Michael was only a child, malleable and young enough still to be redirected.
This was his legacy. That which would remain even when William himself was gone. And perhaps this was as close to immortality as William was ever going to get; a way of cheating the fundamental limitation of human existence through continuation. Through a successor.
He pushed himself up and pulled out gently, finally releasing his hold on the boy’s hair. Michael was still crying, William could tell by the way his shoulders moved, but almost imperceptibly so now. At home, he hardly ever made a sound when he cried, always swallowing his sobs in case anyone was listening. Show weakness but don’t admit to it. Never, ever, admit to it.
“Why did you do that? Why did— why did you do that?” He hiccuped into the grass, voice shaking.
William hummed, softly rubbing his thumb over Michael’s gaping hole. It returned red. “Get up, go to bed. We’re going fishing at dawn.”
Michael shook his head once or twice. “I wanna go home.”
“You’re acting like a child. Go to bed.”
The boy must hate him right now, but William knew it wouldn’t last. Probably Michael would go to bed tonight thinking William was a monster. He’d lie awake crying, spend the whole night wishing William was different or dead or fantasize about sneaking into his tent with his pillow and pressing it down very hard and very long over William’s face. But he’d come crawling back eventually. Michael would be hovering in doorways again, looking for ways to earn his spot back into William's good graces, convincing himself it hadn't been that bad, that he'd been overreacting, that maybe things could be different this time.
William was still trying to understand what made this happen. For what gears must turn, what wires must cross, what chemicals must misfire for one to prioritize someone’s affection over one’s own self-preservation like this? Was it the same thing that made abused dogs fawn before their owners? Michael was so naive. So seemingly incapable of learning.
Let him hate tonight. He’d return in the end, tugging at William’s sleeve again.