Chapter Text
“Smile, Michael. The newspaper is coming to write an article about us, and they'll be taking pictures.” His father ordered, combing back his graying mahogany hair using the backroom mirror, the strands tugging against his receding hairline.
Michael felt the urge to grumble bubble up his throat, but shoved it back down, not wanting to catch an earful from his father. Instead, he crossed his arms and rolled his eyes away from view. He hated the pizzeria, family gatherings, and being in the center of attention; now he was forced to do all three at once.
"I'll smile, Daddy." Elizabeth assured while boasting her chest, rocking the chair she sat in from her uncontrollable enthusiasm, strawberry blonde hair tied pristinely back with a red bow. Though his mother placed her hands on Elizabeth's shoulders to settle her, it was no use; it was impossible to tell his sister what to do once she had made up her mind.
Withdrawing from the mirror, his father set the comb on the table, assessing the family before him with a hint of sourness twisting his face. Despite having coordinated the entire family's outfits and hairstyles, he remained dissatisfied, as usual; folds bunching above his jutting brow bone; Michael was itching to get his hands on a DNA testing kit one day, his father bore such a striking resemblance to Anthony Hopkins it was almost unnerving, they had to be related.
“Are they gonna play the games?” Cassidy asked, swaying his dangling feet, sitting across from Elizabeth. Sighing, Michael smacked his gum more viciously, resisting the herculean urge to roll his eyes again—he could only do it so many times before his father got in a mood.
“No, they are not here to play games. They're here to make us the next best family-friendly restaurant in town.” His father corrected, straightening his back as he cleared his throat, adjusting the collar of his yellow button up. Cassidy’s head drooped while he traced his hands along the golden Fredbear plush in his lap. “A lot is riding on this. Do not disappoint me. Smile, do not speak unless prompted, and Michael—stop slouching.”
Lifting his shoulders, Michael blew a pink bubble from his lips. His father's eyes flared and he pointed his finger to the nearest trash can. “Gum out, now.” His father demanded. The teen did what was asked, taking a deep breath to withhold his tongue.
“Now then, shall we?” His father announced with the prior harshness in his voice dissolved, his hands clasped neatly together. Elizabeth giggles as she hurries out of her seat, his mother swiftly seizing her hand to prevent her from bolting. Cassidy slides down, eyes glued to the floor as he drags his way over to Michael. They exit the break room—which the teen is ecstatic about getting away from the searing stench of soggy garbage that desperately needed to be taken out—but Cassidy lingers in Michael's shadow, much to his irritation as his heels are repeatedly trampled on.
As they hurried down the hall, the customary ensemble of video game blasters, children screeching, and cheesy pop music grew louder, as did the foul odor of pizza, rubber and throw up—a kid must've vomited again today. Michael cursed internally knowing he would be the one forced to inevitably clean it up at his father's command.
They entered the showroom, where the rapidly strobing stage lights and vividly clothed children scurrying about like a mischief of rats distorted Michael's vision. With how obnoxiously blared the music was, he barely heard his own thoughts; he could only stand to hear Styx’s “Mr. Roboto” so many times in the restaurant before he started to go mad. Elizabeth squirmed out of their mother's hands and dashed towards the similarly-aged brunette approaching them.
“You're late, Henry.” His father criticized, his arms crossed, sizing the man's muddied overalls up and down with a scowl. It was a stark contrast from the nearly ironed and coordinated clothes his father always wore.
“I believe I'm right on time. Not everyone is as obsessive as you, Will.” Uncle Henry laughed, scratching his dirty blonde mullet as he let go of his daughter, Charlie's, hand to pull him into a reluctant side hug. The two girls forcefully embraced and filled the air with their laughter. His father's eyebrow twitched at the insult, lips pursing bitterly, like he's preparing to comment on every feature of Uncle Henry's disheveled ensemble.
“Settle down, Will. The cameras will catch your frown if you're not careful,” His mother cooed with a smile, her voice soothing even Michael's own nerves, “Is that them now?”
Several persons dressed in business attire gathered at the front doors wielding cameras and notepads. His father tensed, donning a charming grin as he marched towards the entrance. The family followed suit.
Michael felt a tug on his sleeve, and he peered down at his brother. Their gazes locked, Cassidy squeezing his plush while his feet shuffled. Sighing, Michael playfully ruffled his brother's perfectly groomed curls. Cassidy giggled and pushed against his brother's legs, trying to move an unmovable force.
“Quiet, do not forget what I told you. And again, as always, remember to smile. You are the face of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza.” His father snapped, his perfected mask slipping momentarily before he picked it back up, smile lines stretching across his face with his vast, pearly smile. He opened the doors and pleasantly addressed the crew, “Welcome to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza!”
Michael thankfully blocked out most of the interview for his own self preservation. He was following his father's instructions, after all, and his father certainly had no gripes praising himself and the business he and his uncle had created to no end.
They moved from Britain to Hurricane, Utah, the middle of nowhere, in 1975, just a year before Cassidy was born. Though he barely recalls his time before Utah, himself only being five when they moved, he's at least certain it was better than here. But, he did remember his father was much more pleasant to be around—he was almost one of those stereotypical dads you would see on the television. Shoulder rides, sneaking out to get ice cream without his health nut of a mother finding out, he would even cut Michael's hair regularly and they would have "man to man" talks during them.
It wasn't unbearable at first, having been yearly fall festivals continuing the business that his father and uncle had started in Britain, having found subpar success in a war-ravaged country, thus decided to move to the States; which Fall Fest finally bloomed from. Sure, he didn't love it, but could tolerate it in small doses. When he was a kid, it seemed the only way he could actually bond with his father was if he pretended to be interested in the business, and the two would often spend hours together in the workshop where Michael exhausted himself trying to stay engaged while resisting the agonizing amounts of boredom he endured. After so many years though, especially once their debut diner opened, his father's attitude became far too volatile to willingly be around him while he worked.
Everything changed once Fazbear was born, though. Michael despised this town and his father's business. His entire life had been consumed by it, anything else deemed irrelevant to his father. All he'd ever known was ridiculous carnivals, half-cooked pizza, and forever being dubbed at school as the son of the man who runs the pizza joint. No matter how hard he fought, he never seemed to be able to form an identity that wasn't attached to his father, and it didn't help that anyone who saw them couldn't help but remark how similar their features were.
Since the opening of Fredbear’s Family Diner in 1977, Michael's life was swept away by animatronics. No matter where his eyes rested, there always seemed to be a bear staring at him, to the point where they sometimes followed him in his dreams. It only got substantially worse once the company received investors, resulting in the establishment of Fazbear Entertainment and the recent opening of their new location, Freddy Fazbear's Pizza; even with talks of expanding locations nation wide.
The business was his father's most beloved child, whom he devoted himself fully to at the expense of bonding with his biological children. Michael didn't care, he’d rather not be in the center of attention; or, at least, that was what he told himself. It seemed the only attention he received from his father anymore was a complaint or reprimand.
“But, I couldn't do this without my beloved wife and children. I do this for them, and hope to create a fun and family-friendly place not only for everyone, but my own children as well. I make sure to keep the mind of a father when thinking of safety, and the mind of a child to keep the place fresh and exciting.” His father sung his own praises, and Michael was wrung back to consciousness with his father's arm aggressively looped around his shoulders. He forced a grin on cue per his father's many reminders. "Above all else, we hope to create a magical place for kids and grown ups alike, where fantasy and fun come to life."
“We think this place will be a smash hit! Can we get one more picture of the family? It'll look great as the heading.” A woman holding a notepad asked. His father instantly expressed an “of course” and subtly signaled for his family to gather in their practiced formation.
His father and mother, of course, stood close together, her hands on his shoulders and Uncle Henry on the other side of her. Charlie was wrapped firmly in her father's arms, her being his only primary relative after his wife died during labor. Elizabeth stood proudly in front of her parents, adorning the biggest and most brilliant smile in the family, pigtails tousling with her bouncing. Michael was on his father's right side slightly behind him, with Cassidy next to him. While posing, he felt a weak grip latch onto his hand, and knowing it was his brother, he begrudgingly squeezed tightly.
“Say cheese!” The photographer exclaimed, finger at the ready. Michael cracked a smile as wide as he was capable of—though it wasn't much—and his sister chanted "cheese" the most passionately. A flash struck his eyes and he instantly massaged them once he confirmed the picture was over. After remaining stationary for as much time as she could, Elizabeth charged towards the games, followed by her mother with an exhausted sigh as she wrestled to wrangle the unruly child.
The news crew thanked his father for his time, with his father swift to say the pleasure was all his, and left the pizzeria. When the entrance doors shut with their leave, his father leered to his remaining sons, features darkening.
“Could you have at least attempted to look interested during the interview, Michael? We are a family welcoming other families to our pizzeria, and you did not look like it.” His father criticized, gripping his eldest son close to him by his shoulder and looming into his face, breath hot and sour. Unable to meet his father’s piercing gaze, Michael dipped his head, curtain bangs covering his face. He was then shoved back and he caught himself with his foot. “And you, Cassidy. You looked scared the whole time, I'm sure it put the reporters off. You better have tried to look better for the picture, or else no one will want to come here because of you.”
“Hey, lay off, you know he gets weird around people he doesn't know.” Michael mumbled while apprehensively glancing at his father through strands of hair. Cassidy's arms curled securely around Michael's elbow, his face burrowing into his skin and his oak brown eyes flushing. His father lurched forward before twitching, eyes surveying the surroundings, the arcade lights twinkling in his cold gaze. After a deep breath, he fixed his hunched posture, resuming a more dignified stance.
“Take your brother home.” Was all his father said, then he stepped away further into the pizzeria. The knots in Michael's stomach began to untangle and he released a sigh of relief. He ducked his head down to his brother, whose eyes glistened with tears, and nudged him out the doors.
Michael didn't particularly mind the walk back from the pizzeria, even if it were a lengthier one; if it were just him, he could easily make it home in about two hours. Cassidy—with his considerably shorter legs—loathed it, and often would gripe the entire way home. Not only that, but would frequently stop to whine, which only served to slow him down, much to the teen's frustration.
The surrounding area was primarily enclosed by trees and usually, Michael liked hurling rocks at squirrels he spotted. However, today was different— albeit not uncommon—as his brother filled the air with wheezes and the scraping of his feet against gravel.
“You know, you gotta stop being such a crybaby. The kids at school will make fun of you for it.” Michael grumbled, scratching his own mahogany hair with his free hand, shoulder length curls springing in the breeze. Cassidy sniffled, his beloved plush dragging along the ground. “And for that toy, if they aren't already. It'd probably be best to get rid of it.”
“No!” Cassidy immediately blubbered, clutching the bear close to his chest as he choked on his own tears. Michael groaned. A devious idea sparked in his eyes, and he yanked the golden plush from his brother's hands, much to his despair. Holding it far from Cassidy's reaches, Michael bent over with a smirk.
“I think Fredbear should go back to the woods! It is where he's from, after all.” Michael sneered, mimicking a throw towards the neighboring patch of forest. Wailing, Cassidy tugged and pulled at his shirt as he fought to retrieve the plush. Michael cackled while scooting back away, his brother chasing him in a circle.
“Stop it, Mike! It's not funny! Give him back!” Cassidy cried, hopping as high as he could. Once Michael noticed his tears stopped surging and his breath back to normal, he chuckled, lightly tossing the plush towards the trees; Cassidy yelped and stumbled towards it. Michael would eventually think of a better plan to get rid of it. He knew his brother struggled to make friends—his Fredbear plush being his only one—but he would never make any friends lugging around a stuffed animal at nearly seven years old. It was practically social suicide. Tucking the plush firmly in his arms the moment he gathered it, Cassidy glared at his older brother and whined, “You're so mean, Mike!”
Cassidy stomped back to Michael and they continued their walk home, now only emitting a few sniffles every now and then as he vigorously rubbed his nose with the back of his arm. Sticking hands into his jean pockets, Michael mumbled, “You know, Father just gets weird about Fazbear. He's just stressed out. Don't worry about it too much.”
“He said they won't have anyone come cause of me.” Cassidy whimpered, his feet kicking the gravel.
“If anything, people won't come cause of the shitty pizza. Definitely not because of anything you did.” Michael reassured with a nudge to his shoulder, prompting a giggle from his brother.
“I don't think the pizza is that shitty.” Cassidy echoed. Michael shoved his brother's head forward.
“I can say that word, you can't. You're not old enough.” Michael fussed with a squint. His brother slapped his hand away.
“No fair! You're not an adult or anything, you're only thirteen.” Cassidy pouted, crossing his arms. Michael snickered as he rammed his shoulder into him, urging him along.
“Well, when you're thirteen, you can say it.”
His father was working late again, not to Michael's surprise. Though the pizzeria closed at 9 pm, his father would often stay until midnight some nights, maybe even later. His mother had returned home with Elizabeth around 7, placing a box of leftover pizza on the table for dinner then putting the droopy-eyed girl to bed afterwards. Revolted at the idea of pizza for the third time this week, Michael barely picked off some of the toppings to call his dinner. A boy could only handle so much soggy crust in one week; though he’s had enough for his entire lifetime at this point.
With Elizabeth asleep, his mother retreated to her bedroom, as she often did at this time, relying on Michael to watch Cassidy. His father had yet to come home, and with neither he nor Cassidy were tired due to it being a Friday night, they camped in the living room with a pile of blankets and popcorn to make up for not being able to stomach their dinner. Michael skimmed their VHS collection to select a movie for the night.
“I don't wanna watch a scary movie. They give me nightmares.” Cassidy pouted, kicking his feet underneath the blanket. The teen shook his head.
“It's called exposure therapy. We gotta kick this crybaby attitude outta you, dude.” Michael responded, his tongue pushing against his teeth in contemplation as he pondered the horror movie selection.
Cassidy huffed. “Fine. Can we watch Night of the Living Dead?” Of course, it's the least frightening movie in their collection. Michael rolled his eyes.
“No, I hate zombie movies. They're not even scary,” Michael grumbled, then pinched his chin with his index finger and thumb, “I think you can handle Friday the 13th.”
“Is it really scary?” Cassidy whispered, pulling the blanket up to his freckled, chubby cheeks. The teen shrugged.
“It's not that bad. Besides, it's not like it's real.” Michael assured, inserting the tape into the VHS player. When he saw the end credits appear on the screen and realized he hadn't rolled back the tape after his last watch, he snarled and set it to rewind at maximum speed. Knowing it would reveal the ending to Cassidy, he stood up and snatched a pillow that his brother was laying on. “You can't look or it'll spoil it.”
“Hey! That's my pillow!” Cassidy shouted before he was promptly silenced by Michael thrusting the pillow into his face, smothering him. Cassidy thrashes, clutching the pillow tightly as he struggles to wrestle it away from his face. “Not nice! I can't breathe!”
“If you couldn't breathe, you wouldn't be talking right now.” Michael remarked as a matter-of-fact. He shoved his brother down further, glancing over his shoulder at the tv to check the status. Dramatically gasping as his face hits the air, Cassidy manages to crawl his way out, coughing like he'd been drowning. Michael, knowing the tape is still rewinding, cooks up a malicious plan once he spots his Foxy mask underneath the coffee table. He ducks below it and ties the mask on. “Well, I tried to do this the easy way. This is your fault.”
In a burst, Michael pops out from below the table, arms spread wide as he roars. Shrieking, Cassidy swiftly retreats beneath the blanket, “No, Mike! You know I hate Foxy!”
“Arrrggg! I do not be knowing this Mike ye speak of, but I, Foxy, Captain of the Seven Seas, have come to take ye eyeball with me hook!” Michael proclaimed in his thickest pirate accent, “Don't ye want to wear an eye patch like me?”
“No! I! Don't!” Cassidy cried, curling himself as deeply into the couch as possible. Michael maniacally cackles, yanking at the blanket while Cassidy fusses and kicks back at him.
Once the movie reached the beginning, Michael ceased his brother's torment and slid the mask off. Snickering, he tossed the mask aside, taking hold of his brother's blanket and tugging. “Alright, Foxy’s gone. You can come out now, you wuss.”
Cassidy hesitantly peeked his eyes over the blanket to ensure his safety, gaze watery with fright, before fully poking his head out. He weakly shoves Michael as he whines, “Not funny!”
The two brothers nestled into their movie-watching pit, Michael permitting his brother to cling onto his arm as the movie flashed frightful scenes. There were certainly moments Michael underestimated how terrifying (or the unfortunate amount of sex scenes, and for those he made his brother plug his ears while he suffocated him with a pillow) they could possibly be to Cassidy, so he made sure to cover his eyes during them. Small steps, he told himself.
As the movie ended, Cassidy’s eyes were bulging out of his head from shock rather than fear. “It was the mom the whole time?” He exclaimed while jerking up.
Michael smirked, “Yep. Pretty cool twist, huh?”
“I don't get it. He's pretty big and can beat her up. Why does he do what she wants?” Cassidy asked, his hands clutching his favorite golden bear. Michael sank into the back of the couch.
“Parents can have a lot of control over their kids sometimes.” Michael fought back a yawn. Their dog, Sparky, barked gratingly, followed by the ominous sound of tires on gravel. A jolt surged through his stomach. He instantly scrambled to his feet. “He's home! Hurry, get the bowl and blankets.”
They cleaned up the couch like it was an Olympic sport. By the time they heard keys at the door, Michael was shoving his brother down the hall, pulling him up by his shirt when he would trip on the blanket. They rounded the corner as the door opened then slammed. Michael ensured his brother was in his room, shutting the door behind him, then glued to the walls as he observed his father's movement.
“Blasted Henry! Thinks he's some kind of genius, like we didn't build this business together!” His father hollered, though there remained some hint of his renown class, barely repressed with how much his voice scratched. The businessman flung his luggage onto the entry table, retreating to the kitchen towards his bedroom. “I deserve just as much, if not more praise than him. He would be nothing without me. This was all my idea, after all.”
Michael peered around the corner to ensure the coast was clear, then tiptoed across the hall to his bedroom door. His fingers managed to brush the doorknob, turning slightly, when his ears were violated by his father, “Michael!”
The teen winced, his hand curling to a ball. Peeling away from the door, his gut danced and he sluggishly marched towards his father, sweat building along his hairline. His chest churned sickeningly with dread and he had to remind himself to breathe. The gnarled, mid-sized man sulked over their couch, nails clawing into the fabric of the backing, rubbing a hand along his cleanly shaven jaw. Michael avoided eye contact with arms stiff at his side.
“What have I told you about eating on the couch? You've left crumbs everywhere, it's disgusting!” His father reprimanded, firmly grasping the nearest pillow only to throw it back down, “First you ruin the interview, then this? Can't you do anything right? It's like you don't even try to care.”
Michael tucked his head in like a turtle to its shell while grabbing his elbow. “I was gonna clean it up in the morning.” He whispered. His father scoffed and stepped back, running his fingers through his gelled back straight hair. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook his head.
“I swear, I don't know why I bother to come home at all,” His father remarked, ending in a brief chuckle as he turned away from Michael, who flinched away from the fuming glare, “Clean this up. I better not see any traces in the morning.”
Michael stood still with lead for legs while his father stormed away, swaying his head as he muttered inaudibly under his breath. The teen's body slouched as the tension crumbled, his face burning and palms clammy. He meticulously combed for every crumb he could spot, checking carefully not to leave any traces of Cassidy and his presence in the living room. Lastly, he gathered his Foxy mask and hurried back to his room.
He shut his door behind him softly, ensuring the knob was twisted as he closed it before letting go. Flinging his mask at the closet, he released a frustrated grunt, mindful as to not be too loud. He threw himself onto his bed, which paralleled the window, and his hands latched onto the fabric over his chest. Can't you do anything right?
Hissing, he sat up as he formed a fist and started to punch the nearest pillow repeatedly. In his fit of rage, he launched the pillow against the wall, lightly panting afterwards. The doorknob clicked, and he was swift to lay down, his body facing away from the door towards the window. The door creaked as it inched open, and Michael did his best impression of being asleep to avoid further confrontation.
“Mike? Are you awake?” Cassidy whispered. Michael debated answering, jaw clenched in thought, then huffed exasperatingly.
“What do you want?” Michael hounded as he rotated to face his brother. Cassidy’s hand rattled the doorknob, illuminated by the warm street lamp outside Michael's window, his Fredbear plush tucked into his armpit. He swayed the door slightly as his feet reluctantly shifted.
“Can I sleep with you? I'm scared.” Cassidy mumbled.
Michael turned back away. “You were fine during the movie earlier.” He grumbled while clicking his tongue.
Cassidy scratched the back of his shin with his other foot, bowing his head. “Yeah, cause you were there.” He confessed. Michael sighed, peering over his shoulder at him.
“Fine.” Michael caved, scooting closer to the window. Cassidy giggled as he shut the door and slid into the bed under the blanket. They settled, Michael still facing away, though able to feel the slight warmth at his back. After a few moments of silence, Michael relived today’s moments of his father's disappointment while grinding his teeth. It seemed nothing was ever good enough for his father's unobtainable standards, so Michael had given up long ago. He was interrupted by a poke at his shoulder by a tiny finger.
“Dad isn't mad at you, he's just stressed about Fazbear stuff.” Cassidy murmured, half asleep. Michael dug his nails into his pillow.
“Thanks, Cass.”