𝘚𝘜𝘗𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘛𝘈𝘙 .•* 𝘔𝘐𝘊𝘏𝘈𝘌𝘓 𝘈𝘍𝘛𝘖𝘕

ＮＩＧＨＴ ＦＯＵＲ

Purple Guy

1988

Michael had been gone for two days.  No calls, no mail, not even a sighting by your neighbors.  He had virtually fallen off the face of the Earth, and you were a complete mess over it.

You feared the worst.  He was kidnapped.  Tortured.  Enslaved.  Dead in a ditch somewhere.  You weren't entirely sure what happened after hours at Circus Baby's, but you knew it wasn't good.  You regretted not begging Michael further to stay home.

It didn't help that the next morning, the whole building had been shut down.  'Gas leak' was the town's best guess, but you could hardly believe that.  Michael would have at least made it home if it was a gas leak.

On the third day, however, right at 6am, you heard a knock on your door. Immediately, almost embarrassingly so, you jumped out of your seat at the dining table and ran to the door.

You glanced through the peephole and your eyes locked onto the figure beyond the door. Your heart soared.

"Michael!" You exclaimed, flinging the door open to greet him. You threw your arms around him, engulfing him in a hug. "Where have you been?"

That was when you realized something was wrong. He felt... hard. And not the fun hard. His whole body felt much more... compact.

"Hi, (Y/N)," he greeted with a tired smile.

You pulled yourself off of him, really taking in the bags under his eyes and how tattered his clothes were. His jacket even looked wet, despite there having been no rain since he had left.

"Where have you been?" you asked again, much more concerned.

"There was a gas leak," Michael reported.  He hardly met your eyes, his hair shielding his dark blue ones.

Michael learned this lie through your neighbors.  They all knew where he worked, and upon seeing him come home, they were more than excited to ask if he knew anything about it.  He knew all about it, of course, but shared the bare minimum.

Yes, there was a gas leak.  Yes, he was exposed.  Yes, he was put in a quarantine for two days to be sure he wouldn't develop any immediate life threatening symptoms.

'Gas leak, my ass,' you thought.  But you didn't press. You figured whatever did happen was something Michael was still grappling with himself.  He would tell you about it, in time.

Choosing to look at the positives, you welcomed Michael into your home.  He seemed much more hesitant to touch you, dancing around you and keeping himself just inches away.  He didn't even take his coat off when he walked in, only slipping his brown shoes off and announcing, "I'm going to take a shower," before heading deeper into the house.

He was different. Something was wrong. You reminded yourself over and over again, almost in a prayer, that it had nothing to do with you.

You sat down, watching him head into your shared bathroom, and turned on the TV. The voices of Clara and Vlad drowned out your thoughts, as well as Michael, who called out from the bathroom in a hesitant voice, "I love you."

Michael stepped into the bathroom, locked the door behind him, and stripped himself of his clothes.  He started with his jacket, revealing his ruined uniform and haphazardly wrapped chest.  He ran his hands along it, the wrap moist with blood.  Walking into the gas station that morning and buying exclusively gauze and bandages (with a smile on his face, no less) had raised some eyebrows, but it saved a world of suspicion from you, so it was worth it.