Afton Random Books

Main AU: Cruel

-EC-

In the middle of the night he woke up because he felt something was missing; there should be a brown-haired man in his arms. That shortie suddenly disappeared.

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, yawned for a moment, his body stretched. His hand caressed his face before moving up to brush his bangs back, the red strands falling back into his bi-colored eyes as soon as he placed his hand to his side. He stood up, walked out of the room silently, he had checked the time on his phone and it was still one in the morning. The kitchen was the first destination in his mind, but the kitchen lights were off so there was definitely no one there.

Therefore, then the only place his husband would definitely go was his art studio.

The art studio was behind the house, directly opposite the greenhouse. His eyes rolled to the closed studio door, through the crack of the door it seemed the lights weren't turned on. Maybe Michael was somewhere else, but his feelings told him that the man was there. There was no harm in checking. He approached the studio, outstretched hand grasping the doorknob, turning it slowly and pushing inside. The room was dark, perhaps a bit dim because it was illuminated by the moon, the curtains didn't cover the large window on the left at all.

"Enn?"

Michael was indeed here, standing in front of a canvas supported by its cantilever, a paint palette in his right hand and a brush in his left, colors staining his fingers and the surface of the canvas which has been covered by the dominant colors black, red, and blue.

He went inside, without further ado, he immediately turned on the light. Michael squinted his eyes as the light illuminated the corner of the room in a short time. "Don't draw in the dark."

"Why?" Michael laughed softly, pointing his brush at the canvas again. "Sometimes the atmosphere is also helping, you know?"

Then no one spoke again between them.

He watched his husband from the sidelines, his back against the wall and his arms folded in front of his chest, his eyes focused on Michael's figure, his lips straight and his eyebrows swooping down slightly, his forehead furrowed. Michael smiled, hummed, and he felt irritated. He didn't like that, he didn't like seeing him act like everything was fine. These paintings were just an escape, a way to express feelings. The paintings in this room were just an outlet for the burden of pent-up thoughts.

Michael has always been a warm, cheerful person, his laughter was free all the times, like a canvas painted with bright colors.

And overdrawn by dark colors.

Then overlayed by bright colors again.

Repeat, and repeat.

"They forgive you, don't be too hard on yourself."

Michael's hands stopped painting, widened eyes rolled up to his, lips slightly parted. "... How?"

"I've known you for almost five decades," he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, "it would be pathetic of me if I didn't know my own husband's character, mind and temperament." He straightened up, moved closer to the man who was still in place, the brush in his hand dropped slightly, the blue color on the paint palette dripped down. "They forgave you, you don't need to worry about that."

"I'm not worried." Michael glanced away from him, eyes fixated on the canvas once again, brush raised to paint red. "I'm just wondering."

"You've changed."

"So what if I change?!"

It couldn't be denied that Michael's high tone was quite surprising. Michael's facial expression transformed into suppressed anger, the bridge of his nose wrinkled deeply and his eyebrows knitted together, his teeth gritted. The brush in his hand was squeezed tightly, it looked like it would break at any time. "So what if I change?" His tone was quieter, hoarser. "Is it that by changing in the present, in the past I suddenly no longer torment my own siblings? No longer disappointing my parents? No." His shoulders slumped. "Why would they forgive me?"

There was a pause, a long, deep breath, he watched Michael as if trying to reorganize his thoughts, trying to be calmer. "Difficult, it's difficult," he said, another sigh was audible. "It's difficult not to think this was all my fault from the start."

"It's not your fault." He put his hands on his waist and exhaled. "You were quite an ass as a teenager indeed, but what happened wasn't your fault at all."

"I never intended to kill him, I know." That magenta eye rolled down, gazing at the wooden floor. "I was an asshole, thirsty for attention." His hand squeezed the brush handle a second time, teeth chattering again. "Even though I didn't bully my sister as badly as I bullied my brother, that doesn't justify what I did at all. If I had watched her more closely, she wouldn't have gone on that stage. If I hadn't kept quiet like a moron, I could've pulled her away before anything happened."

He was silent, it seemed that this time it would be more difficult to calm his husband down, he had to let him express all his thoughts first. Michael always found a way to hate himself more deeply.

Michael relaxed his grip, his white knuckles returned to normal. "Why did they both forgive me?" His voice was quiet. "They had the choice to keep hating me, and they didn't choose it. Why did they accept me back? Why do they love me again? Why doesn't Father dislike me anymore? I'm proud he changed, but why to me too? Why can't he stay the same as before? I'm really okay with that, I don't mind that at all, the only thing I used to do was disappoint him. I should get what I reap ... not this." He threw the paint palette and the brush onto the floor in a scowl. "Not this."

"Your siblings chose to forgive you because they know you are trying to fix your mistakes." He spoke carefully, scooting closer to Michael, but as expected Michael moved away. "William himself in the past wasn't the best father, he also made mistakes. It's the same as you."

"He had his own reasons why he did it."

"So do you, Michael. You were just a lonely kid."

Michael shook his head, he rubbed his arm lightly, strands of brown hair falling to the side as his head dropped towards his shoulder. "It can't be compared. He had a difficult life that shaped him that way. I grew up under his hard work and all I did was let him down, that can't be equated and can't be used as an excuse. I was too demanding and exacting, didn't want to try to understand his exhaustion, I only thought about myself. Selfish." His hands squeezed his arms, nails dug deep, he watched as those eyes began to coat with tears. "I'm glad he changed, but why to me too after what I did to all of us?"

It was suffocating, it felt suffocating to see how his favorite face was starting to get wet with tears, silent sniffles accompanied the body as he fell to the floor and knelt down. "I don't understand why they would accept me back, Enn." His voice was interrupted by crying, tears fell onto the floor. "They're so cruel, why did they forgive me? Everything would be easier if they continued to hate me. This is too much for me to bear, cruel, so cruel. I'm so cruel." His cries filled the empty room.

He didn't say anything else but sat cross-legged in front of his husband, pulling the crying mess into his lap, hugging him tightly. Michael put his arms around his neck, hiding his exhausted face into his shoulder, still sniffling. He combed his fingers through the strands of brown hair, massaging his scalp gently while his other hand rubbed the violently shaking back. His ears could still pick up the sound of his sobs, so he continued to hold him close, indicating that he wasn't going anywhere.

Gradually the crying slowed down, the irregular breathing returned to normal. He glanced briefly at his husband who closed his puffy eyes, his body seemed to suddenly lose energy, he tightened his embrace after kissing the top of his head, a soft snore could be heard. He would do anything to protect him.

"Sweet dreams, my love."