𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒈𝒚 | 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒎 𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒐𝒏

𝑬𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕

This time around, the Afton household was much tidier. The task was done by one of the members, that of which you couldn't tell. The clamoring of pots and ceramics could be heard in the kitchen, as well as the melodic hum of Clara's voice, an unchanging ballad being sung over as you sat nervously on the armchair in the living room.

Deviating from his usual ignorance of you, William asked you over for dinner after a day well done, adding to the sparks of praise you knew you deserved.

Michael Afton came down the stairs to the left of the room, immediately surprised once seeing you. You give a small smile, not sure how to greet the boy. He nodded, sitting with you, silent and without entertaining himself. Magazines, a television, almost anything a family would have sat in the living room, yet most of it looked glazed with dust, untouched. You could spot a book for what could only be a little girl. That appeared the most untouched.

Michael followed your eyes to that stack of books, the peeling pink cover of one sitting up the rest. His features harshened, and for a moment, you felt as if you were sitting across William. He held many paternal similarities: tired eyes, gaunt features that couldn't have been natural, and messy dark hair. Based on the pictures in the house you had passed upon entry, he held no alikeness with his mother's face.

"You look so much like your father," You found yourself noting softly to him, watching as your simple phrase twisted his face painful for a moment and then stilled as if it had never occurred.

"I know."

"You don't sound happy about it,"

The slam of the front door resonates from the hallway, a jingle of keys and muttered grumbling signifying who arrived back. Michael shifted in his seat, his shoulders tensing up under his gray t-shirt. With a glance, you can see a flash of a man in a white shirt walking past the living room's threshold and into the kitchen, hushed but passionate words being shared between who could only be William and his ex-wife. You did not have much of an opinion on Clara; she had obvious features one could put together the thought of her with. 

She was gorgeous, for one, she had the prettiest figure and a beautiful face even when it seemed to be so stressed. She seemed to be a great mother to Michael, who did not tense up under her as he did his father, and she must've been a very patient woman. After the losses in the family and the stress that must have broken apart her and William's marriage, she stayed resilient and strong with her wide smile and graceful stance. There was never a moment you saw her weak, always up to something, making herself busy in the short moments she seemed to come back to the Afton house.

Clara was kind from the moment you arrived, asking about how you enjoyed working at Freddy Fazbea'rs and where you grew up. She was from England, like her husband. Although the regional difference, you had a lot in common with her. She was a technical person, enjoyed a quiet office job and a warm home life, and with diverging paths, that home still seemed to be the same for both of you. She seemed to love her son, although there was a glint in her eye that said something else. Perhaps she saw her husband in the boy like you did, though you could tell the difference.

As you all sat at the table, it was easy to tell the dynamics: Michael preferred his mother. Afton in the middle as he wanted to be, Clara across from him, Michael beside his mother, and you sat next to William. Just sitting down beside him on the wooden kitchen chair, you could feel his body heat so close to yours, seeping through your dress. He had that way about him; he bled into you even after the wound was given. He didn't make eye contact with you and worked to avoid your gaze. You looked over the meal already sat out: lamb chops, a bean stew, garlic bread, and some wine. It was an odd combination, but you just thought it must have been something native to her home. Michael ate as if no one else was around, a glazed look taking over him as he poked at his food.