Mike flexed his fingers, using his palm to dribble the ball halfway down the court again, unamused. The court itself is nearly empty, save for himself. It's still a fresh Saturday evening, so the sky was getting darker with a new hue of pink and purple flooding the clouds. All snotty kids and bratty teenagers had gone home for the day, and there was only soul left with enough interest to spectate the athlete. If hardly.

Jeremy sat quietly in the bench a few yards away, his nose buried in a book. It's a story he's already read, but too good of a tale to put down.

He's halfway through the page's second paragraph when it's ripped not so graciously away, the book dropping to the ground in a clutter of pages. Green eyes turn from the crumpled mess to the rolling ball retreating from the character, trailing his gaze to the culprit besides him. "What was that for? I was r-reading that!"

Mike shrugs. "You looked bored."

Jeremy wrinkles his nose. "I was perfectly fine reading."

"Fine. You sitting there bores me." Mike snarked, striding over to the basket ball and bouncing it back up into his hold. "You gonna shoot or what?"

As expected, the nightwatch raises a brow in confusion. "...I don't play sports. You know I don't have a chance at getting a score."

"What's the harm in trying, then? Chicken."

Jeremy would like to say that the sly comment was immature, but he catches himself sticking his tongue out at the remark, keeping his retort to himself. "I'm not chicken"

The ball is flying towards his head before he can register it. Instinctively, he holds up his hands to shield, only for the surface to contact with his palm, shakely catching the projectile. He looks up to a smug smile, Mike shoving his hands into his pocket. "Prove it"

Taking a deep breath, Jeremy stands from the bench and walks a few yards, sneakers only stopping a few paces from the clearly marked line. He spares Mike a half-hearted glance to the side before squaring his shoulders and breathing in. With as much strength as he could pull together, he pushed his palms forwards and shoots.

Not only does he miss, but the ball had the nerve to bounce directly off the edge of the basket ring, sending it spiraling back towards the pair. Mike's too busy trying to think of some sort of half-ass remark on the kid's poor aim to see the ball incoming.

"FUCK!" There's an audible thwack as basketball makes impact with his nose, and Jeremy swears he hears something crack. Half a second later and Mike has his torso craned towards the ground, hissing. Jeremy hesitates, walking closer. He can't tell if the security guard is laughing or cursing him underneath his breath, but it doesn't stop the tiny giggle escaping his throat regardless. "Told ya"

Mike pinched his nose, holding his head backwards until he could feel a trickle of liquid slither down his throat. It was a strange feeling, but the hands cupping his cheeks were a much more distracting factor. "This was your fault, you know." He spies Jeremy wiping his blood off of his hands onto his sleeve, 'his' being Mike's, mind you. "You're such a fucking twat"

Jeremy smiles. "C'mon tough guy, d-don't be such a chicken..."

"So..." Mike trails off, "How am I supposed to hook this again?"

Jeremy glances up from the bait box and stares, eyeing the security guard attempt at attaching bait to a poorly strung string and fishing pole. "You're going to s-stick yourself if you keep trying to tie it like that!" He interrupted, swiftly taking the pole from the man, much to the guard's distain. "I'll fix it for you. Can you keep an eye out for any activity in the water, maybe?" He urges, pointing off towards the pier. "Just don't go past the safety bars, ok?"

His response is a curt scoff and a sharp turn of the heel, grumpily stalking off in the direction of wherever the nightwatch seemed to have directed him, mumbling something like a child being sour about being scolded. "I'll go as far as I fucking want to" Mike spat, stalking away.

Jeremy sighed, readjusting the hook and attaching the bait properly. It didn't surprise him that Mike's never been fishing before, having been raised in the city and with no one to teach him. Though, it was never too late to learn and summer vacation was always a good chance to-

The sound of water splashing breaks his concentration and he glances up from the pole, blinking at the spot where Mike should have been. But there's no one on the pier but himself.

Neither of them were going to be allowed yard sailing in the neighborhood ever again.

Mike was either too busy trying to haggle a couple hundred dollars worth of absolute junk for a couple bills he had stashed in his pockets, while Jeremy is off poking random assortment of objects, resulting in one broken glass, a crying baby doll with a broken voice box that won't shut up, and apparently the owner's cat that Jeremy had the unfortunate experience of discovering that no, it was not a stuffed antique.

Mike, for the most part, didn't care about his appearance when it wasn't being a factor held against his work. So outside of the security guard position, he hardly kept any of daily weekday routines in check. One of the which would be the most vital part of his morning: Shaving.

Jeremy doesn't seem to realize, or at least care, in the sudden change of pace until mid-holiday break, when neither of them have been to work in days and Mike's outwards appearance has taken a turn for the I-really-don't-give-a-shit route. Sure, the guy still showers, but the scruffy texture along side the bottom half of his face was making him look much older than he was supposed to seem.

The man could grow a head of hair if he wanted to, save for the fact that it would be untamable mess and he would have absolutely no experience on how to take care of it, style it or such, but Jeremy remembers being told something about hair getting in the way of treating the scar when medical attention was needed. And since it was an often occurrence, Mike kept his 'hair' extremely short. Hardly anything, sometimes nothing.

With all the factors in mind, Jeremy couldn't care less how the man looked, just as long as he shaved that scruffy, scratchy facial hair Mike seemed to accumulate after some time off. Though, the security guard makes sure to shove his face into the crook of Jeremy's neck and nuzzle his skin just to annoy the absolute fuck out of him before having to be rid of it. Typical Schmidt.

There's something about a late night text on a weeknight in the middle of a nightshift and a drive back home, or the slow mornings with textbooks scattered across the coffee table and shoes tossed carelessly towards the door that give him a feeling he can't quite place.

It's not relief, he'd know it if it was. It wasn't routine either, like an OCD or a feeling like something had to go a certain way or everything would fall out of place. No, more like 'this has to happen and this must go this way for it to happen again because I want it to happen again'.

It's a complex thought and not something Mike's brain damage could properly process. He knows what happiness is, and he knows how it's achieved, whether to get the mind drunk or the body beaten, there was always a human need for content. One that needed to be satisfied. How he got to that point, however, it beyond him. He knew what it was, he just didn't know how to reach it yet.

Turns out, with one addition of some goofy kid with a hair full of fluff and a mouth full of stutters, he wouldn't need to learn how to get his 'happiness', just figure out how to keep it.

"Seriously? You don't know how to change the oil? Change the tires?" Mike scrolls from underneath the truck. his back kept safely off the hot concrete thanks to some scooter board Jeremy's mother had stashed away in their garage. "Do you even know how to drive, dipshit?"

Jeremy frowns, kicking a pebble with his flip flop. "I n-never had a an issue with cars or anything like that...and your truck is pretty run down anyway."

The security guard's response is to roll out from underneath the vehicle just enough to give the brunette a greasy glare. Luckily for Jeremy, he's hardly bothered. "You have oil on your shirt."

"Yeah, sure, whatever" Mike waves him off, giving a playful kick towards the younger male's legs. "Go play with your barbie buggies or whatever."

Jeremy huffs, crouching down to his knees. He can practically feel the emerald burning through his skin as he rolls back under the truck, a smug grin plastered on his mouth. A moment passes and he thinks Jeremy's gone back inside the cool, air-conditioned house. But he feels a tap on his ankle and inwardly moans, rolling back out for what seemed like the fifth time that minute. Jeremy is crouched down to his level, "What-?"

He's being kissed before he can do anything to prevent it, not like he'd want it to stop anyhow. With his back laying flat on the skateboard, Jeremy uses one hand to hold his bangs from drooping in his face as his mouth locks with Mike's, taking the security guard by surprise. Needless to say, he returns the favor.

Breaking apart, Mike raises a brow and sets his wrench to the side, sitting upwards. He opens his mouth to ask the obvious question, but Jeremy beats him to it.

The nightwatch beams a bright smile. "Teach me out to change the oil? Please?"

Blue eyes narrowed, tracking the subtle movement in Jeremy hoodie jacket. Something was off, and the choice of clothing itself was a hint. No one should be wearing a bulky hoodie in the middle of spring, not even Mike himself was closed in enough to pull a stunt like that and risk heat stroke. But sure enough, Jeremy was bundled in a jack a good two sizes too big for him, looking quite content with himself.

Though, he's being undoubtedly still. "...What are you hiding, Jeremy?" Mike teased, only partly joking. "Drugs? If you're trying to smuggle shit, you're doing it the wrong way."

The brunette thins his mouth into a line, body growing even more tense. "I-I'm not hiding anything!"

"Bullshit." Mike snarks, walking a bit closer. He half expects the night watch to step away, but he stands his ground instead. Without warning, much less hesitation, the man takes a finger a prods the front of his jacket, jabbing his index into Jeremy's chest. The nightwatch raises a brow, unphased.

For a moment, a flash of a frown spreads across MIke's face and he believes he's been beaten, but then something shuffles underneath the clothing. Jeremy pales as the security guard gives a sly smirk, reaching forward and quickly tugging down the younger male's front zipper before he could protest. "H-hey!"

A small, furry little ear peaks out from the confinement of the hoodie, followed by another. Soon enough, the head popped through with glossy innocent eyes, and a soft pink nose.

Jeremy shutters nervously, timidly placing a protective hand over the bunny's head in a feeble attempt to coax it back inside the jacket. Mike stifled a chuckle, pointing towards a poster on the far side of the wall. "No outside pets in the pizzeria."

The argument is expected. "B-but he's just-"

"I am not going to lose my job because you brought a damn rabbit to work."

It's only 3:42 AM and Mike is pretty sure the rabbit is going to be the end of him. Except this time, it wasn't a metal, haunted torn up robotic one. It was one much smaller, much cuter, and much, much more annoying.

Jeremy makes sure to keep his thumb on the music box control as he softly pets the creature, it's white form snugged up near his nametag, nuzzling into his neck. Mike catches himself glancing at the runt every moment or so, from the flashlight to the hallways to the bunny making itself comfortable.

He groans to himself when Jeremy leans his to the side ever so slightly, a tiny smile on his face as the bunny brushes against his ear. Mike's usual snark is tardy. "One day, I'll have to stop letting you break rules like this."

Jeremy pouts. "Like you haven't b-broken them yourself before..." He smiles, using a single finger to lightly pat the bunny's head. "Besides, you like her."

"Shush"

Mike promised him one. Not two. Not three. One book, and only one book.

How they ended up with a cart full of trilogies and a handful of sketchpads was entirely beyond him. He could practically feel his wallet aching.

The woman at the cash register looks nothing more than amused, watching the man mutter something rude under his breath as he digs for a few bills, a peppy, more than ecstatic brunette standing behind him. She laughs as he pays the tax, scoops up the load of literature and practically stomps out the bookstore's door, the smaller figure following close behind.

"What are all these for, anyway?" Mike groans, tossing the merchandise in the back seat of the truck. Emerald eyes swiftly turn to glare at him for a split second before returning to adjust the seat, raising the books against their sides so they wouldn't topple to the floor boards. His lack of response makes Mike impatient.

"You promised you'd buy me some, remember?" Jeremy beams, already climbing into the passenger seat and buckling his seatbelt before the security guard even has time to round the hood of the truck. "You know, last night when-"

"I said I'd take you to get one book for your Mom's birthday, not that'd I'd buy you a damn library." The older man's tone is full of annoyance, and there's a hint of exhaustion in his voice as well. "You fucking owe me for this"

"...Can I just read you a bedtime story instead?"

Before turning the key and starting the engine, Mike hesitates. "Maybe"

Jeremy will give himself credit; he's been getting better at detecting a lie.

He's naive, and he knows it. But lately, things have been a lot more clearer than they had been, not that any of the strange occurrences made any more sense, just that he was able to pick up on clues that he normally wouldn't have been able to notice before. Simple, little things. Changes in body language, a shift in the way someone talked. It was become a second nature to him.

Ironically, the one to blame for this new development is someone who's bullshit meter should have been hitting the rooftops by now.

It's the same excuse nearly every evening, only modified. "One of the kids threw something at me" Mike would say, careful to clean the blood off of his neck. "It's only a scratch, don't sweat it, kiddo."

And as you'd believe, Jeremy would trust him. The subject was dropped and the conversation never arose again. But when the injuries began to occur more frequently, that's when the puzzle pieces began to click.

If it was a bruise, it was simply a 'trip over a stage wire' story. If it was a cut, it was a 'sliced while dividing the pizza' lie. The man even had the nerve to come up with excuses on the spot the moment Jeremy could tell that two of his fingers were broken.

Mike had a plan, one to keep things under wraps and to let it all blow over. Things were complicated, too far gone for even him to understand. The less Jeremy knew, the better.

But the plan turns to ash and so does his hope of walking out of the building without a confrontation when he turns the corner into the locker room, shocked to see Jeremy peeking a intrusive nose into what was supposed to be Schmidt's locker.

"I don't understand..." The brunette whispered, hand brushing over the handle of the axe. It was supposed to be hidden underneath his casual change of clothes, but apparently, Jeremy knew better to look past the obvious. "Mike, tell me what's wrong."

Shoulders tense and avoiding eye contact, the security guard feels something bad churn in his stomach, but he's able to shrug it off. "I'm fine."

Jeremy looks less than impressed, settling the axe back into it's spot."You're not"

He can feel his fingers twitch in his pockets. "I'm telling you, we're fine-"

"We're?"

Jeremy repeats again, just to watch the body swallow and realize the mistake. With a curt nod and turn of the heel, Mike walks out of the locker room. leaving the nightwatch in silence and confusion.

He's known as the lost cause. That dramatic tragedy that starts off bad and spirals into a shit storm of agony with burnt lies and no hope for the future. Mike's entire goddamn life story is cliche, one big mess of plot twists and dead characters and an obviously head coming for an unhappy ending.

Jeremy doesn't like how that fairytale is going to end. So he's going to rewrite it.

You can never tell a if someone's a pyromaniac from the first impression. You only learn it later, whether by accident or by obvious intrusion, when something gets set ablazes and it's ashes forever, and the only one to blame is someone you trusted the most.

Jeremy is one spark away from losing it all, and Mike is already convinced he's got nothing else to lose.

The security guard realizes his mistaken assumption when he spots a flash of green amongst the blaring heat.

For the first time his his life, Jeremy isn't the one with the tomato pasted skin. It's a humorous change of events to be Mike this time, burying his face into his hands and trying to lower his beanie over his eyes. The best part? It's not just some pink tint or light flush, it's a full blown out red faced mask, speaking from his nose to his ears.

Mike grits his teeth, the nightwatch giving him a soft, clearly entertained laughter. "Y-You're blushing!"

"It's sunburn."

There have been times when Mike should have known to keep his mouth shut.

The man was as rude as they come, cursing under his breath in public, roughly bumping into other people on the streets and hardly sparing an apology, if someone just so happened to jump on the same bus as him that he just had a 'feeling' about, he'd say what's on his mind, resulting in many arguments and fights that could have easily been prevented.

It was routine by now; the landlord lady knew he would always rant her out every morning, the city bus driver groaned every time he climbed aboud, even Fazbear's Manager was beginning to lose patience when Mike started picking fights with kid's parents, criticizing just how easily they let their little brats out of their sight.

Things because a lighter, and a little stranger when over time, there's a shift in the behavior.

He doesn't pick fight with strangers anymore, and if someone even attempts to strain his nerves, surprisingly enough, he turns the other cheek. He's not as loud, he's not as grumpy. Hell, this last Friday, that poor landlord of his almost had a heart attack when the man gave a small smile while paying his rent, even so much as muttering a "Have a good day" when leaving the office.

As he left, he locks hands with a stranger she doesn't recognize, the brunette turning his head and giving her a pleasant smile as they walked away.