while i can see both sides, i feel william’s a physical person. touch is such a powerful sense and tool in manipulation, not only forcing familiarity and proximity, but also creating tension when there’s a lack of touch. he’s deliberate with each pat on the shoulder, each lingering hold on someone’s arm. when he’s avoiding those quick grazes of assuring touches he’s known for, it feels like rejection. you immediately feel offset, like he’s avoiding you, like there’s something you have done to make him this way. sure, his touches are much smaller gestures compared to his partner, but their absence speaks volumes.
with those he’s close with, he’s especially physical. i don’t think clara likes to tolerate any touch besides her own children’s, but she’s not afraid to reach out and try and smooth over his tie, or fix his suit lapel when it’s out of place and afton somehow doesn’t notice. she holds her head high and touches him without fear or hesitation. with henry, it’s like he doesn’t really care. he’ll crowd him trying to look over a blueprint he’s sketching on, manhandle him whenever he’s too busy talking to someone and standing in his way. hell, you’ve seen them eat after each other. when you’re stuck in an apartment together for four years, you to learn to live with each other, henry says. yeah, you guess that’s true.
even when you two first met, he would linger a bit longer than socially acceptable. his hand would stay rooted on your shoulder, moving you away from a crowd. maybe when giving you a stray key or one of those fazcoins he likes to carry, his fingers would brush against the inside of your wrist before pulling away. a bit creepy, maybe, but you didn’t really read into it. just normal human interaction, right? it’s just how he is.
if you thought he was touchy before, god, now that you’re lovers? (you can’t really call him a boyfriend at his age, even if he finds it endlessly entertaining) it’s like he can’t keep his hands to himself. he’s always finding an excuse to touch you. whenever you’re walking together, he expects you to loop his arm with his, or hold hands. when he sees you sitting anywhere, he’ll stand behind you, his hands settle at your shoulders and stray inward to touch your collarbone. laying on the couch, he’ll slink down besides you and wrap an arm around your waist, or even flop on top of you if he’s feeling especially dramatic. public or private, he’ll find a reason. sometimes that reason is just that he wants to.
when you don’t indulge him, or reject his touch out of embarrassment or any other factor, he sulks. not that he’ll say that, but you can see the subtle pout in his lip, the way he suddenly goes all stoic and every little thing bothers him. the water in the sink’s too hot, or his pen is smudging too much, or everyone just seems to be getting in his way. you’ll ask him what’s wrong and he’ll huff and look away, going nothing, nothing. how temperamental.
you have to move in front of him, bring your hands to his face and force him to look at you. william tilts his head into your grasp. no shame, no questions asked, just melting into your palms. you can’t help but giggle.
his face immediately drops.
“what? i think it’s cute! i like you clingy.”
afton grumbles, “i am not clingy.”
“it’s okay! i like it. it’s really sweet,” you try to smile at him, to lighten him up a bit. “i wouldn’t of expected someone like you to be so touchy-feely.”
he’s stopped pretending like he isn’t still enjoying the attention. will turns his head inward to your right palm, pressing kisses to your fingers, the lines of your palm. his voice rumbles against your skin. “what did you expect?”
“hm. i don’t know. typical silver fox sort of thing, i guess. hookups after work, maybe a fancy dinner or two to make up for it. not much else.”
“do you think i was that shallow?”
you shake your head. “i mean, look at you. always have to look the best, have to have the best. that was when we first met, anyway. i know you better now. i think you’ll die if i don’t kiss you every morning.”
“which i still haven’t gotten, by the way.”
“shut up. i’m getting to it.”
truthfully, there’s something pleasantly simple about touch that afton won’t ever truly admit to himself. he’s forged his existence around the weaponization of words—how to use subtle praise to get himself into someone’s good graces, how to threaten someone while toeing along that subtle edge of socially acceptable, how to get someone else to believe even the most elaborate of lies. touch is just a way to affirm the seeds of doubt he’s spread. william afton, of all people, is deeply familiar with the duplicity of words. words can be ingenious. words can lie to you.
touch cannot lie. you can try to force yourself to raise a fist against someone you love, or try to shake hands with the most vile person you’ve ever met, but the truth is that touch is so intimate that there’s a point where you just can’t. you can pretend that you can—he certainly does, has tried, continues to try—but at some point, you can’t make yourself betray your own body.
perhaps that’s why it’s his love language. why instead of answering your confessions, he’ll just lean close, set his forehead against yours and close your eyes. maybe that’s why he chooses to slot against your back and wrap his arms around your waist, his head on your shoulder while you continue with your day. his words aren’t enough. even if he could speak what he feels to you, it wouldn’t be enough to convey what he truly means. it would never feel enough. he knows words can lie, and you must know that, too, being with a man like him.
a man so heavily guarded rendering himself vulnerable to you, only ever you, because he cannot find the words to speak his devotion to you. he’s already complicated his own life enough.
there is something simple about touch.
sometimes, that’s all afton needs.
