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Michael sighs deeply as he enters his father's barren bedroom. It's around two in the morning, and he was woken up by cries and yells.
William is having another nightmare, as he often does nowadays. He's shaking hard, hands twisted in the dark red sheets.
Michael gently places a hand on his father's shoulder. "Wake up... Father, it's me, it's Michael..." he coos.
William jolts, staring at his son with wide eyes, still not fully present. His mind is somewhere else. His hands fly up to shield his head, bracing himself, like he's expecting to be hit.
"It's only me," Michael assures, keeping his voice low and gentle as William lowers his arms. "That's the second one this month. Are you alright?"
William says nothing, only staring with unfocused, glossy eyes as he reaches out and clasps Michael's hands. He grins a little, as if he's only now recognizing his son. "Michael..."
"Are you alright?" Michael repeats, gently squeezing Williams hands.
"I am now that you're here," William smiles. He runs his large hands up Michaels arms until he's gently rubbing his shoulders. He has a lost look in his eyes, and instantly Michael can tell that William isn't okay. He's being grabby and needy, a far cry from his usual behavior. Whatever dream he had must have really shaken him up to send him into an episode.
Michael purses his lips before speaking. "What did you dream about?"
"Oh, a lot of things... Do you remember your grandfather, darling? He passed when you were four." William is speaking softly, giggling a bit between his words. He sounds and looks spaced out.
"I don't, Father. But I have seen photos of him." Michael says, eager to hear his father open up about something. His past is a complete mystery to Michael. "Did you dream about him?"
"Yes, I did..." He seems apprehensive to say more, averting his eyes as he somewhat reluctantly lets go of his son. "Would you join me for tea?"
"Yes, Father." Michael tries to hide his disappointment in the lack of information given up. He helps him out of bed and retrieves him his purple robe, gently tying it around William's waist. As he does so, he frowns. He really needs to convince his father to eat more. His ribs are visible and hitting out, making him look as frail and fragile as his mind is. He holds out his arm, letting William hold onto him as they walk to the living room.
William starts in the direction of the kitchen, but Michael stops him.
"I'll make it, Father. You sit on the couch and relax. Ginger, right? With two sugars?"
William hums. "Yes. Thank you, Lori."
Michael ignores the name. This isn't the first time that William has gotten confused and mistook Mike for his mother. Considering his deteriorating mind and the fact that Michael had taken up all of her duties in the house after she left, Michael doesn't hold it against him. It's an easier delusion to deal with than when he insists that Elizabeth and Evan are still alive.
The house is so quiet, so still. As Michael brews the tea, he can almost pretend that it's '83 again. That Evan and Lizzie and Mother and Father are all asleep, and he's staying up late as he always did back then. When everything was okay.
He hears a soft music coming from the living room. He turns around, watching his father fiddle with the old tape player.
William turns around and smiles, his unfocused eyes meeting Michael's. He holds out his arms, already gently swaying to the soft slow music.
"Father?"
William beckons him over, and Michael takes in the image.
William is smiling softly, looking relaxed. His arms are outstretched, the sleeves of his robe slipping up his arms a bit, making the springlocks scars visible. His hair is messy and sticking up at odd angles, the strings of his ill-fitting sweatpants tied into a neat little bow.
It's moments like these that Michael can tell why both his mother, Henry, and Elizabeth used to adore William so much. He looks soft and tender, bathed in moonlight.
But unlike those before him, Michael knows that his father is a nightmare masquerading as a dream. He knows better than to fall for a siren's song, but he doesn't care. He wants his father's love and guidance, even after all that William has done. He may be a monster, but he's still Michael's father. They're all echother has, all eachother needs.
Michael knows that his father is only like this right now due to his worsening mental state, but still, he tries to burn the image into his memory, pushing away the times William has beaten him in favor of this gentility. He yearns for parental love, having gotten very little of it his whole life.
He walks to William, eager for any attention that he might get.
William throws his arms around Michael's neck, a smile on his pink lips. "Dance with me?"
"Of course," Michael grins and gently takes Williams hand, placing his other hand on his waist.
There's a moment of silence as they slow dance, the only noise being the soft shuffling of socked feet on the hardwood floor.
"I used to dance with your mother like this. Before you drove her away." William says, too arrogant and lost in his own head to know that he was the one who drove her away with his binge drinking and physical violence.
Michael nods slowly. He remembers the divorce. It was messy, court cases full of tears as his mother desperately tried to regain custody of her children. And then she had gone missing. Foul play was suspected, but as per usual, William was aquitted due to a lack of evidence. But after that, Ballora seemed so much more life like, her movents and dances more flowy and graceful.
Just like most things, Michael was beat when he brought it up or asked questions. And as usual, Michael had made excuses for William's sadistic cruelty towards him, devotion to his father too deep, indoctrinated and blind to the truth. "I miss her."
"You shouldn't. She left you. She left me." His bitterness seeps into his voice. "There isn't any point in being upset. She sure wasn't when she walked out on us."
But she was. Michael remembers her crying almost every time he saw her, covering bruises with makeup in the mirror. It's kind of funny, he thinks. Now that's what he does, wiping off makeup at the end of the day to reveal purple bruises on his face and arms. He tries to forget, needing to share in William's delusions. Needing to be closer to his father, needing to be the perfect son, needing to be everything William wants him to be. William is always right.
"Of course, Father." Michael smiles. He stares into William's eyes, the eyes he inherited, until the kettle goes off. "Have a seat, Father. I'll bring you your tea." Michael guides William to the couch, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek before he returns to the kitchen to finish making the tea.
He gets out a mug and frowns, upon seeing it. It's a white ceramic mug, with crudely painted flowers and butterflies on it. It had been Elizabeth's gift to William for father's day. He puts the mug back and uses a different one to make the tea.
When he walks back to the living room, William is asleep on the couch, the music still playing slow songs and oldies.
Michael shuts off the radio and looks at his father again.
He looks so peaceful like this.
With hesitance, Michael dumps out the tea and grabs a blanket from the hamper. He sits down on the plush couch and curls up against William's side, bringing the blanket to cover them both.
He sleeps soundly that night.