Chapter Text
“Dad?” George Michael wandered up the winding staircase and down the hall connecting all of the bedrooms, holding the keys to the banana stand in his hand. It was ten minutes after the time they were supposed to leave, and his shift started in less than that. “I, uh, I don’t wanna be too late in opening the stand, b-but if you’re busy, that’s fine, I can ride my bike or ask someone to come with me…” He paused, straining to hear a response and hearing none, and frowned. “Dad?”
That’s odd. Whenever he was home, his dad always answered George Michael. He believed in constant communication and presence. (George Michael thought it was because his dad feared the day his son would turn on him and leave him behind. George Michael, being conscious of his own awkwardness, tried to let him know that was never going to happen--going on their weekly bike rides and fulfilling their cornballer traditions. But, in a family like theirs, he also understood why his dad never stopped treating him like his child.) Carefully, George Michael crept closer to his and his dad’s bedroom’s door. “Dad?”
There was a muffled smashing of glass and a choked curse. “Shit, buddy!” His dad's voice was strained with false happiness. “Hey, bud. Um, yeah, sorry, I… I’ll be right out, okay? I’ll drive you. Don’t worry. Gimme five minutes, yeah?”
“B-but the shop…” George Michael swallowed his words. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be--” A strange sound made him stop.
A strange sound from his father.
A strange sound that was so familiar to George Michael after he… lost his mother. After his dad lost his wife. A heavy breath, a sob--
George Michael’s own breathing hitched. His dad was crying, or panicking, or both. He couldn’t help but call out. “Dad?”
“Go out to the car, George Michael,” his father replied harshly. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
There was that sound again.
George Michael bit his lip. He didn’t want to leave his father like this. He mattered more than some family banana stand. And he needed a reminder that his feelings were valid. Right? That’s what he always taught George Michael… (He remembered that one time he found his dad sitting against the frame of his bed, tears flowing down his face but hands coming up to hastily wipe them away. George Michael was confused at the time as to why his father talked so cheerily when he was clearly so sad. Now that he was older, he more than understood. He made sure to let his dad know how much he loved him, looked up to him, and how much he cared about him, to make sure he would never have to be sad or hide being sad again. Though, listening to his father’s suppressed cries, he supposed he didn’t do such a great job at that.
This would be the time, though, to show his dad.)
George Michael inhaled shakily. “D-dad,” he tried projecting loudly and bravely over his stutter. “I’m coming in.” His hand landed on the door handle.
“ Don’t! ”
His hand jumped off the door handle as if it were burning and his throat closed up. Dad rarely yelled at him he didn’t mean to do anything wrong he just wanted to make sure he was okay--!
The door suddenly swung open. George Michael stared at his father with wide eyes.
Michael Bluth was a mess. Tracks of tears were still wet on his cheeks, eyes slightly red and puffy. His right hand was trembling from where it hid behind the door frame but not out of sight. He sighed shakily, trying hard to pull himself back together, to be the good father that George Michael deserved. “I’m sorry, bud,” he croaked. “I didn’t mean to yell. You’re not in any trouble.” (George Michael almost smiled at the reassurances. His dad knew him too well.) “I’m… a bit on edge today, yeah? But I promise you that we can go down to the shop soon. I’ll grab the keys--oh, you have the keys. Perfect. Let’s go--”
Michael started forward, legs feeling like jello, before his son grabbed his hand. He stared at the gesture in bewilderment. (When was the last time someone held his hand?)
“I-I don’t need to go to the shop today!” George Michael blurted out. “We-we could, uh, stay at home instead and watch some movies and I could work tomorrow to make up for it!”
The offer was tempting. All Michael wanted was a day just to himself and his son, away from the chaos that was the rest of his family, that was the Bluth business, that was responsibility and life and--
No. He couldn’t.
You’re so selfish, Michael .
He didn’t deserve it.
“No,” he whispered hauntedly. “No, we need the money.” He stumbled backwards into his bedroom, startling out of his son’s light hold. “We need the money.”
“Dad?” A meek voice.
Oh God. He was scaring George Michael. He was scaring him and--
Michael wheezed as his vision started to blur. He looked at his son with frightened, confused, and desperate eyes. “I can’t breathe.”
(“Dad,” a ten-year-old George Michael cried from his bed, chest heaving up and down and staring at his father with frightened, confused, and desperate eyes. “I can’t breathe.”
Michael was already by his side. Tenderly, he pulled George Michael into his arms. “Hey, buddy, it’s going to be alright. I’m here, yeah?” His son nodded into his shoulder and shoved closer into the embrace. Michael placed a kiss on the top of his head. “Just focus on me, buddy. You’re safe here with me. Always.” He tried to catch his son’s watery gaze. “You’re such a brave boy, you know that?”
George Michael shook his head. “N-no,” he forced through clenched teeth.
“Yes, you are. You are so brave, and Dad is so proud of you.”
His lower lip wobbled. “You’re only saying that ‘c-cause I’m upset!”
His father’s eyes were warm. “I’m saying ‘cause it’s the truth.” Michael nudged his son playfully. “I’m proud of you, George Michael. Whether you’re happy or sad or angry or hungry--” He tickled his son’s tummy, which made him giggle and smile. “And I’ll always be there for you. You have my word.”
Shedding tears anew, George Michael clung to his father and cried until there was nothing left except for bone-deep warmth and a sense of safety. It could have been ten minutes or an hour before he calmed down, exhausted and drooping and half-aware. The sound of the door clicking open startled him, but he was quickly soothed by his father’s gentle voice. “Get some rest, bud, I got you.”
“Boys?” His mother’s voice floated through the room. George Michael detachedly listened to her cross the floor and vaguely felt his bed dipping. “What happened?” She whispered, voice quiet and the kindest thing George Michael had ever heard. Her hand came to stroke George Michael’s hair, guiding him further into his drowsy state.
“A panic attack.” Michael replied as quietly and as kindly.)
A panic attack. That was what his father was having. (His father wasn’t indestructible. The stress was going to catch up at some point.)
George Michael blinked for a second too long and, before he knew it, his father was sprawled on the floor, weakly clutching his chest for breath.
His father was having a panic attack.
His body moved before his mind did, closing the bedroom door behind him as he dashed to his father’s side, automatically reaching for his hand again. “I’m here, dad,” he tried to comfort, awkwardly and uselessly. “It’s gonna be okay.”
Michael shook and shuddered.
And that is where I ended it. Probably not going to continue. Sorry!
If this happens to inspire you, however, feel free to repost with an ending.