Work Text:
The late-afternoon sun cuts through the horizontal blinds of the Seawind model home, casting harsh, cage-like shadows across the master bedroom carpet. Michael Bluth lies motionless on his back, staring blankly at the acoustic popcorn ceiling while a dull, throbbing ache radiating from his lower right abdomen keeps him pinned to the mattress.
Outside the closed hollow-core door, fifteen-year-old George Michael shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. He nervously grips the strap of his Jansport backpack, his knuckles turning white as yesterday’s disaster loops on high repeat in his head: the Sudden Valley parking lot, the sudden mix-up of the gas pedal for the brake, and the sickening thud of the family Volvo’s bumper making contact with his father.
Clearing his throat, George Michael taps tentatively on the wood, attempting an off-tempo, playful tone that misses the mark entirely. "Hey, Dad? Just checking if... you know, the appendicitis is still pretending to hurt, or if you're ready for some banana stand inventory."
The weak attempt at banter hangs limply in the hallway air. Inside, Michael doesn't laugh, nor does he offer his usual crisp, reassuring fatherly quip.
He simply closes his eyes, sinking deeper into the depression that has settled over him like heavy smog, feeling the crushing weight of a family—and a body—that keeps falling apart.