The peaceful song of birds and the gentle wave of sunlight flooded into Michael's small bedroom window as day broke his deep ocean-swelled sleep. He opened his eyes to the familiar wooden ceiling and watched the sky-blue painted ceiling fan circle slowly above him. The hypnotic effect it had made him want to stay in bed for the rest of the day, but there were things that needed to be done.
Michael sat up, but he paused and placed his face in his childhood yellow baby blanket. He'd been waking up with worse and worse headaches after the incident. The pain was like a dull buzz at the front of his forehead. It was bad in the morning, but it faded with the day. He pulled his face from the blanket and took a deep breath. He threw one leg over the side of the bed, and then the other.
He looked around the large accustomed room with all of his happy childhood memories scattered across the floor in forms of toys and trinkets. He stood up and sluggishly walked to the door. It opened to a massive hallway with big windows and lots of empty frames where family portraits used to be. Michael stuffed his hands in his pajama pants pockets and watched the floor as he walked into the foyer. The ceiling was so tall it could've touched the sky. The walls were so distant, they could have been separate countries. The floor was so empty, sometimes it felt like no one else lived in the house. Such a big place could make a person feel so small.
He made his way to the grand staircase and placed a hand on the beautifully finished railing before bouncing up the steps. Despite the complexity of the place, he'd spent nearly his entire life locked up here. At first his parents forced him to stay indoors against his rebellious will to venture out and see more of the world, but now he stayed on his own accord. The only time he went outside was to visit the garden in the backyard.
When he reached the second floor, Michael started for his parents' bedroom. Tall windows lined the hallway, letting in all of the colors of the outdoors. As he came up to the door, he paused at the handle. His fingers were shaking. Michael noticed the dark panic that attempted to creep up on him in the back of his mind. He closed his eyes and took a long breath, forcing that feeling back into its dungeon deep down. He opened his eyes and saw that his hand was steady enough to open the door.
Unlike his room, his parents' was simple, open, and clean like the rest of the house. There was just a bed and a chest. It was like the entire house was occupied by ghosts.
Michael silently closed the door behind him and quietly made his way to the bed where his father, Ranboo, laid sprawled out in all of the blankets, still asleep. Michael carefully went up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder to gently shake him awake.
His father's eyes slowly opened, drowsy and glazed with sleep. Michael took a seat at the edge of the bed and waited for him to stretch and yawn until he was fully sat up. Dad looked around the room with that blank expression on his face before memory slowly started to fade back. Michael softly took his father's hand and looked into his eyes.
"Good morning." He said. Dad didn't hold his gaze.
"Uh, I'm sorry, but who...?" His voice was as uncertain as his expression. Michael could tell that his dad was embarrassed about not being able to recognize the person sat in front of him.
"I'm Michael. I'm your son." He said. It took a moment for realization to settle across his father's face.
"Right. I'm sorry I-"
"It's ok, just breathe with me ok?" Michael interrupted his father's anxious spiral. They held each other's hands and breathed together. Michael told him where he was, hold old they were, their daily routine, and that they were the only members of the house.
"What's in that?" Dad asked as he pointed to the chest that sat at the foot of the bed. Michael turned to look at it and paused before answering.
"It's there if you want to open it, but you don't have to." Michael tried to sound unbiased, but he really didn't want his dad to open the chest. He hated days that they went through the chest. He waited silently for his father's response, the suspense wrapped tightly around his shoulders.
"No." Dad answered softly after the long thoughtful silence. A wave of relief washed over Michael. At least today might be easier than the others.
The two sat in bed and talked for a while before deciding to head downstairs for breakfast. Dad continued to hold Michael's hand as they went through the halls and down into the foyer.
"I remember that." Dad said, looking up at the chandelier. "I paid one of my friends to build that. Flush or Fish or something."
"Foolish?"
"Right. Foolish, yes." His dad smiled. "He actually built this entire mansion. It took him a long time and it cost me a lot of gold to-" Dad cut himself off when he looked back to Michael, "but you probably know all of that, don't you?" He said with an awkward smile. Michael swallowed the angst rising in his throat and pulled himself closer to his dad without a verbal response.
The two of them made it to the kitchen. It was big like everything else in the house. All of the windows faced the backyard where a beautiful garden full of flowers and sculptures could be seen. There was a big table in the center of the room with three chairs. Michael didn't have the heart to throw out the third one. Luckily, his dad didn't question the arrangement, instead he headed straight towards the cupboards.
"I may not have the best memory, but I do know how to make killer waffles." He said cheerfully. "That is, unless we had them yesterday?" He turned around to ask Michael the cautious question. Michael shook his head in response and his Dad's eyes filled with joy. "Great, get ready for the best waffles of your life." He chirped. Michael sat at his chair and tried to hide his smile. They'd been having waffles for breakfast the past five days, but Michael wasn't about to complain. His dad's waffles really were the best.
Dad asked Michael to set the table while he prepared the food. It was almost like they were a normal family again, but the thought of happy normalcy made the pit of guilt in Michael's stomach roll and ache, so he tried to set aside those feelings and just get through the day.
After his dad finished making the waffles, the two of them sat at the breakfast table and shared old stories with one another, even though it was mainly Michael telling the old stories and correcting his father on his.
"So what Tommy would do was; he'd go into either Phil or Techno's house completely unannounced, and then all you'd hear were the sounds of dozens of chests being open." Dad smiled the whole time he told the story. Michael hadn't heard this one in a while and the way his dad talked about Tommy made him laugh.
"I can't believe Mr. Innit used to do stuff like that." Dad nearly choked on his orange juice at Michael's comment.
"Do not call him 'Mr. Innit'." He said out of breath from laughter which made Michael burst out into laughter as well. The two continued to laugh until it naturally died down a few moments later. Dad smiled at Michael and for once, Michael felt safe.
But then his dad's eyes shifted to the empty chair across the table. Confusion washed across his face as he looked at the chair.
"If it's just the two of us, why the third chair?" He asked. Michael looked down at his plate and poked at some of the left over waffle bits with his fork.
"It's just for guests." He said. He hated lying to his dad, but they were having such a great time. He didn't want it to be ruined. A moment of silence hung over them before Michael decided to break it.
"Want me to wash the dishes?" He asked as he stood from the table. Dad slowly pulled his gaze from the chair and nodded.
"Sure kiddo." He handed Michael his empty plate and glass and Michael headed to the sink to wash them. As he cleared off the syrup and butter from the plates, he looked outside to the garden.
"It's really nice outside, maybe we can water the flowers or something?" He suggested.
"That sounds like a great idea!" Dad called excitedly from the table.
"Really?"
"Yeah! I know my memory isn't too great, but I feel like I haven't been out of this house in ages. We should go somewhere and do something. Doesn't Jack have a hotel?"
Crash.
Michael accidentally dropped one of the plates. It fell to the ground and broke into several pieces that scattered across the tiled floor. Dad quickly leapt from his chair and raced across the kitchen to make sure that Michael was ok.
"I'm fine dad really, it was just an accident." He tried to pull himself away from being examined like a toddler.
"Ok, sorry. I just don't want you getting hurt." Dad took a step back and then inspected the mess. "Looks like we're going to need a broom and dustpan. Can you point me in the direction?"
"Yeah in that closet by the back door." Michael tried to not sound too stressed, but his hands were starting to shake and he couldn't keep himself from swaying.
While his dad searched for the cleaning supplies, Michael tried to remember his breathing exercises.
Just one day. Just one normal day.
"Umm, so anyway, what do you think about my idea? You know, visiting the Big Jack Manifold hotel?" Dad called from the closet. Michael went deeper into his nervous sway.
"Jack doesn't own the hotel anymore. Mr. In- er, Tommy got it back." Michael answered.
"Oh really?" Dad's surprised face emerged from the closet. "All the more reason to go see it then." He smiled. Michael flashed a fake smile back and fiddled with his fingers. Venturing anywhere outside the grounds of the mansion was a bad idea in it of itself, visiting the hotel area specifically would be terrible.
"CaptainPuffy actually stopped by a few times. She said that your memory's improving, but that it'll be a while before you start remembering things on your own. I don't think we should go anywhere outside the walls of the mansion until we see that improvement. A lot of things have changed since... since your memory got worse. I think going out there now would be too much for you." Michael fought the urge to bite his nails. He hated lying. Then again, what he said wasn't really a lie, it just wasn't the whole truth.
"Ok, so we'll stay here then I guess." Dad walked towards him with the broom and dustpan in hand. He pointed to Michael with the dustpan. "You ok? You're swaying." He pointed out. Michael caught himself and stopped immediately.
"Yeah, just, loud noises." He said and gestured to the shattered plate. Dad gave him an understanding nod and flipped the dustpan so that its handle was facing Michael. Michael took it and then knelt down to hold the pan in place as his dad swept up the debris.
"There we go. All clean." He said proudly. Michael carefully stood with the pan full of glass. He gave dad directions to the bin and then dumped the poor plate's remains inside.
"Any words?" Dad asked. Michael flashed him a confused expression. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of this plate. Though I may not have known it for very long, I easily get emotionally attached to things. This plate was like a brother to me-"
"Shut up." Michael sneered and closed the lid of the bin.
"What? Are my jokes not cracked enough for you?" Michael shook his head in disapproval and took the broom from his dad, then started making his way to the supplies closet.
"At least he went out with a bang."
"Stop."
"May he rest... in pieces."
"I am going to put myself up for adoption." Michael couldn't keep himself from smiling. Even though his dad's jokes were absolutely terrible, he found them endearing. He hadn't seen his dad act like this in months.
Michael put away the broom and dustpan and closed the supply closet door. He looked to his dad whose gaze was focused on the window above the sink. He was standing casually with his hands in his pockets. His shoulders were relaxed and he wore a closed smile on his face. He looked peaceful and sure of himself for once. He looked happy. An emotion Michael hadn't seen on his dad in a long time. It was like looking at a completely different person.
Dad's face turned to Michael and he caught him staring.
"Is something wrong? You look sad." He asked. Michael shook his head.
"No, you're jokes are just so bad, they could bring people to tears." Michael said. Dad scoffed and gestured for his son to come under his arm.
"Exactly. Tears of joy." He said and gave Michael a side hug. Michael gagged at the stupid joke and hugged his dad back, extra tightly. "So," Dad said, "how about that garden work you were talking about? Watering the flowers?" He asked. Michael nodded excitedly. "Alright then, go get some shoes on." He said. Michael cheered and beelined it out of the kitchen.
His room was just down the hall. He'd be in and out in no time. He made sure to lock the door behind him, there were too many memories cluttered about his room. Any one of them could trigger his dad's bad memories.
Michael raced to the closet, but it was nearly impossible to find anything under the piles and piles of clothes. He decided to change out of his pajama bottoms and put some denim overalls on instead. He was able to fine one sandal, but failed to find it's partner. Eventually he gave up on the closet and ran over to his bed. He searched underneath for the red sneakers he'd worn a few days ago. He remembered kicking them off right before going to bed. He shoved an old board-game of Monopoly out of the way and spotted both of them. He quickly grabbed each and threw them on without bothering looking for socks. Then, he raced out of the room and into the foyer.
"Dad, I'm ready." He called. There was no response. Michael started snapping his fingers impatiently and walked over to the kitchen. It was empty. Panic started to settle in as Michael ran over to the back door. Perhaps his dad had already gone outside. He was hit with fresh air, sweetened by the scent of all kinds of flowers. But when he looked out onto the butterfly filled landscape, dad was nowhere to be found.
Michael slowly stepped back into the house and closed the door. It wasn't like dad knew his way around the mansion yet, maybe he got lost.
"Dad?" Michael called as he ran through the foyer once again. He passed the trading hall and ran through the library. He checked every room on the first floor, but there was still no sign of him.
Michael went back to the foyer and looked up at the looming grand staircase. He felt his hands start to shake, but his breathing exercises were the last thing on his mind. It was like his soul had left his body and he'd become a walking corpse. He took one shaking hand and placed it on the railing before dragging himself up the staircase, step by step.
When he got to the top, he could see that his parents' bedroom door was three-quarters the way opened. Michael froze right where he stood. He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to calm down. He'd done this plenty of times before. He practically knew the conversation by heart.
He shoved his still hands into his pockets and walked over to the open door. He used his shoulder to bump it open wide enough for him to enter he room. And there was dad. Facing the opposite wall. Sitting cross-legged on the floor. The chest was open. Items and photos from his past were sprawled out on all sides, like pieces from a broken plate. Michael slowly walked towards his dad.
"I came up here looking for shoes, but I got curious so..." His dad's voice sounded like its usual distant self. Michael peeked over his dad's shoulder. He was looking at an old photo of him and his husband.
"His name was Tubbo." Michael said silently. Dad didn't respond. Pain pierced Michael's heart and he shifted his gaze up to the ceiling to avoid tears. It never got easier. He took another deep breath before walking up to his dad's left side. He picked up a red and white checkered picnic blanket and made room for himself to sit next to his dad. Then he placed the picnic blanket so that it was covering them both.
Dad didn't move or acknowledge his existence. He was staring intently at the photograph. His eyes were watery, and Michael could already see the fresh wounds developing under his eyes. Michael wasn't sure how much his father was remembering right now, so he started to explain things in a low and gentle tone.
"That picture was taken when you guys first met in L'Manburg." Still no response. This was usually how it went. Michael just had to keep talking about dad.
He spotted the flag in a crumpled ball on the floor and reached for it. "This was the flag." He said as he fanned it out. Michael slowly slid pinched fingers into the corners of the flag and started to fold it properly. He set it on the floor next to him and picked up another old photo. Tommy was in this one. The three of them were exploring abandoned Pogtopia, a place that Michael had heard of, but never seen. Then, his father reached forward and picked up a black and yellow striped flyer. The Bee 'N Boo. Michael had memories of its grand opening, but he hadn't visited the place in years.
"That's a flyer for the hotel you guys built. You were going to run it together and compete with Tommy's." Michael explained. He watched his dad flinch as a tear fell down his cheek. Michael searched the clutter until he found a small bottle of golden liquid. Attached to the cap was a cotton white cloth. He carefully opened the bottled and poured some of the sweet smelling liquid onto the fabric.
"Here." He said and gently pressed the cloth against his father's cheek. Dad reached up and took the cloth from Michael, silently whispering a thank you before scavenging through more of Tubbo's old belongings.
"What's that?" He asked, pointing to an old Walkman. Michael's heart cracked as he leaned over to pick it up. His dad used to listen to it all of the time. He'd burst into Michael's room unannounced doing stupid dances and singing along to the lyrics of random love songs. Sometimes he'd share the headphones with Michael and they'd sit on his bed and listen to his favorite mixtapes together.
"That's dad's old Walkman. You gave it to him as a present. You were always giving him things." Michael felt warm tears crawl down the sides of his cheeks. "He listened to it all the time." Michael opened the machine and pulled out the playlist that had been left inside. It had a sticker that read, "Ranboo's Recommended" written in sharpie. Michael put the tape back in the Walkman and placed it on the floor. He felt like a vulture, picking at all of these mementos of the past dragged out like the entails of a ghost. He swallowed a sore lump and brushed off some of the tears.
He watched his father pick up a small black box and open it. Inside were a pair of wedding bands. Dad plucked one from the box and examined It closely. He was quiet for a while before turning to Michael.
"How did it happen?" He asked longingly. Michael looked to the floor as guilt stabbed his heart. He knew this was coming. He took a deep breath and locked eyes with his father.
"It was an accident." He lied. "I ran away from home after an argument. I went to some cliffs far north. Dad found me, but it was raining and the edge of the cliff was slippery." More half truths. Michael hated recounting the story this way, but he'd seen what telling the truth did to his father. If he were to even mention the man's name, his father's eyes would rolled over to a dark purple and he would start speaking in a scary language that Michael didn't understand. He was never violent in that state, but he was a danger to himself what with the crying and clawing. Michael couldn't watch his dad go through that again. Lying was the only way to get through this.
Dad reached over and took Michael's hand.
"It wasn't your fault." He said in a reassuring tone despite the pain behind his eyes. Michael faked a small smile in response. Dad had no right to say that. He didn't know the whole story. He didn't know that Michael was a pawn in god's rigged game of chess. That he played bait to the vengeful villain. Guilt tore him apart from the inside like a rabies-crazed dog, still, Michael gave his father a nod of acceptance in response to keep up the illusion.
His father held his gaze for a few moments longer before looking back to the clutter of memories on the floor around them.
"I may not remember all the things we did, but I remember him. I remember his voice. His smile. His eyes. His laugh. I just don't-" Dad cut himself off as his voice finally broke and he started to cry. Michael gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I just don't know how I could ever forget." He said as his body writhed in pain from the tears he couldn't hold back. Dad held the cloth up to his face, but some of the tears trickled onto his hand, causing him wince in more pain. All Michael could do was hold his other hand.
They would sit here like this for hours. Day by day. Remembering all of the things they used to do together as a family. Dad would cry, and Michael would do his best to take care of him. Then, after all of the tears they would pack up Tubbo's belongings and place them gently back into the chest. Dad would say that he's too tired to do anything and Michael would nod in sympathy. Dad would stay in bed for the rest of the day and Michael would go back down to the first floor, all alone.
He would spend the day cleaning and gardening. Sometimes people stopped by baring gifts and pitied expressions. Sometimes dad would leave his room only to ask, "where's the bathroom?" or "do we have coffee?". Sometimes they'd talk for a bit before dad wondered back up to his room like a confused zombie. The sun would go down and Michael would make sure his dad was asleep before heading to bed himself. Michael would sit at the edge of his bed and cry before pulling the yellow baby blanket close to his face and falling asleep. The next day he would wake up to the familiar dull buzz of his morning routine.