When Michael had outgrown the concept that his father was immortal, he soon became convinced that he would die in a way that was violent and bloody. In any case, there was no way that he would go quietly. For the larger part of his teenage years, Michael spent most of his time waiting on middle-of-the-night phone calls; alerting him that some alcohol diseased collision or bar brawl gone wrong had finally taken him. He waited for one of the many people his father had pissed off to finally come and take their revenge.
It was a surprise, and sort of a relief when, late at night, a heart attack finally took him. He was alone, of course, in his apartment. No one was around to hear the scream he probably didn't make, clutching his chest while his knees buckled beneath him, crumbling like an old building after it had just been blown to pieces.
No one knew if this is what it looked like when he died. Samuel Campbell found him - which was fitting in a way, considering he'd been cleaning up his messes over the past twenty years - and by that time, he was long gone, the colour drained from his features.
The hospital announced him Dead on Arrival. The funeral was a week later.
All things considered, Michael handled it just fine. After the funeral there were no real breakdowns or alcohol binges; life continued for those who he had left to live it.
The only real evidence of Michael's grief were the nightmares. Dreams where he'd found himself in the room with his father, witness to a hundred different versions of the attack that stole his father. He'd wake up in a cold sweat, falling asleep again after turning on a few lights, maybe the television. Anything to make his lonely apartment seem fuller than it was. No one was around to witness it, so as far as they knew, Michael was doing just fine.
He was fine when they picked out the coffin. When they attended the funeral. He was fine when his family started talking about the man in the past tense. And he was fine, that Sunday, when they packed up what was left of his fathers belongings from his apartment on the edge of town.
The early-October air was cool and their breath rose in puffs around them as they spoke, but Michael's skin still prickled with heat as he pushed the last few boxes into the back of his car.
"Strange, isn't it?" Gabriel said, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. "He was here for almost fifteen years... and all we found worth saving was a box of old pictures and a couple of jackets."
"It was dad's, Gabriel." He didn't look at his younger brother, just slammed the trunk closed. "You know what he was like."
Gabriel pressed his lips together and nodded, ignoring the feeling in his gut.
Susan walked around the side of the car, autumn wind pulling strands of hair across her face. She looked up at the tatty building and sighed.
"I will miss your father; even though he drove me crazy." She said. "But I will not miss this place."
"Come on," Gabriel teased, trying to lighten the situation, "Whiskey. Dust. Testosterone. It's got you written all over it."
Susan laughed softly, before moving her eyes to Michael. He was barely paying attention, staring at the building as if it was his worst enemy.
"Michael," She said quietly, Michael turned to her. "Why don't you come over for dinner tonight?"
Her eyes were tight and filled with worry. She probably thought Michael was going to go home and drink himself into a coma. But in reality, he was planning to go home, crawl in to bed and not emerge again till morning. Since it wasn't even seven o'clock, he decided that probably wasn't healthy either.
"Yeah," Gabriel supported, a small smile on his lips. "Kali's gonna meet us there; just the four of us. It'll be great."
Michael looked between his brother and his Mom, unsure. For years, Sunday dinners had been a family tradition for the four of them - even after they'd moved out. After his fathers death, the tradition quickly died off. Michael knew that it was probably his fault.
He wasn't sure why he was so reluctant to go, his father didn't live there anymore - hell, his parents had been divorced for nearly twenty years - so it's not like his absence would be more prominent in the house. Still, Michael found himself racking his brain for an excuse not to go over.
Looking at his mother, she was smiling. But he could tell she was worried, her eyes were tight and drawn. Michael felt himself give in.
"Yeah, okay."
Michael had always liked washing dishes. There was something soothing about the warm water, the satisfying process of washing and drying. It was really the only cleaning he had the patience for. Which is probably why his kitchen was always so clean, while clothes were thrown all over the place, and books and papers cluttered the worktops.
He leaned against the kitchen counter, drying the clean dishes that were handed to him. Gabriel and Kali still sat at the table. Kali's face was lit up with a warm smile and Gabriel laughed quietly, Michael's eyes softened.
"She seems a little better, doesn't she?" Michael asked his mother quietly. Susan looked over her shoulder at her step-daughter, a sad smile coming across her lips.
"She does. I think she's coming to terms with it."
"It's good." Michael stated, turning and putting a bowl back in its rightful spot in the cupboard. Susan watched him, aimlessly moving her hands around in the water.
"How about you? How are you holding up?" She asked, worried lines creasing her forehead.
Michael's go to response was to respond "I'm fine", but he could never really say that to his mom. Partly because she never believed him, mostly because he couldn't live with himself if he lied to her. He looked over at her, his eyes pleading her not to make him say it aloud.
She nodded silently and averted her gaze to the water.
"Michael..." She broke the silence, "I'm worried about you. I don't see you anymore, you never go out by the sounds of it. How do I know you're taking care of yourself?"
Michael swallowed guiltily. Most of the time he never managed to eat. It was like her forgot about it. He was hardly ever hungry, and he'd forget to pick up something to eat. Cooking suddenly seemed like too much of a chore, despite how much he used to enjoy it. Tonight he seemed to snap out of it, mainly because his family was there. It felt safe and familiar. He'd suddenly realised how hungry he was so he stuffed himself full of pasta and pie. Now he felt uncomfortably full, as if his stomach was fighting against the presence of actual food.
"All I'm saying," Susan continued as she felt her son shutting down. "Is that you're in a rut. You need something new. Maybe someone new.."
Michael let his head fall and a sigh escaped his lips. "What do you want me to do, mom? Join OkCupid?"
Susan's head turned towards her son. "Hey, attitude." She raised her eyebrows but there was a smile on her face, sarcasm was good. She pulled the drain in the sink, drying her hands on the towel. "Just try to get out more. And come round more too, you think I don't wanna see you?"
Michael let himself look properly shameful. "Sorry. I will."
She smiled, reaching her hand up to rest a hand on Michael's cheek. He let out a small breath, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch. She stroked his cheek gently with her thumb, before moving away to join Kali at the table.
Gabriel walked into the kitchen as she left, carrying his and Kali's empty wine glasses, red streaks staining the sides. Michael wrinkled his nose at them. Ever since Gabriel started attending college he had acquired a taste for red wine, even though Michael was fairly sure you don't drink the stuff unless you've got a sustainable amount of grey in your hair. He picked up his beer, eyeing Gabriel as he walked past.
"Look at you, helping with the dishes." Gabriel teased. "Total mama's boy."
Michael smirked. "You know it. At least I helped, all you did was drain a bottle of Chateau-whatever."
"Hey, I helped make dinner!" Gabriel retorted.
Michael nodded. "I forgot, you're a housewife now." His voice turned softer as he looked at him. "How's Kali doing?"
Gabriel took a breath. "Better, thank god. She's got an appointment next week, but I think the last miscarriage was...it was too much."
Michael nodded and shifted uncomfortably. Right after Gabriel and Kali had tied the knot, a baby was the first thing on their to do list. But three years down the line and two miscarriages later, they still had nothing but a half-finished nursery that was unbelievably painful to look at.
Gabriel seemed as reluctant to talk as Michael because he changed the subject. "I ran into Dean at the store earlier. He said to kick you in the balls if I got the chance - what did you do?"
Without thinking, Michael crossed his legs and sneered. "I told him I'd go to Jo's with him and Garth. I kinda...bailed last minute."
Gabriel gave him an agitated look. "Since when is it so hard to get you into a bar?"
Michael shrugged and shook his head. "They're just not my kind of scene anymore." It was mostly true. He had enough memories from clubs and bars from his college years. Still, that hadn't stopped him a year ago.
"This is ridiculous." Gabriel shook his head. "You can't live like a hermit."
Michael cocked an eyebrow. "Shut up."
"Whatever, it's your problem." Gabriel shrugged. "You've got your hands full. He seemed pretty pissed."
"Great." Michael muttered.
When Michael got home that night, he found things exactly the way he left them. Kitchen counters were clean, the sink was empty, and there was still day old coffee sitting at the bottom of the pot. There was a case of empty beer bottles sitting at the door, waiting to be taken out to recycling. A pile of clothes sat heaped on top of the washer, as if they were going to clean themselves. He must've left the TV on, because a Patriots game flashed light into the living room, though the sound was low.
It was quiet. It was supposed to be home, but it didn't feel like it. Even though he had lived there for a while now and he hid himself away in it so often, he secretly hated it. He put his favourite beer in the fridge, played his favourite albums on the record player, but nothing ever clicked.
He sighed heavily and threw his keys, jacket and phone onto the table beside the door. He walked over the fridge, squinting as the light shined in his face. He contemplated cracking open a third beer but decided against it, closing the door. He wandered into the living room, closing the blind against the soft Houston city lights. He wanted the window to look onto a backyard, maybe a garage so his car didn't have to sit in a parking lot. He wanted something more than a wall to separate him from his neighbours.
What would he do with a house? He was only one person. One person needed one apartment: one bedroom, one couch, one toothbrush beside the sink in the bathroom. He encouraged himself not to worry about it and he fell onto the couch. He managed to pull off his jeans, but nothing else. Soon enough he was asleep, soothed by the TV's quiet murmur.