#bluthcest

“I’m not Eve.”

Gob looked him straight in the eye.

“I don’t want Eve.”

And that time, Michael’s hands stopped, and Gob’s fingers undid the clasp of his pants.

Michael fit nicely against the wall. He was all soft and simple in Gob’s arms, a fucking pudge of a nerd, curled against his front with his hands clenched tightly in the Hawaiian-print shirt still gracing Gob’s shoulders. Even in his intoxicated state, Gob couldn’t help but compare him to Eve, the height and weight surprisingly similar, but the desperate way his baby brother clung to him, the way he could feel his muscles shaking against his in exertion, the knobbiness of the knees pressed against his sides…

Those were all very different.

He’d grinned through his alcoholic daze.

And Michael’s fingers had moved up to tighten in the curls of his hair.

Michael didn’t talk to him for a week after that. Every time they’d run into each other he’d clam up, face going red before he’d duck down and speed off in shame.

Shame that he’d let something like that happen.

Shame that he’d let Gob see him like that.

Gob just thought it was rather amusing.

The second time it happened, Michael was drunk. He showed up at Gob’s door fresh from a week at university, Gob himself staring at him befuddled before he pushed up on his toes, reaching around the taller boy’s neck and pulling him down until their mouths met.

Gob almost fell over in surprise, but as soon as he got his bearings, his lips widened in a grin, his hands found his little brother’s waist, and he quite gladly led him inside into his bedroom.

Michael pushed him back on the bed, hands not nearly as agile as Gob’s had been in his drunken state, but finding the front of Gob’s pants all the same. He didn’t even bother pushing them down all the way, already having enough trouble, so he moved on to his own, kicking them off and almost falling over in the process.

Gob grinned, making himself comfortable in the messy, unmade sheets while Michael’s bare legs straddled his pelvis. He brought his hands up to trace between them, finding the other boy’s hips and helping to guide him back onto the obvious evidence of his own arousal. Michael’s back arched wonderfully, sounds Gob had never been privy to choked out of the back of his throat. He even lasted a decent amount of time completely on his own, hands clenched in the sheets to Gob’s either side as his hips slid up and down, up and down, but it eventually became obvious by the way his legs were shaking and his lungs were gasping that he was running out of steam, so Gob smirked, thrusting upwards to match the earlier rhythm and enjoying the odd angle it caused in Michael’s upper body.

“Am I better than Tracey?”

Michael’s eyes opened wide, Gob’s hand having grabbed him between the legs and now tracing tantalising circles across the tip with his thumb. The spasm came quickly after that, almost visibly running up his spine as he bent backwards, high-pitched gasp torn from his throat.

Once it had worn off, though, the alcohol took its effect more fully and he came down with a slump on Gob’s chest, hair sticking to his forehead in clumps and muscles lax with fatigue. They stayed there like that for a while. Gob assumed the other boy was merely resting, but after about five minutes and three wispy yet obvious snores later, he came to the realization that Michael had actually fallen asleep.

And so he sighed to himself–a little burst of air as he collected Michael beneath the armpits and dragged him up the bed so he’d at least be under the covers.

Michael looked like a tossed ragdoll, all limp against the pillow like that, one hand splayed back on the sheets. Gob went ahead and rid himself of the rest of his own clothes before crawling over, pulling the smaller boy in against his chest and pushing his nose against the back of his head. Michael smelled like beer and sweat and California air.

Gob decided he could keep him until his brother inevitably broke into a panic.

The next morning, Michael didn’t talk much. He was surprisingly calm when he woke up, probably because the other Bluths were out of the house, walking into the kitchen still a bit dazed and just barely having his pants on his hips to find Gob fiddling uselessly with the toaster. After a couple awkward minutes of silence, Gob told him to go take a shower, supposing the same routine all his girlfriends had ought to do the trick.

Which Michael did.

After that, Gob told him they should have some toast together. So he did that too.

They sat at the small table in the kitchen. And Michael’s head stayed halfway buried inside a glass of orange juice and water Gob poured for him (because there wasn’t enough juice to fill the glass, since Gob drank most of it). They didn’t talk.

After that, Gob couldn’t really think of any way to get him to stay longer, so he found himself following Michael to the front door, Michael sliding his shoes on and smoothing the front of his already-smoothed shirt.

“So. I’ll see you winter break.”

Michael nodded in response. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched.

Michael stepped forward, one hand held out as if offering something.

Gob looked at him in confusion, but positioned his hand under the other’s all the same.

Michael dropped a key into it.

“In case you want to, uh… visit. At school.”

Gob’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

And then the silence returned.

Michael made his way out the door, a piece of burnt toast in one hand. Gob watched him a moment, then shut it with a click, resting his back immediately against it with his eyes a little wide and the key in a firmly closed hand against his chest.

The tiniest of smiles grew in the center of his face.

“Mikey?”

Michaelstared at the windows in their room at the darkened sky. He wasn’tsure what time it was, only that it was too damn late and Gobapparently couldn’t sleep either. “Mikey,”Gob hissed louder, apparently intending to wake him up if he wasn’talready awake.

He heard an angry huff, the only chance he had to brace himselfbefore Gob’s bed creaked and something – some knickknack off thebedside table – flew through the room and hit the back of his head.

Michaelflopped over to glare at his brother before picking up the toy andflinging it back at him way harder than was strictly necessary. “Whatthe fuck, Gob?”he whispered back.

“Ow,” Gob complained, sitting up and searching with hishands, but apparently his one piece of ammunition had bounced off hisface and landed somewhere else and he didn’t feel like looking forit. “I just wanted to talk.”

“I was asleep.”

“No, you weren’t,” Gob shot back. “You were ignoringme.”

“Close enough.”

“Come on, Michael, if you’re not sleeping, why can’t we talk?”

“Because we’re not a couple of girls at a sleepover.”

Gob made a disgruntled noise and rolled over so his back facedMichael. He fell into a silence for which Michael felt inexplicablyguilty. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Whatever.”

“Gob, don’t-”

Gobcurled up tighter in his blanket with another noise that soundedclose to a growl. Michael rolled his eyes and contemplated turningback around and staring out the window again, but… talking didn’thurt. Usually.

Making a slight concession, Michael slid out from beneath his coversand padded across the space to the other bed, sitting on the edge ofit.

“Goaway.”

“No. What d'you wanna talk about?”

“I don’t. Jesus, Michael. It was- it was a joke.”

Michael fought off a long-suffering sigh. Thanks to Gob scooting tothe far, far side of the bed, he had barely enough room to squeezeonto the small mattress, laying on top of Gob’s covers. Gob kicked athim, the movement hampered by their configuration so barely any forceactually hit him.

“Is it about graduation?” That was in a few months, somaybe-

“Ugh,” Gob groaned. “No. Not even a little.”

“So you are gonna talk to me.”

Gob tried to muscle him off, turning again on his back and nudging.Michael, somehow more curious than annoyed, sat up and swung himselfover his brother, frowning down at him from his hands and knees. Gobsulked visibly.

That alarmed Michael more than anything else. Gob usually brightenedwhen Michael was this close unless they were boyfighting.

“Tell me?” Michael allowed a soft pleading into his voice.

Gob was weak to it, his own expression faltering as he stoppedglaring at the ceiling and actually allowed himself to look at hisyounger brother. “Have you ever wanted to hate someone? But youjust couldn’t?”

Michael nodded slightly. He wanted to hate most of the family most ofthe time. They dragged him into their petty drama without thinkingabout what it might do to him, how stressful it could be. They’d beendoing it for as long as he could remember. But no matter how stupidthe problems, how many awkward situations he was expected to be apart of for someone else, he couldn’t… stop loving them?

“Who?” Gob asked, surprised and sounding almost hurt.

“Not you,” Michael answered, lied. The last time he’dreally wanted to hate Gob had been about twenty minutes ago when Gobhad first whispered his name. “Why?”

“And you won’t hate me?”

“Depends,” he said warily. “What are you thinking ofdoing that might make me hate you?”

“It’s not what I’m gonna do, Mikey. It’s… what Dad’s gonnado.”

Michael frowned. “I mean, he hasn’t made me hate you yet. Andhe’s tried.”

“Yeah,but I’ve been around,guy.”

“Well,where are you going?” Michael demanded more heatedly than hemeant to, feeling some strange anxiety when Gob wouldn’t just tellhim. Gob’s expression began to shutter again, another wall startingto come between them. “Why,”he started, switching tracks, “do you think I’ll hate you?”

“Dad’s kicking me out at the end of summer.”

“What?” Michael almost mouthed it, his voice was so soft,caught in his throat.

“Hetook me aside a few nights ago, said that if I don’t have a job – a’real’ one – and ifI’m not in college, then I’m out. And I, I know what you’re thinking,just 'go to college.’ But it’s not that simple. I mean-”

“So… we’ll find you a job.” Even as Michael said it, heknew it wouldn’t work. Gob didn’t work in the banana stand, bothbecause he didn’t want to and because no one particularly wanted himthere. He couldn’t imagine someone who wasn’t family hiring him.

“Just gonna give up on school right away, huh?” Gob’s mouthtwitched into a frown, but Michael knew, perhaps better than anyonein the family, that Gob wouldn’t last even a full semester before hegave up going to class, stopped trying to do homework, and droppedout. In fact, Michael was pretty sure Gob was only graduating highschool on time because of his willingness to acquire illegalparaphernalia requested by the teachers.

Not to mention there was the whole… reading thing that Gob hadnever been good at. The first time he’d seen a Q on a Queen in a deckof cards, Gob hadn’t known it was a real letter. It might have beenmore endearing if he hadn’t been 9 at the time.

“It doesn’t seem like your kind of place,” Michael admittedreluctantly.

“A fraternity might be,” Gob said, almost sounding hopeful.

“Still. Have to go to class-”

“Ugh.”

“-do homework-”

“No.”

“…You see where I’m going with this,” Michael guessed.

Gob nodded with another huff, eyes cutting to the side as his frowndeepened. “I want to hate him.”

“At least he’s giving you the summer.” Michael couldn’thelp but defend their dad. It was ingrained into him, that thingscould be worse, and they should be grateful that they weren’t.

“Yeah.”Gob continued to sound miserable. “The whole summer to ride myass about what a failure I am.” His jaw tightened, body goingstiff beneath Michael’s as he tried to get his emotions undercontrol. “He- he doesn’t do this to you because you’re perfectMichael, the kid they wanted. Lindsay and Buster, they wanted-”

“Hey,hey, they-” Okay, he couldn’t lie and say that they’d wantedGob, but he was too far into the sentence to back out completely fromtrying to comfort his brother. “They don’t know how lucky theyare,” he finished lamely.

Gob scoffed. “I mean, duh. Look at me. I’m great.” Hedidn’t sound completely sure of that, himself.

“And I’m not perfect. They just… think that.” Michaelsighed, exhaustion settling on him like a weight. His own gazewandered away, his bottom lip drawn between his teeth. “No, theydon’t even… They push me to be perfect, and I- I do it. As much asI can. And one day? I’m not gonna be able to do it anymore.”

“Ofcourse you will,” Gob said, his voice more serious, morecertain. “You’re Michael.”

Michael was shaking slightly, both from the effort of holding himselfup and with the knowledge that when their parents found out hisweaknesses, he’d be no better off than Gob. If he ever stoppedpushing, they… They would hate him for misleading them, for notbeing an obvious waste of time and energy before they spent so muchof both on him.

“Hey, Mikey. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It will be, right?” Michael glanced down at him, annoyed,but Gob was watching him back with a steady earnestness that was,unfortunately, endearing. “No matter what they think. We’ll haveeach other.”

It was a childish way to look at things, but Michael found himselfnodding. “No matter what happens. Yeah, of course we’ll haveeach other.”

Gob cracked a tentative smile, and before Michael could think betterof it, he leaned down and brushed his lips over his brother’s. It hadjust… happened. And Michael was too tired to follow it up with hisusual lines of protests and excuses.

When he leaned back up, Gob’s smile had widened into that warm, fondexpression that looked as if he could start glowing.

Michael nudged him, and Gob shuffled until they could lay next toeach other, Michael’s head nuzzled beneath his brother’s, breathingwith him. He didn’t intend to stay in Gob’s bed for the night, butfor now?

The cancer came out of nowhere, as these things were prone to. Tracey didn't even have any family history of it, and she was relatively healthy as far as Michael knew, but it wasn't like the world was nice enough to warn you every time something bad was going to happen. Even if, in the grand scheme of things, you were supposed to be a good person (and Tracey was one of the best people Gob knew). In any case, good person or not, it didn't change the fact that Michael was now a single parent. A single parent to an eleven year old boy.

Gob remembered the phone call. How could he not? It happened less than a week ago, at three a.m. on a cold December morning. The details were burned into his brain: the fading scent of sex lingering in the air, the nameless woman snoring on his pillow, the calmness to Michael's voice, the early December chill creeping its way through Gob's bones, the fact that it was going to be Michael's birthday in less than twenty-four hours. It was one of the worst experiences of his life, hearing Michael crumble the way he did, but as he watched George Michael cling onto his father's hand, his cheeks pink in the cold, he told himself there had to be hope left in this world somewhere.

Click.

A few weeks later, Michael told him: "She wanted to divorce me."

"I'm sorry--" Gob was blindsided for a moment, certain Michael and Tracey were supposed to be the happy couple in all of this. "--what?"

Michael didn't enjoy Gob staying around George Michael too often, claiming him to be a "bad influence", but the sitter cancelled and George Michael was too sad to be alone, so he called Gob to take over while he handled a few late night things at the company. The past few times he babysat for George Michael, they'd watched Star Wars without fail, and Gob was getting so tired of it he caved and bought George Michael some Monopoly pieces. He thought he'd get him the rest of the board game another time, but that the pieces would at least be enough for some make believe.

It wasn't so bad, though, babysitting. George Michael was a good kid, if not like an awkward photocopy of Gob's baby brother as they grew up, but he liked the same ice cream flavours Gob did and didn't mind when Gob took him out to impress the ladies as a "good single dad". They did, of course, have a tacit understanding that Michael wasn't supposed to know about the ice cream and pick-up game, and it was working pretty well so far.

Anyways, Michael shrugged and tossed one last piece of dirty laundry into the hamper. Gob was asked to do the washing, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't. "She hated that I had to wait for her to get better." He paused. "That, you know, being married to... to, to a sick person was weighing me down.

"She said--we haven't even lived together in months. That this was how she could make it right for me."

Gob's mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't find the energy to snap it shut. Who would divorce Michael?

Glancing up at him, Michael smiled sadly (as he so often did, Gob noticed) and chuckled. "I know," he said, then let out a sigh heavier than Gob thought he could carry. "Believe me. I know."

Then he left for work and Gob was left with George Michael. It turned out that Monopoly was useless without the board, but Gob decided to pull out all the stops as they played Return of the Jedi on the television: he held the lightsabre and all, made the schwoom schwoom noises as he fought his nephew. George Michael used to be really good at this, Gob supposed, as he wasn't sure what 'good' constituted in nerd world, but he was sure that having George Michael all distracted and a little sniffly was not what a good fight constituted. By the end of it George Michael decided to curl against Gob's side and pass out a full half hour before bedtime, and he wasn't even all that tuckered out.

Instead of waking George Michael up for their promised ice cream and pick-up game, Gob deposited him into his bed, awkwardly stood by the side of it, and then flipped the light off. He took a moment, however, to stand in the doorway and watch him sleep peacefully; Gob never had any particular want to make babies, but if he did, he thought a kid like George Michael wouldn't be the end of the world.

Click.

Rollo wouldn't stop bitching at him about the lack of magic practise, and if he weren't so fucking scary, Gob would definitely punch him in the kidney. The thing is, Rollo could probably take him (or at least match him punch for punch) and they had some Chinese New Year show coming up, so really, maybe they should try to smush in at least one more final practise before the actual gig.

If there was one thing Gob wanted as a kid, it wasn't to be a magician, but little Michael used to watch him with sparkling eyes every time he did it, and in the end it turned out that doing magic would help get him out of P.E., so it became a dream. What little Gob really wanted was a train set big enough to ride, but since that was more difficult, he was working on the whole being a magician thing, even though Michael didn't admire him any more and Gob had to demand to be taken seriously.

For the moment, he was the second half of a magic duo called The Magicians Named Gob and Rollo, and they were good at explosions and dancing and handkerchief shit and sometimes doves. It wasn't glamorous (yet, but Gob couldn't find a right set of legs for that level up) and they didn't make much money (yet, but Gob had dreams of starting a Magician's Alliance, and he felt if he kissed his dad's ass enough he could get some cash from him), but either way, Gob loved getting up on stage and blowing people's minds, even if it meant his family thought he was an idiot. At least he got free drinks at the Gothic Castle. (Gob was a man with his priorities in order.)

They finalised their third song's choreography for the show (to It's My Life by Bon Jovi, which was too slow for Gob's tastes, but Rollo was sick of The Final Countdown) when they took a break.

"So, your brother’s wife wanted to divorce him?" Rollo asked, dice flicking between his long fingers.

Gob sipped his water, nodding. "Yeah. Something about how dying made her a shitty wife."

"That's like some E.R. level shit," Rollo replied, flicking the dice out onto the stage.

"Worse is that my brother's pretending it didn't matter to him." Gob pressed the bottle of water against his lower lip and pondered, leaning against the speaker on the floor. "I mean, come on, his wife was dying and now she was talking about leaving him? Christ..." He trailed off for a moment, looking elsewhere with a sigh. "He gets this sad little smile sometimes, and it's like. Just cry already, for Pete's sake. Fucking robot."

Rollo snorted, then moved to gather their dummy doves up, if only because they didn't want to kill any more doves practising before the actual show. It took a few moments before Gob returned to planet earth and watched Rollo do what he did best for a minute, and then he smiled and picked the last dove up to go back to him.

Click.

"What is that? What are you doing with your hands?"

Gob jumped, startled out of his skin and nearly dropping his champagne flute. He was never that fond of champagne--it was too girly, really--but hey, it was free, and he was never the type to turn down a free drink, even if it came from his mother.

"God, mother, you scared me." Gob scowled and looked away from her.

Lucille straightened, reaffirming her spot next to Gob and brushing imaginary dust from the shoulders of his suit. It was the fourth year in a row that she was hosting this annual Valentine's party, and Gob was having a hard time remembering why he always went along with her. Didn't he move out of Balboa Towers, like, six years ago? And yet Gob still found himself returning to her stupid parties whenever she invited him. He could admit that sometimes his mother was amusing, but that was only when she wasn't being a total bitch to him.

"That horrible thing with your hands, what was that about?" she asked again, holding her own hands up in mockery.

Gob frowned deeper. "A picture."

"I'm sorry," Lucille began, crinkling her nose at him. "What was that?"

"I was taking... a picture, mum," Gob replied, irritated. He lifted his hands again as if holding a camera, framing a shot of George Michael in a sweater that matched Michael's while his father poured juice for him. The two of them were talking, Michael looking like he was scolding him a little, and George Michael looking panicked because his father was pouring him juice and he didn't know how to hold the plate of cake he had with just one hand.

Lucille looked at him blankly for a moment, then rolled her eyes before leaving, muttering, "Don't even have a camera with you--who dropped you on the head as a baby?"

Gob drank the last of his champagne, dropping it on a waiter's tray, then scowled as he crossed his arms in annoyance. He just wanted to make a memory, was that so bad?

"If mother was in a sweater like that, I'd want to make a memory of it, too," Buster piped up behind him, hands landing on Gob's shoulders and massaging him until Gob smacked him away in protest. "But only because it'd really go with her hair, I think, just like how it goes with George Michael's, while on Michael it's more..."

"Oh my God, why are you people trying to talk to me?" Gob groaned, exasperated. "Would you leave me alone, please?" He really needed another drink, and now that he thought about it he wanted some of that cake that George Michael was having, and he didn't want it to run out before he got to it.

An hour later, George Michael was passed out, his arms folded atop a table and his cheek resting on them. Michael rubbed a hand lightly up and down his back.

Gob, unsure why he was still at this party, stood across the room, and managed a small smile as he brought his hands up once more. This time, he made sure he was out of his mother’s eye-shot.

Click.

"I was in a gay movement once," Tobias told him, apropos of nothing during a rare visit to Newport Beach. Maeby and Lindsay were at the banana stand with George Michael and his father, leaving Gob here to test out his brand new Segway while Tobias was... Tobias.

Gob coughed, turning slowly with wide eyes that likely betrayed him. Tobias was smiling, rocking on the balls of his feet as if announcing he was some gay protester to his brother-in-law was no big deal. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Oh, it was wonderful," Tobias continued, smiling off into space. "They had all the best parties! I met a lot of beautiful women there, but, well, it turned out they were more into other women--except Lindsay, who, I think, liked this man named Robert who had the strongest arms..."

"Uh. Okay?" Gob turned away from him again, shaking his head. He'd always suspected Tobias of it, had done so for years now, but an actual gay experience was news to him.

Wait. Lindsay was with lesbians?

"Well, I'm just saying," Tobias commented just over Gob's shoulder, making him jump and squeak a little and nearly fall off his Segway. Tobias placed a hand on his back to steady him, chuckling. "Maybe you should take Michael to one, what with how worried you've been. They're really quite fun, and someone of his dry humour would be well appreciated. Maybe you can even do that today! I'll take George Michael off your hands, and--"

Gob stared at him for a long moment, confused as all fuck about why George Michael would be his responsibility. Then he remembered that Michael had been calling the sitter less and Gob more and. Huh. When was the last time Gob actually played ice cream and pick up?

"--it would be fabulous, just fabulous." Tobias clapped his hands together, smiling.

Click.

George Michael's friends took him out for the weekend, so Michael was taking a break and trying to be happy that his son's friends were making him feel better as much as they could. Gob knew that Michael appreciated these efforts, even if he worried about his son all the time and not enough about himself. The world might be shitty, what with Tracey passing on, but at least Michael still had George Michael, and from the way Michael treated him and looked at him and talked about him, George Michael was probably the greatest thing he could ever have in his life.

Gob arrived at Michael's door at 7 p.m. with a case of beer and an action/thriller/semi-romance film, even though the romance was really just gratuitous D-cups with a muscled man. It was weird not having George Michael around, which he noticed every time Michael turned to where George Michael would often sit on the sofa as if he had to tell him to cover his eyes at the sex scenes, and then turned back at the television looking humbled.

George Michael's birthday was in a few weeks. Gob was continuing watching movies with him for reasons he couldn't quite figure out, but since Michael's decision to overwork meant he'd finished months' worth of it in a few weeks and also got himself some free time, sometimes Michael was initiated into the league of rebels as well (awful Darth Vader voice and lightsabre sound effects and all). In the back of his mind Gob thought that it was almost like they were a normal family, except for the fact that Gob was Michael's brother, and they both had dicks, and also Gob was pretty sure he was only thinking about Michael all the time because he was worried about Michael's well-being and nobody ever seemed to worry about the most functional Bluth in the family.

Whatever--he shrugged when the thought came to mind and grinned through it. Families were what you made of them, not what you were born with, so even though Michael was born his brother, they could be co-parents if Michael wanted them to be. Not that that would be a thing, Gob supposed, since even though he'd been concerned about Michael raising George Michael alone, a few months in showed his baby brother doing just fine.

At least, until they started drinking.

It was four beers and thirty minutes into the film when Michael lost it. Gob had never seen him cry and he wasn't sure what to do with himself--hug him? Pat him on the back? Awkwardly sit at the other end of the couch and wait it out? Yeah, he figured, he'd go with that one. Unfortunately, he survived only thirty seconds of silent weeping and watching Michael's back shake with the effort, curled up into himself, before he broke and slid back to pull Michael close to him.

"It'll be okay," Gob said, patting Michael awkwardly on the back. Of course, now wasn't the time to be thinking about how nice Michael smelled or, Jesus, how Michael used to hold Gob like this when he cried because of their parents, and how Michael had always been there for him, and how Gob was being there for him now, and how much he loved his brother and how being there for him the past few months had given him a weird sense of purpose. Now was the time to be comforting Michael, he told himself, even though Michael lifted his head to look at him with puffy eyes and tears streaming down his face...

And Gob thought, Oh, shit. I'm going to swoop on him.

So their lips met somewhere in the middle of all that, like some rift opened up in time and space and Gob was falling through it slowly. Part of him felt bad about taking advantage of his innocent brother in need, but Michael's lips were softer than he thought they would be (not that he imagined such things any more, no, of course not) and he wasn't exactly forcing himself onto said innocent brother. If anything, Michael was... kind of enthusiastically returning Gob's every kiss, every breath, every sigh. And then they pulled apart in tandem and Gob was frozen in the moment, torn between laughing with joy and screaming with terror.

What the hell did he just do?

Oh, right, he just made out with his baby brother. That was it.

Michael smiled a bit hazily for a moment, sending Gob's heart into a leap... before it plunged into darkness at the same time Michael's expression fell.

"Shit," Michael breathed, bringing one hand up to rub at his face.

"Yeah," Gob agreed. He wasn't sure what he was agreeing to, but he really wanted to get back to that part where they were kissing.

Michael stood, moving away, clicking the television off. He refused to look at Gob's face, and for one fleeting moment, Gob thought: holy crap, shit just got real. But then Michael turned and it was like all the joy had been sucked out of the room--Gob had a fleeting moment of wondering where the fucking Dementor was when he realised, no, it was just Michael staring him like that with a look Gob was all too familiar with.

"We can't do this," Michael said, and Gob could practically do the speech along with him.

"You're my brother," Gob said flatly, looking down at his hands. "You can't make a living as a magician. You're my brother. How do I explain it to George Michael? You're my brother, Gob, and I appreciate you being here for me, but we're brothers and we stopped doing this in high school for a reason, and..."

Looking back up, Gob saw the battle raging behind Michael's eyes for the first time in his entire life. There was want there, and need, and desire, and confusion, and sadness, and rage, and Gob always figured he'd only ever see that Molotov cocktail of emotion whenever he looked into the mirror, so it threw him off more than he wanted to admit.

But he grinned. "Hey, Mikey. It's okay. I get it."

He was at the door when Michael caught his arm.

"Listen, Gob," Michael said quietly. "I can't. I want to, but I can't. I have to think of George Michael. I have to be a mother and a father, and this is wrong, and I just... I can't."

Gob laughed, pulling his arm away. "I know," he replied. "George Michael comes first--needs good role models or something, right? Look, let me know if you want me to have him next week for Star Wars. Or not, 'cause I get it either way."

Holding up his hands, Gob fought back the tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

Click.

It's almost Christmas! Gob wrote in scribbly, awkward lettering. Hope you've been a cool kid. You write to Santa yet? Do you still do that? I'll be home in time for Gangy's Christmas party, so you better be there, kiddo. It's been way too long.

Gob finished the letter off and stuffed it in an envelope. It was the latest in a long string of pen pal letters to his favourite guy. Sometimes he asked about Michael, but he kept it as light and fun as possible. George Michael was going to be in middle school soon, too smart for his own good and not confident enough to make friends. Gob missed him everyday.

He sighed, leaning back in his especially comfy seat. They were cruising at about ten thousand or so metres above the ocean, coming back from a show in Denver. Following "the incident" (as Rollo named it), The Magicians Named Gob and Rollo had a good show, received sponsors, and earned enough for Gob to start the Magicians' Alliance. Gob threw himself into magic, making new tricks with even better music, but creative differences with Rollo had them splitting as a duo a few months in. He said something about how Gob shouldn't reference Star Wars so much in his tricks on his way out, and Gob had only countered with the Force being the most magical thing the world probably had to fucking offer.

Either way, his new manager, a pretty girl named Marta trying to make her big break in acting, curiously looked on as Gob sealed his latest letter to George Michael. The return letters had all been wonderful, pictures of George Michael and his father as they went through their year littered throughout. It'd been months since Gob last saw him... since he last saw his dad.

"You're becoming famous now, Gob," Marta said, head cocking slightly. Gob wasn't sure how to deal with her, because his instinct told him to flirt with her and fuck her, but Marta had two kids, and experience told him that wanting to fuck anyone with a kid would probably end in disaster. "You might have to be more careful about what you put in your letters."

Gob snorted, reclining in his chair. "I doubt the press'll be real interested in my twelve year old penpal," he replied. He could hear Marta breathe a quiet sigh of relief, then wondered what it was she thought of him if she thought Gob was writing dirty or inappropriate letters. Granted, Gob didn't have the best image, but still--he was an all right guy. Gob Bluth, upstanding citizen! (Never mind the fact that she'd seen him bring girls back to his hotel room, and...)

By the time they were back in Newport Beach, Gob had one more show, another woman in another hotel room, bad food, and a midnight run to get himself some booze. More than once he'd found himself missing Star Wars night--even the lightsabres. He told George Michael this in one of his letters and even went out to buy a Stormtrooper sticker for the seal.

It was Christmas Eve when he actually found himself a spot of free time. Gob couldn't believe it'd been over a year since Tracey passed, and that it'd been nearly a year since he last spoke to Michael. Nine months and fourteen days, to be exact, but who was counting?

His mother's party was already in full swing when Gob got there, fancy wine in hand. Marta tagged along this year, both her sons excited about free food and unlimited juice and the chance to relax with their mother for a few days. They weren't even totally through the door when Buster found himself startled by Marta, and then enchanted by her, and Gob had to reach out to grab his shoulder and say: "Yeah, I'll forgive you for not saying hi to your brother first, but try not to scare my manager off with your weird, huh?"

Marta tilted her head, looking back. "What was that?"

"Oh!" Buster jumped, half hiding behind his hands as he glanced away. Gob released him, watching as Buster stumbled away, and Marta was left doing the same for a moment before her sons tugged her along. Shaking his head, he scanned the room for his own special people, and--

There they were, like no time had passed at all. Except George Michael was taller, his hair was cut shorter, and those god-awful dental equipment was finally out of his mouth. He was wearing a suit, as he tended to for Christmas things, but Gob could tell this one was new--he was growing up now, the nerd, and he needed new suits and. Gob's heart was in his throat, weird enough, and when he heard George Michael call "Uncle Gob!" before heading over to him and giving him a hug, he swore to God he was going to start crying somehow.

Gob laughed, though, and returned it. "It's good to see you too, kiddo." And he meant it, because as they pulled back he could see George Michael was doing much better than he was when Gob had last seen him. The chubby was back in his cheeks, in the same way that Michael's cheeks were when he was a kid, and...

A voice he'd been waiting for said, "Click."

So Gob turned, looking at Michael, who was smiling at him with hands raised in camera formation. Gob's stomach went tight as feelings came rushing back anew: the want, and the need, and the fear of the unknown. But all these were pushed away as Michael wrapped an arm around George Michael and used the other to pull Gob's head down into his shoulder, his lips brushing over his temple.

"Welcome home," he said, bringing his hand down to grasp Gob's free one. "It's good to see you again."

George Michael looked between them, confused for a moment, but then settled for taking Gob's other hand in the same way Michael's did. "Yeah, like dad said."

Hiscellphone rings several hours after Michael’s gone to bed. Michaelattempts to ignore it, but he gets about three rings in before he’ssitting up, pulling the phone to his ear without even checking whothe caller is.

“What’shappening?”

“Michael.”

Michaelalmost hangs up reflexively at the sound of his brother speakingheatedly, angry. “Gob. What is it?”

Gobdoesn’t say anything at first, breathing heavily as he tries to gethis thoughts in line. Michael eyes the digital clock on his bedsidetable, grimacing when it’s 2:30 in the morning. He’s about to askagain or tell him goodnight, because if Gob’s calling him this late,he’s probably drunk. But Michael also knows that he’s perpetually oncall to solve the family’s problems, so he gives him a moment more.

“Hebroke up with me.”

Michael’seyes widen. “Gob,” he says, gentler, but Gob steams ahead,rambling angrily.

“H-he- he, he doesn’t want to be with- with a guy who can’t- doesn’twant to be- Because I’m n- not some kind of fairy.”

Michaelknows that Gob doesn’t mean it. Gob had been happier, more at peacesince coming to terms with his attraction to men and especially toTony. This isn’t only the product of internalized homophobia –though Gob would probably take a lifetime of therapy to work throughthat completely. He’s hurt and throwing up walls, trying to pin theblame anywhere but himself.

Gobdoes this constantly but especially when it’s something that mattersto him.

Inthe end, asking for clarification – which Michael desperatelywants because he’s nosy – isn’t going to make this better. “Whereare you?” Michael asks, breaking through his brother’sramblings.

“Theyacht,” Gob answers in a tone of voice that implies the ’idiot’at the end of the sentence.

“I’llbe right over.”

“No!”Gob says too loudly, then tries to laugh it off. “I mean, no,right? I don’t need you to- to come over so I can cry on yourshoulder or something, geeze, Mikey.”

That’sexactly what Gob needs.

“Imean it’s just- we’re just-” he tries to keep the energy going.“He just left,and I- because I-” There’s a heavy beat of silence. When Gobnext speaks, it sounds lost, hurt, “What did I do?”

“Idon’t know, Gob.”

Gob’sbreathing shakes, and he stammers a few times, trying to find theexcuses, the self defense from whatever mistake he made that led toTony leaving.

Gob’sBad Decision was, this time, thinking that because a relationship hadseemed perfect that there would be no bumps, no fights, nocomplications.

IfMichael’s honest, he doesn’t want to do this. He’s tired, and itprobably hasn’t occurred to Gob to own up to his mistake and try tofix it, which means the Tony Wonder train definitely hasn’t left thestation for good. He just has to run to catch it.

ButGob is, above all other things – stolen kisses in the hallways whenthey were teenagers, crushing hugs that remind Michael what it’s liketo be beneath him, everything that used to be but can’t be anymorebecause there’s no excuses now – Michael’s brother.

“I’llbe right over,” he repeats firmly, and this time, Gob doesn’targue.