Michael was a keen observer. He saw the way that Gob acted with everyone else, and he saw the way he acted with him. He saw how he ignored or tossed cruel questions toward Buster, he saw how he disregarded Lindsay, except if she maybe had an idea he wanted to take as his own. It was only with him that the confident exterior would so readily crumble, and he'd see a man who thought he had very little worth.

This was their parents' fault, both of them in equal measure. His mother seemed to blatantly dislike him and his father…well, his father was dishonest toward him in a way his mother wasn't. His father would tell Gob what he wanted to hear, what he craved to hear, only to serve some hidden agenda that his father had.

He didn't see much physical affection from Gob toward the others. It was only him that Gob would embrace in a crushing hug, pressing his face against his. He would always end the hug, disentangling himself from his brother's arms.

It was late, the lamp in the corner of the living room casting a circle of light that faded into the shadows of the corners. He was pretending to work, holding papers in front of his face, making the odd notation. What he was really doing was watching Gob, unobserved, his eyes crawling over him. They were alone in the model home. Gob lay on the smaller of the two faux leather couches, stretched out on his stomach, his back arched slightly. His feet hung over the edge by the arm rest. Michael saw the way the thin material of Gob's clothes clung to his body and draped over it, he saw the angle of his arm as he struggled to hold a glass of some amber liquid, a deep amber that glistened in the glass, and Michael wondered what kind of alcohol it was. He wondered how drunk Gob was. Like most of the Bluths Gob could hold his liquor, but how long had he been drinking?

It didn't matter how much he had been drinking or not drinking. It didn't matter because he wouldn't act on anything, his desire to fall into one of Gob's hugs, to feel crushed and then somehow renewed, to taste his brother's tears, the salt burning his tongue. He would finish pretending to work and Gob would sleep on that couch, or get up and disappear somewhere into the night, going God knew where and with God knew who.

"Mikey?" Gob said, his name only slightly slurred, his eyes only slightly shut. He looked up from the work he was pretending to do with his patient but essentially preoccupied look, his look that said he would take some time from his business to deal with someone else, but only for the briefest of moments.

"Yes?" He wanted to go over there, to see if there was enough room on that small couch for the both of them. He wanted their legs and arms to tangle up, he wanted to feel the taut muscles that were beneath Gob's clothes.

"Come here," Gob's already deep voice dropped an octave, and he could hear that voice like gravel and sandpaper, the timbre of it making him ache with some undefined longing. He could remember when Gob's voice first deepened when they were kids, his voice still high and girlish, but Gob suddenly sounded like a man. It took him by surprise for so long, and he knew that for that brief period of time he was a child while Gob was something more.

"Why? Gob, I'm working…" It was always some excuse, something else he had to do to keep his brother at arm's length. But the hour was late and he felt himself getting worn down, he felt himself wanting to sip from the glass Gob held loosely in his hand, the deep amber swirling around the melting ice cubes that clicked against the side of the glass.

Maybe he would. He'd fold up all his pretend work and he'd sit on the end of the couch, take small sips of the scotch or whiskey and let it burn down his throat and into his stomach, he'd let it explode there and wear away his fears and reservations. Gob had turned to look at him now, his eyes seeming to search for him across the dim room. It was too dark to see the color of his eyes, but Michael knew it by heart. He knew the almost deep green of Gob's eyes in harsh artificial light and the lighter aqua green in sunlight. He knew how the light freckles looked on his face and how they became more noticeable in summer.

"C'mon," Gob implored softly, his usual phrase with none of its bite. He saw the pleading look in Gob's eyes, and he felt his resolve begin to crumble so slowly, little pebbles that would start the landslide. How could he deny him? He felt his heart start to pound in his chest, he felt his grip on the papers and the files begin to loosen.

"Okay," he said, his voice a harsh whisper. He stood up on rubber legs, water legs, and he felt he might just spill to the ground.

Gob half turned toward him, setting his drink on the floor, a few drops of it soaking into the rug. Getting closer, Michael could see the color of Gob's eyes, the dark green in the dark light. He could see how drunk he was, maybe he had been drinking all day. His mother's tendency to drink had not been lost on more than one of them.

He was standing right by the couch, and he could see all the divergent paths of his actions in the next few seconds. He could stand here and lecture him about not working, about his magic not being a career but the hobby of a child, and he would see the hurt and the sadness in Gob's eyes. He could stand here and gently explain that he had a lot of work to do, endless mountains of work to keep the business and the family afloat, and that he was happy to do it but it made him tired.

"Gob, listen…" He didn't get further because Gob tugged on his hand, and he could hear his ragged, intoxicated breathing, and he could see his dilated pupils in the middle of the green, iridescent even in the dimness. He wasn't drunk but he was tired, tired of always fighting himself. He was about to lose the tug of war.

The tug became a gentle pull, and Michael felt off balance for one moment before he lowered himself and laid on the couch beside his brother. Gob turned just a bit so the two of them fit perfectly.

Maybe the alcohol could be Gob's excuse but it couldn't be his, he was completely sober as he leaned in toward his brother, closing his eyes, feeling his lips touch Gob's. He felt the gentle flick of his tongue and he could smell the alcohol, the sharp scent of whiskey. He felt his muscles beneath the thin but expensive material of his shirt.

Kissing, his hands travelling over his upper torso, tugging on the buttons to his shirt, he opened his eyes halfway and saw that Gob's eyes were half closed.