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Michael Bluth is fully grown when the limitation of words is enacted, where each person is allotted only one hundred and sixty-seven spoken words per day. Any word attempted one hundredth and sixty-eighth and on get yanked away and replaced with a silence that lasts until the next day when everybody has a fresh start on their speech.
Michael adjusts quickly because he has to, like he does with everything else that happens in his life. At work he tries to be thrifty with his words, and he walks around the office with paper in his pockets for scribbling messages when he needs to communicate with others, and at the end of the day he empties the crumbled papers into the trash: call about expense reports please, good job on the quarterly report, and don’t contact my mother about this even though she said so. Board meetings are a challenge — he feels the need to speak aloud his plans and wishes for the company, so he compiles speeches of one hundred and sixty-seven words or less when he sits at the head of the conference table.
It’s an annoyance, but Michael thinks that the limit of words has helped in the way that it was set out to do, because it takes an effort to make yourself heard in so few words. The world had become so fast paced and impersonal and so so loud, that no one bothered to know anyone in any way other than shallow. In the old way of speaking, when somebody asked, “How are you?” they never wanted to hear how somebody truly felt and only waited long enough for the answer, “I’m fine,” before moving on, unbothered by another’s burdens. Now, glances and subtle looks that would have previously gone unnoticed are taken more seriously, because that’s the means of communication, now.
However, it’s extremely difficult in a family full of people with communication errors.
Like they were taught, the Bluths leave notes, and their note-leaving increases tenfold since the word restriction. Their dad says, “See! The lesson was worth it,” and he actually says it out loud, just to make a point. Michael has never seen either of his parents run out of words — his dad wouldn’t be caught so undignified to be cut off midsentence, and his mother gets others to do a lot of her talking for her. Lindsay and Tobias use the lessening of allowed words to avoid speaking to each other, however, late at night Michael sometimes hears their voices talking softly outside their room.
Surprisingly, Buster does the best with the limitation. He almost always has a spare word to share and doesn’t get upset when he doesn’t receive anything back except a smile and nod of the head. However, when his usual neck rub isn’t coupled with a, “Hey, brother,” Michael knows that he has no more words left for the day — when this happens, he’s almost definitely used them for their mother.
Not so surprisingly, the one that struggles the most with having only one hundred and sixty-seven words is Gob. Michael blames it on his lack of forethought. Gob often uses all his words before the day has barely even started, rambling and full of expletives, and on many occasions he tries to provoke Michael into arguing with him. When the limit claims his silence, he gasps and tries to force words out but only strangled noises emerge. Sometimes when this happens, Michael smirks just to annoy him and says, “Can’t hear ya, Gob,” and the loss of four words are worth the reaction he gets. Gob fumes and tries to talk again and while there’s no sound, Michael knows that it’s his own name that his brother silently mouths.
After times like that, Michael can always anticipate the call at midnight he gets from Gob where he yells, “Fuck you, Michael!” and hangs up. Michael turns over and goes back to sleep, the sound of Gob’s first words of the day resonating in his ears.
Michael talks much more than he desires — he needs the words not to express himself but instead to tell his family what to do and give them instruction that they so desperately need. He promises himself that he’ll stop, and use his words for more sensible things, such as talking to his son, but he’s too self-righteous to leave well enough alone.
“Michael, I need a favor—,” Gob begins in a gusto of words, but Michael cuts him off with a motion of his hand. He sighs, and gives Gob a piece of paper and tells him, “Write.” He watches while Gob sloppily jots down his request, and when he hands it to him, Michael can’t help but notice the gleeful expression on his brother’s face.
He scans the paper, and quickly objects. “No, I’m not going to give you three thousand dollars so you can buy something for a trick.” Gob sits back in his chair and whirls his hand around in a way that Michael assumes to mean illusions! Michael sighs, and asks, “Why would you even ask me this? You know that—,” and Michael’s words are cut off, and it takes a moment for him to recover of the reeling feeling of having more to stay but it being suddenly snatched away. Michael wonders if Gob was just trying to force him into running out his words with him, and judging by the smug expression that Gob is wearing, he assumes he’s correct.
Gob likes to talk, a lot, and Michael sometimes maybe feels bad because like before the new limitation, not many people listen to Gob, and dismiss him frequently. Unlike most others, he hasn’t yet learned the skill of saying more with less, and he still is as needy as ever — he thinks that if he talks loud and grand enough, people will listen because it’s contrasted against the silence that has taken over society. Instead, it’s even more off-putting.
He uses a lot of his words for Michael, full of attempts to seek his attention. It’s much more evident now to Michael in this way of living, with only one hundred and sixty-seven words a day. When Michael doesn’t speak back to him, Gob’s arms hang awkwardly by his side like they don’t know what to do, but he quickly hides his disappointment with a fire quick response. “Fine, be a mime, Michael!”
“I think you mean a mute.”
“Aha!”
Gob provokes him into speaking, and Michael feels a little dumb that he lets it happen as often as it does. When he confronts Gob about it — in written form, full of statements such as not going to feed into your want for constant validation — Gob glares at the message before writing a short response and walking away before Michael can reply.
I like to hear your voice, is what Gob had wrote, and it makes Michael’s chest ache with something like endearment.
Instead of throwing it away like most of his notes, he keeps it.
Still thinking of I like to hear your voice, the next time Michael sees Gob, it’s outside the banana stand, and he says, “You’re a good brother, Gob,” and he tries to play it off as it’s apropos of nothing. Gob tilts his head and Michael wonders if Gob’s trying to figure out if he’s being sarcastic or sincere, but Gob is skeptical for only a moment and quickly accepts his brother’s praise, and flings his arms around Michael. Tensing, he balls up his fists and shoves them against Gob’s chest, and Gob must be getting better at reading body language because he is receptive of Michael’s stop and backs away gruffly.
“You don’t always have to be such a fucking wall, Michael,” Gob snaps. Michael watches him leave, and thinking of how he isn’t used to being rejected by Gob, the back of his neck burns and his chest clinches. It’s a feeling he definitely doesn’t like.
He’s so tired of their conversations going only one way — nowhere, with Michael trying to take the lead, but Gob going the other way and attempting to drag him along, but not knowing where he’s going or how to even get there.
Michael decides to try harder with Gob, because they have to meet in the middle somewhere. He tells himself it’s the right thing to do because then maybe Gob will be more tolerable to be around, but there’s a thought that Michael tries to squash: that he wants to avoid that horrible feeling where he is the cause of Gob’s sadness. No matter how much Michael denies it, he likes his brother’s company, and sometimes when he isn’t with him he finds himself wishing I wish Gob were here.
Gob appreciates tactile comfort as much as comfort from words, so when Michael has no words to spare, he touches him on the shoulder, arm, hand, as a way to communicate. At first, it’s reluctant — physical contact is always strained for him — but the way Gob’s mouth tugs up into an infectious grin makes Michael remember the reason why the word limitation was put into place, so interactions like this could happen.
He wants to keep finding ways to make Gob’s face light up like that. It becomes like a hobby, almost; a high five when Gob strides into the office, a touch on the knee when Gob gets dejected by their mother, a pat on the back which turns into a crushing hug from Gob. He can tell Gob is starting to thrive off of it, and Michael realizes that he is beginning to as well. At times his hands almost itch to reach out and touch him.
One time, when they’re both drunk and have zero words left between them and their inhibitions are lowered, Michael runs his hand through Gob’s hair, slowly and deliberately. Gob moves his head with motion of Michael’s touch and he makes a strangled noise in his throat when Michael rubs his thumb over his ear. Michael would have normally pulled away by now, but he can’t seem to and he needs to let him know how he feels, and he’s pretty sure that Gob is trying to tell him something too but is unable, with his conflicted emotions that run hot-cold-hot.
It’s become lonely in the world with less words, and Michael’s sure that Gob is even lonelier than he is. Before the limitation they didn’t think much of what they said to each other, so it’s only their luck that after it was enacted is when they’d need the words most to explain themselves.
Anymore, Michael doesn’t squirm and struggle to get out of Gob’s embrace when he gives him sudden hugs. His tolerance grows, and he lets Gob’s affection continue; letting him nuzzle his face into his neck, feeling his breath against him, letting their noses bump against each other before he places his face against his, letting him place a light kiss to where his neck meets his shoulder. Michael is sure that Gob is testing just how far he can push the limit.
Michael is also testing how far he will let himself go with it. When he thinks about it too much, he is reminded of the feeling of contact and gets uncomfortable.
Not wanting to indulge him, Michael freezes up the next time Gob pulls him into a hug, and pushes him away. Gob attempts to hide his disappointment with flippancy, and stutters out his few remaining words before zipping away on his segway.
Guilt clouds Michael’s mind, and he isn’t at all proud of himself. The victory of withholding affection from Gob leaves him wondering why it makes him feel like he lost something very important.
At their parent’s penthouse, their mother is asking for a solution to all their problems, and before Gob can even get out his sentence of, “I know how to help!” their mother silences him with a glare. She writes down for Buster to read out loud, “Nobody wants to hear anything from you, Gob.” Gob tries to hide how disheartened he feels, but Michael can see it, and it pains him with a sinking feeling in his chest. When Michael catches Gob’s gaze he tries to wordlessly communicate, I care, but Gob looks away and vacantly stares at the wall.
Later, Michael can’t bring himself to confront him about the situation, so he lets it go.
Michael lets out a long suffering sigh when he comes home late from work and finds Gob sitting on his bed. Gob’s expression is particularly troubled and Michael can feel that he’s watching him intently as he takes off his jacket and tie and sets them in the closet, and he’s uncharacteristically silent — in spoken words and gestures and gravitas. Gob waits until Michael sits next to him, and all it takes for Michael to look at him as if asking, What’s wrong now? before Gob’s face screws up into a miserable expression that makes Michael regret how inconsiderate he just was towards him.
“Mikey,” Gob says with a whine, and when no words follow, Michael realizes that he had been saving his last word all day long, just for him. So Michael uses his remaining fifty-three for him.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Michael changes his tone into one that resembles concern, and places a hand on his back, and leans in closer. “Can you write it?”
Gob shakes his head, and he looks so damn sorrowful that he can’t blurt out his thoughts how he likes to do, to announce, to go through stuttering wayward phrases to get to a point.
“I’m sorry—,” Michael begins, but Gob reaches forward and clings to Michael, pulling him tight to his chest. He’s warm and his heart is beating fast, and Michael smells the things that are familiar to him as Gob: the sea, his aftershave, lighter fluid, and just him.
Michael relaxes into him and sighs, and Gob grips the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him like he can’t bear to let go.
And when Michael says, “It’s okay, Gob. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay,” he hears the recognizable sounds of somebody trying to speak when they have no more available daily words, and he feels echo of them reverberate in Gob’s chest. Michael tugs slightly away from Gob’s grasp, and tires to figure out a way to tell him in thirty-five words or less that the world isn’t ending, and he needs not to act like it, and yeah it sucks that they’re all emotionally stunted from their childhood, but that’s life.
But he never gets to, because Gob places his hands on the sides of Michael’s face and kisses him harshly. Oh, Michael thinks as he breathes in, and his eyes are open to see Gob’s flutter shut, and all instinct is telling Michael to detangle himself from his grasp but he can only stay, and he hates himself for the shiver that goes through his body when Gob curls his fingers through his hair, and it is much more than a friendly affectionate gesture.
A moment passes before Gob backs away, and Michael ignores the thought of him missing his lips on his.
“What?” Michael asks, and Gob struggles to speak — he clenches his fists and his frustration takes over and before Michael can stop him, he bolts out of the room.
Michael doesn’t immediately go after him — later he wishes that he did — and by the time that he does, Gob is long gone.
Thirty-four words are all that Michael has left, and he leaves them all on Gob’s voicemail:
“Gob, I don’t know what that was, but it…I’m sorry. Please talk to me. I don’t know what I made you think, but we’re brothers and I can’t— we can’t feel—.” Michael curses, and there are not enough words ever to sort out what happened, so he stays silent on the line until Gob’s phone disconnects him.
For three days, neither one uses any of their words on each other. The absence of Gob weighs heavily on Michael; he’s the first thing that he thinks of when he wakes in the morning, and he goes through his days in a fog. He worries about the boundary crossed, he worries about Gob’s safety because he thinks he may do some asinine thing, and he worries that the thing that worries him the most is that Gob is gone and not the fact that his pulse quickens when he thinks of kissing him again. He worries that he’s apparently become so dependent on Gob, where before he was always so desperate to get away.
He worries that it’ll never get resolved, because Gob can’t be succinct enough to gather his words to explain, and Michael cannot let himself go to admit anything of it, because prying those emotions and having them exposed sounds painful.
Still, every evening Michael thinks about leaving a rambling voicemail for Gob, because he misses the warmth of him next to him and the companionship and when he closes his eyes he remembers the way his mouth tasted on his.
On the fourth night of their silence, Michael goes down to the docks because he realizes that he’ll have to be the one to take action, because Gob is never one to confront his problems, and is always escaping. He climbs onto Gob’s yacht and bangs on the door and yells, “I know you’re in there!”
It’s only a few moments before Gob opens the door, clad in a robe. Michael is flooded with relief; he was prepared to plead outside his door all night long, and when he ran out of words he had planned to slip notes under the door. Gob looks as vulnerable as Michael feels, and when Michael speaks it’s difficult to gather his words — not letting it turn into a tumble of rambling incoherents you’re kind of oblivious most times but I think you’re really great and this is really weird but you’re Gob and I can’t stand the thought of losing you, no matter what happens between us and—. So instead he treads lightly and he says, “I’ve missed you.”
He expects Gob to throttle forward and pin him in a rib-crushing embrace, but instead Gob opens the door wider and motions with his head for Michael to follow him in. Michael complies, and is disappointed when Gob doesn’t say anything back. He sits down on the leather interior in the living space of the yacht, and Gob stands in front of him, tall, barefoot, and arms crossed. Michael’s hands shake, and he whispers, “How do I fix this?” and all he can think of to do is to reach forward and drag Gob closer to him, to close the space. He blushes at the thought, and there’s a pit in his stomach that he can’t ignore.
He’s prepared to wait out the night until midnight when they start fresh with new words, but suddenly words tumble out of Gob, like he’s prepared them:
“You don’t need to fix anything Michael, and you’re wrong, I don’t need constant validation—,” Gob pauses when he sees Michael raise his eyebrows at him and continues, “Okay, maybe I do sometimes, but I want it from you because it’s you and you understand me even if you pretend that you don’t, and when you get annoyed with me you keep trying, and I missed you too, absence does not make the heart grow fonder it makes you sick, and I know how lame that makes me sound, and when you don’t want to talk to me I make you talk just so I can hear you, I’ll never know how to tell you, but I think I love you in a very wrong way and I don’t want to scare you off to Phoenix but I think you might feel the same way too, maybe, and I don’t care that we’re brothers, and who even made that rule anyway? I just fucking — dammit Michael. It’s always been you, you’re the only that really cares for me and that’s—”
And one hundred and sixty-seven words later, Gob’s speech is halted, pulled back by the invisible limitation. He looks like he’s going to cry, and he glances away from Michael, looking anywhere but at him.
Michael is overcome by Gob’s honesty, and he has to take a deep breath to gather his own thoughts. Many of the thoughts that go through his head vary — you’re so dumb, how could this ever ever work? and I know what you mean, I can’t keep you away. He remembers that he’s supposed to be the responsible one, the one that does the right thing and doesn’t get dragged down into Gob’s madness. But—
“Oh, fuck it,” Michael mutters, and he rushes forward and kisses Gob. It surprises him at first, but Gob quickly responds and parts his mouth and slips in his tongue. They both fight for dominance: Michael grips at Gob’s hips so hard that he’s sure there’ll be bruises of handprints later, and Gob is lightly nipping at Michael’s bottom lip in a way that’s driving him absolutely crazy and Michael knows that it’s too late and there’s never going to be any going back now.
They strip each other of their clothes, letting them lay on the floor where they fall. Gob leads the way to the bedroom, and he shoves Michael down onto the unmade bed and then before he can stop him, Gob goes to his knees. Michael can hardly process what is about to happen — the sensation of Gob’s days-old stubble rubbing against his thighs is making his breath come in shorter takes, and then he’s gasping when Gob takes his cock into his mouth. His hands slide into Gob’s hair, and he says his name over and over until he can’t anymore, and not long after that, he comes too soon.
He’s still coming down from his pleasurable high when Gob climbs on top of him and kisses him, his mouth tasting salty. Michael lets Gob take his hand and guide it down, and the desperate sounds that Gob makes when Michael wraps his hands around his cock is enough to encourage him to stroke him harder. He finds a rhythm that Gob meets and trusts into his hand, full of lust and need, and if Michael could speak he’d be whispering all kinds of things.
Gob moans into his ear, and he comes, his mouth slack-jawed, spilling onto Michael’s hand and both of their stomachs. Gob rolls to his side and they lay there for a few moments unmoving before Gob looks over to Michael; Michael thinks that is expression is a cross between asking if everything is okay? and do you hate me now? It must be something of the two, because when Michael reaches over and squeezes his arm, he smiles, reassured, and rests his forehead on his shoulder.
Later, when they are lying in the bed on the yacht and they’re both naked and the breeze from the open window is cool to their skin, Gob lightly traces lazy circles on Michael’s stomach. It tickles, and Gob knows he’s ticklish — he’s known since he was seven and he and Lindsay tortured him with it.
Michael grabs Gob’s hand and brings it up to his face and licks his fingers, while staring at Gob. Gob takes in a sharp intake of breath and closes his eyes, and he shifts closer to Michael, putting his head to his neck, and wraps a long leg around his waist. Michael feels Gob’s erection against his hip and Michael smiles because yes, he's just as eager as him. He turns to face Gob, and kisses him — slow and languid, unlike their earlier ones that were rushed and rough, as though both were afraid they’d change their mind.
It’s all slow touches and Michael arches his back when Gob wraps his hand around him. Michael touches him in return and it’s the desperate, guttural noises that Gob makes as he strokes him that makes Michael press into his body. It’s past one in the morning, and they had a new set of one hundred and sixty-seven possible words a while ago, but they say nothing as they thrust against other and breathe heavily.
Gob’s breath hitches, and he comes with Michael’s name on his lips. Michael lets his hand fall and grips at Gob’s thigh, and it only takes few more beats of Gob working him before he releases all over his hand.
Gob flops on his back and he wipes his hand on the sheet, and Michael makes a face but does the same. Gob sighs contently and scoots close to him; Michael can feel his breath blowing against his ear.
“Michael,” Gob says, but Michael throws an arm over Gob’s stomach and says, “Shh.” To his surprise, Gob stays silent, and in few minutes Michael hears sounds that indicate that Gob has dozed off.
As Michael falls asleep, he decides that one hundred and sixty-seven words will never be enough, and it’s unfair that so many things will go unsaid, and how will with this with Gob even work, and he worries that Gob will disappear again—
[In the morning, when Michael wakes he will think that Gob has run off, because he will wake up alone. Before that elated feeling he has gained in his chest can collapse too much, he’ll notice Gob’s familiar scrawl in teal sharpie in his palm — gone for breakfast, be right back. Gob will come back five minutes later bearing blueberry muffins, and they’ll eat them together in bed. Gob’ll make a bitchy noise about the crumbs, and Michael will point out that he’s the one making the bigger mess.]
—and if he does leave him, he doesn’t think that he could go without him, now.
“Stop,” Gob says with his eyes closed, “I can hear you thinking.”
However, Michael thinks, with Gob it will be fine. It’s a work in progress.