Chapter Text
Michael and Lindsay were the office Dream Team. The Sure Thing. They were the first office romance and their wedding was one of the most anticipated dates on the Rooster Teeth calendar. They were the perfect couple in every sense of the phrase.
And then… gradually they just sort of stopped talking to one another. And Lindsay stopped talking about wedding plans with Kara and Barbara, and Michael stopped laughing as much and stayed in the AH office for lunches more often. And Lindsay turned in her two weeks’ notice.
She told Barbara that they’d broken it off but left it at that, only saying that yes, she had broken up with Michael and no, she didn’t want to talk about it, sorry.
Everyone turned to Michael then, gently prodding at him, trying to ask what had happened and only backing off when the redhead blew up or teared up. Only Gavin, hurting for his best mate but very quietly elated, didn’t ask. He just grabbed Michael by the shoulder, gave him a steady look, and said, “I’m here if you need anything, Michael. Anything, mate. You’d better not try to keep this all in.”
Michael forced a smile, tried to speak, stopped. Cleared his throat and tried again, “Thanks, Gavin. I won’t.”
To Gavin’s immense surprise, he didn’t. That very same night, Michael sent him a text. It read simply Gav…
He was at Michael’s house in fifteen minutes with a 24-pack of beer and a pint of ice cream, just to be an ass.
“I brought bevs. And ice cream for when you get all weepy. I’m pretty sure The Notebook is on Netflix right now—“
“Shut the fuck up and give me a beer, asshole. I’m not gonna fucking cry.”
He did, though.
He cried for hours, sometimes trying to explain what had happened, sometimes unable to form even the slightest sound as sobs wracked his body. He was confused. He was hurt.
She’d left, she said, because his temper was out of control. He would rage about every little thing—it had been funny at first. Charming. Something that drew her to him. A bright point in her day and something she found, to be frank, adorable. But then Michael started getting mad at her. He would shout at her for the littlest things, make her feel stupid for the most obscure reasons. He was never abusive—she was sure to tell him that—but it reached a point where she dreaded being alone with him.
A point where she would rather be alone than with him.
Gavin sat with him as he cried, put an arm around his shoulders and told him it would all be okay. He would be okay. That it hurt like hell now, but all things became easier with time. And Michael, of course, told him he was a lying piece of shit as he sniffled against his shoulder, muttering that he was probably going to be alone forever, because if Lindsay couldn’t handle him, who the hell could?
“You’d be surprised, my little Michael. You won’t be alone, not if I can help it,” Gavin murmured against his hair. If Michael thought that statement was odd, he didn’t say a thing about it. Instead, he sat up, rubbed at his face, and stood.
“I’m gonna grab another beer, and then I’m gonna spend the rest of the night kicking your ass in Call of Duty.”
It became an almost nightly ritual. Michael would text Gavin, sometimes his name, sometimes the title of a video game, sometimes just Bring beer. (One time he had texted only Help and Gavin had broken too many laws to count in order to get to him—that night was not one Gavin liked to remember.)
Months passed like this. Gradually, Michael spent less time crying, less time buried in the crook of Gavin’s neck, less time asking Why did she leave me? and Is she ever gonna come back, Gavin?
And Gavin fell more and more hopelessly, helplessly in love with his best friend.
Of course, he fully intended to keep all that to himself, but…
“Man, I don’ know if I ever even wanna date again. Y’know what’m sayin?” Michael said one night, draining the last of his sixth beer. He stumbled a bit when he got up, nearly overturning the mostly-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor.
“Aww, don’ say tha’, Mi-cooooool. There’a plenneea fish’n th’ pond, mate,” Gavin slurred, tipping his head back to finish his beer only to frown when nothing came out. Before he could get too irate, Michael shuffled by him and dropped a new one into his lap. “You’re bloody brilliant, you are.”
“Th’ saying is ‘fish in th’ sea,’ Gavin.”
Gavin just waved him off, popping open his beer and taking a deep chug.
“I just… I dunno if I even wanna look for another girl, y’know? Lindsay was… I jus’ don’t think any other girl could live up to her, man.”
“Wo’bout a bloke?” Gavin was staring contemplatively into his beer now, his brows furrowed. He looked like he couldn’t really believe he’d just asked that. Michael gave him a confused look, his alcohol-addled brain entirely too slow to make out what Gavin had said.
“I—what?”
“Wot. About. A. Bloke? Wo’bout… I mean, me?” Gavin repeated, giving Michael a rather determined look. Before either of them could really think about what was just said, Gavin had leaned forward, his mouth pressing against Michael’s with a gentle insistence.
The taste wasn’t unpleasant, really—Gavin tasted like beer and whatever they’d had for dinner a few hours ago, plus a little bit like whiskey. His stubble scratched at Michael’s face in a way that wasn’t so much off-putting as it was different, but most of all it just…
It just wasn’t… Lindsay.
He pushed Gavin away gently, looking away from the Brit because he knew he was going to be hurt, and murmured, “Gavin, I…”
“No, no, I… I’m sorry, Michael, that was stupid. You’re still getting over Lindsay and you’re… you’re not even…” Gavin paused and leaned back, scrubbing at his face. He pushed his hands through his hair and tugged at it for a moment, biting his lip as he tried to put his words in order. “I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll go.”
Michael didn’t try to stop him.
The next few days weren’t so much awkward as they were… confusing. At work, Gavin would talk to Michael only as much as it took for the other guys to not get suspicious. And Michael would spend his free time staring at him, contemplating, wondering when Gavin had developed feelings for him and how the fuck he had missed it.
And one night, curiosity got the better of him.
He knew that a simple text was all it would take, and he was right. Gavin’s phone lit up with the message Halo? and the Brit, with so little hesitation it was nearly embarrassing, was at Michael’s door within twenty minutes.
He held up a 12-pack of beer—probably a wise choice—and gave Michael a sheepish, hesitant grin. And Michael smiled and shook his head and said, “You are going to get your ass handed to you.”
Two hours later, Michael was feeling pretty buzzed, enough that his aim was getting sloppy. Somehow, Gavin had even managed to kill him three times in a row. After the fourth time (a headshot, clean as a whistle—Michael hadn’t even seen it coming), the redhead cursed and tossed his controller aside, leaning back on the couch and grabbing for his beer. Gavin laughed and got up to turn off the console, only teetering a little bit unsteadily.
Michael held the bottle loosely in his hand and swirled its contents, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he tried to figure out how to ask for what he wanted.
“Hey… Uh, Gav?”
“What is it, Michael?” Gavin turned around and grabbed the controllers, putting them back in their designated spot. He’d been around often enough by now that Michael knew how much the Brit hated clutter.
“Do you remember when you… Right after Lindsay broke it off with me, you said you’d help me with anything, right? Anything at all?”
Gavin paused and gave Michael a confused look. “I… don’t remember that specifically, but I’m sure I said it. I meant it, too. Whatever you need.”
“What if…” Michael paused, licked his lips, put the beer bottle down. He changed his mind and picked it back up just to give his hands something to fiddle with. “What if I uh…”
Gavin chuckled and came back to the couch, picking up his own beer to take a swig. “Spit it out, Michael, I’m sure it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Is that—are you blushing, Michael?”
He was, but he’d be damned before he admitted it. A rush of affection filled Gavin as he poked at Michael’s cheek, laughing softly. The redhead rolled his eyes and pushed the blond’s hand away, grumbling, “I just… It’s been a while since I… you know, got off, and I… just wondered if you would…”
Gavin stared at Michael incredulously as the older man trailed off, picking at the label on his beer in an uncharacteristic bout of shyness. He noticed the Brit’s stare, though, and quickly turned his uncertain look into a glare. “Don’t look at me like I’ve grown a second fucking head, if you won’t do it then just fucking say so—“
“No, I’ll do it.” Gavin was quite proud of himself for keeping the excitement out of his voice. If Michael was asking him for this, then maybe…
Well. Maybes and what ifs could always come later.
“S-seriously? What—where are you going?” Michael demanded as Gavin slid off the couch, nudging his way between the redhead’s legs.
“I’m trying to make this a bit less awkward for you to ask for. Unless you want to actually say, ‘Gavin, I want you to give me a blowjob.’ Take off your trousers,” the blond said. When Michael failed to move, the Brit sighed and reached for the button, but his hands were slapped away.
“Okay, okay. Hold your goddamn horses, Jesus,” Michael muttered, hesitating for a moment more before he popped the button and tugged down the zipper, pushing his pants down to just past his hips. Gavin bit back a groan, trying not to sound overeager, and curled his fingers around the base of his friend’s cock. He gave the man a few strokes, gentle and teasing, trying more to coax a reaction out of him than anything, and grinned when Michael gave a pleased little sigh and tipped his head back.
He leaned in as the redhead started to harden, dragging his tongue up along the underside of Michael’s cock. The older man jumped and swore softly, his fingers twitching on the couch like they wanted to reach for him, but then the Brit wrapped his lips around the tip and Michael clung to the cushion instead.
Gavin frowned but dragged his tongue over the slit and the sharp gasp he got appeased him. The Brit teased Michael for a while, trying to figure out the spots that really got the redhead hot until finally the older man gave a loud groan and pushed his fingers into Gavin’s hair, tugging him down over his cock with a hissed, “Come on.”
The blond would have chuckled if his mouth hadn’t been full of dick. He obliged, though, bobbing down, fisting his hand around what he couldn’t take in and stroking it in time. He pulled off every once in a while to drag his tongue along the thick vein beneath, licking a line down to Michael’s balls and sucking them one at a time into his mouth, releasing them with a soft pop when the redhead tugged at his hair and pushed him back towards his cock. He looked up at Michael and grinned, but the redhead had his eyes shut tight, his head tipped back as he panted into the otherwise-quiet room.
Gavin obliged, letting Michael’s hands on his head guide him, fighting against his gag reflex as the older man started to lose control, thrusting up into his mouth carelessly. The Brit pulled back as much as he could but Michael pulled him back, soft, half-formed gasps tumbling from his lips as he fucked Gavin’s face. And yeah, it was uncomfortable and sure, it was nearly impossible to keep from gagging, but Gavin’s dick was still hard in his pants and the discomfort didn’t stop him from trying to take more, trying to wrench more of those desperate, helpless little cries out of Michael. And when the redhead gasped out that he was close, his hands in Gavin’s hair tightening to the point of pain, the Brit just hummed, sucked a little harder, and held his head still so that Michael could fuck into his mouth.
He came like a shot only a moment later, pulling Gavin down over him as he cried, “Oh god, Lindsay!”
Gavin froze, then pulled away silently, letting an awkward silence settle over the living room. He spat Michael’s release into an empty beer bottle nearby as he sat back on his haunches, grimacing at the remaining taste in his mouth—not so much because it was bad, more because it… it was Michael, and it was wrong. It was all wrong.
Wasn’t Michael supposed to fall in love with him? That’s how it worked in all those cheesy romance movies, right—you stay for the painful, ‘getting over the ex’ phase and you’re next in line? Wasn’t this supposed to leave him feeling fulfilled, or at least without the taste of bitter regret on his tongue? Wasn’t there supposed to be a happy ending?
Where the hell was his happy ending?
“Gavin, look—“
“I really don’t know why I expected something else.” Gavin cut Michael off and sighed, giving a self-depreciating smile and a shake of his head. He stood and winced as one of his knees popped, patting his pockets to look for Geoff’s keys. His eyes skated over the furniture and he spotted them on the end table, next to his unfinished beer.
“Gavin…” Michael started again as the Brit grabbed them and pushed a hand through his hair.
“I’m never gonna be enough, am I? Like, no matter what I do, it’s not going to be enough, and not just because I’m a bloke, although I’m sure that doesn’t help,” Gavin asked. He didn’t really expect an answer, but Michael tried to give him one.
“It’s not that you’re a guy. I don’t care about that, I just—“
“I’m not Lindsay.”
Michael gave him a helpless look. Gavin just laughed and left.
Michael didn’t try to stop him this time, either.
Gavin vowed to himself that he wasn’t going to cry, because this was hardly worth crying over. He knew that Michael loved Lindsay; he knew it wouldn’t ever work out between them.
He kept repeating these facts to himself as he drove home, trying to drown out the sounds of Michael’s gasps (for him—he had been the one to reduce Michael to those) and trying to ignore the taste of the redhead on the back of his tongue. He told himself that he’d had plenty of one night stands, more than enough quick blowjobs in bathrooms or closets that tasted too much of regret and shame afterwards, this was nothing, just something that would blow over in time (except that he’d never actually had feelings for the person he’d been on his knees for before, they’d never been Michael).
The Brit pulled into Geoff’s driveway dry-eyed and at least passably unruffled. He painted on a smile as he stepped inside and tossed the keys into their designated dish.
“You’re back early,” Geoff commented, not even glancing up from the basketball game.
“We ran outta things to do. Michael kipped off, so I left,” Gavin said. His voice was steady, at least. Normally he was utter shit at lying to Geoff.
The older man just grunted from his spot on the couch, a clear dismissal. Gavin took it for what it was and went to his room, and by the time he pushed his door to he could feel the back of his throat tightening up. Without even thinking about it, he pulled out his phone, calling the first number on his favorites list.
It was four a.m. there but he picked up on the second ring.
“B? Why’re you calling at… bloody four o’clock in the morning?” Dan grumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
“Dan, I… I think I fucked up.”