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Michael could always tell, on long nights like these, exactly when Gavin began to get tired. The Brit even had a ritual, Gavin’s Four Battles against the Grips of Exhaustion (GFBatGoE, if you will, and go fuck yourself if you won’t) and Michael knew the stages by heart.
Stage One of Gavin’s spiral into depravity was caffeine consumption. He started around 9, when even the most dedicated employees were leaving, the sorry few left staying only because they had a deadline due three hours ago. Gavin would head to the kitchen and fix himself a cup of coffee, then drink it as fast as he could while still appearing casual, as there were often still several people still left in the Achievement Hunters office. As each person left, Gavin would get up and get himself another drink (second cup of coffee, Coke, yet another Coke, and finally just Red Bulls).
That stage took place over roughly an hour, and by the time Stage Two rolled around, he really couldn’t be surprised because goddamn that was a lot of caffeine.
Stage Two was tapping. Anything, anywhere. His fingers on the desk, on his keyboard, on his mouse, his notepad, his coffee mug, soda can, face, fuck, anywhere. Anywhere that made noise. And then his feet would join in, too, tapping arrhythmically with his fingers. Together, the two would start shitty drum lines in compound fucking meters.
It was always about this point that Michael found a reason to put on his headphones.
Stage Two, Subsection b involved random movement. These always got quite distracting because, despite how Michael would complain, watching Gavin just move was a favorite past-time of the redhead’s. Honestly, the blond made shrugging his shoulders or carding fingers through his hair look goddamn magical. How?
What the fuck ever. ‘How’ was beside the point—the point was that fucking Stage 2-b was spastic, constant movement, accompanied (get it) by the fucking tapping.
Stage Two led directly into Stage Three—humming.
Fucking. Humming.
Always shitty little Eurotrash songs until Michael’s side-stinkeye would goad Gavin into humming the My Little Pony or Adventure Time themes, or something else Michael could actually fucking tolerate.
Stage Three, also, had a super annoying subsection—singing. The Brit would start singing (artists popular in America, now, because he knew Michael could only handle so much of that UK pop bullshit before he was trying to rage quit Gavin’s life). His voice wasn’t awful—he could carry a tune and had vibrato and all that shit—but he would replace random words in the line with Michael’s name. Endearing, sort of, but mostly just annoying as shit. Especially when it was a song the redhead liked.
Examples:
“I’m bringin’ Michael back! ‘Ey! Them other boys don’t know how to act!”
“Mi! Cool! Is on fire!”
“Hit me, Michael, one m—oh, no, that doesn’t work well at all, does it…”
“My little Mi-cool, my little Mi-cool, ahh…”
Admittedly, Michael had never stopped that last one.
Step 3-b typically lasted quite a while—until Gavin’s near-limitless mental collection of songs failed him, or until Michael started trying to bludgeon him with the nearest solid object.
Okay, so thirty minutes tops.
Stage Four was the final stage, and if they got there, it usually ended with Michael carrying a half-unconscious Gavin out of the office and dumping him onto the couch in his apartment.
This was a Stage Four night.
Michael had put off editing his most recent Rage Quit for way too long (read: until about 6 o’clock) and Gavin was finishing up the latest Let’s Play—under threat of death from Geoff, probably because he’d done nothing but dick around all day.
It was coming up on 2:30 am, Michael’s music was giving him a headache, and Stage Four was in full swing.
“How many feet does a centipede have, really? Because I’ve seen loads and none of them have a hundred legs, unless some of their legs have other little legs—“
Stage Four was word vomit. Literally anything and everything that crossed the Brit’s mind came out of his mouth, and not even the fiercest of growls or the hardest of punches could shut him up. ‘Shut the fuck up, dumbass’ became his mantra at these times, shouted at increasingly higher decibels as time passed.
Tonight was… different.
Lots of things were different now, really, mostly because Michael was trying to be more honest with himself, specifically in regards to Gavin. And, if he were honest, he really liked the sound of Gavin’s stupid voice. His dumb, made up words made Michael smile, his shitty accent sort of made his stomach do an embarrassing flutter thing, and the longer he let the blond go, the more likely he was to hear, “Michael, are you listening?”
Mi-cool. Mi-cool.
He wouldn’t say he loved that nickname, but… yeah, he loved that nickname.
Mostly what he loved was the smile he got when he said, “What the fuck else could I be listening to, Gavin?”
Tonight, he just let the Brit go on. About fucking… laundry detergent now? How the fuck did this asshole get from centipedes to laundry detergent? It didn’t matter, he could be talking about fucking goat porn for all he fucking cared, just as long as he kept it up.
There was a lull in the monologue and Michael was just about to glance over and check for consciousness when Gavin said, “Michael?”
“What?” the redhead asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Are you alright? You’re really quiet tonight.”
“It’s fucking three o’clock in the goddamn morning, Gavin. I’m just quiet because I’m tired. Why?”
“Well, normally you would have told me to shut up by now, so…”
He shrugged and gave Michael one of those little half-grins and Michael just… he just stared for a minute, a little overwhelmed. Gavin was just so something, something that he really didn’t want to put a name to just yet but something that really was too perfect and adorable to be okay to handle at this ungodly time. His hair was a wreck and his eyes were a little puffy and glassy and his 5 o’clock shadow was more like a 5 o’clock fucking forest but he was just… breathtaking.
And then Michael was leaning forward and Gavin looked so surprised but Michael couldn’t help it anymore, he wanted to taste what his name got to taste every fucking day.
The kiss was short, sweet, to the point, and left Gavin quite speechless for a moment. Not too long, though, because after a few heartbeats the blond blinked and gasped, “M-Michael!”
And Michael’s voice was soft, fond when he replied, “Shut the fuck up, Gavin.”