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When Gavin first met Michael, he was intrigued. Of course he was. Who wouldn’t be? That reputation, and all-- Mogar, the famous embodiment of rage himself, somehow coaxed into loyalty to Ramsey and the Fakes. The tirades, the hair-trigger bomb-dropping reflexes (both literal and figurative)-- there they all were, capped in auburn curls and slouching against the wall on the day Gavin finally showed up in Geoff’s living room.
Who wouldn’t be interested in that?
Better yet-- Michael was great fun, Gavin soon realized. While Geoff tolerated Gavin’s inanity with paternal amusement, and Jack rolled her eyes at Gavin’s antics and ruffled his hair, Michael-- Michael embraced Gavin’s chaos. More than that, he reveled in it. He thrived on it, expanded it, blew it up like a kid joyfully pouring vinegar over baking soda. If Gavin started a wildfire, Michael would hose it down with gasoline and a feral grin. If Gavin caused a six-car pile-up, Michael would methodically double it to twelve and add a fighter jet. If Gavin was a happy little lit fuse, then Michael was the shipyard full of dynamite next to it, just waiting to go off.
Gavin wasn’t one to marvel at his own life out loud, but in his moments alone, he did admit to himself that there was something a little magical about their synergy. There was a natural ebb and flow he felt with Michael, something effortless, like a well-oiled roller coaster or a magnum bullet cutting through butter. Ryan remarked once that the two of them were like a binary star system, each slingshotting the other around in a perpetual, explosive, million-mile-a-minute dance.
Gavin liked the nerdy analogy-- not that he’d ever say so out loud. God, no. It was flattering; too flattering, to be honest. Because while everyone could see that Michael was something of a genius at explosives and mayhem and fast-talking smartassery in that American Jersey way of his, Gavin was just, well, himself. Gawky, good for a laugh, but crap at guns and driving, which was half their job, really. No-- in those early days of the Fakes, if Gavin were the type to get poetic (he wasn’t), he might have analogized Michael to a celestial body, sure. But if Michael was a star, then Gavin was just the kid on the ground, staring up into the night sky in delight.
As the days stretched into months, Gavin learned a few other things about Michael Jones. For one, Michael was an exception to Gavin’s rule about most anything in life. See, despite the ridiculous “Golden Boy” persona, Gavin didn’t really put stock in the material world. Maybe that’s why he created mayhem so carelessly. Gold chains, gold sunglasses, stupid cars-- it was all pretty useless, wasn’t it? Great spectacle, but nothing to get attached to. But with Michael-- there was something about Michael that he hadn’t seen coming, something that he suddenly felt was there one day, and every day after that, clear as crystal. It was there in the arm slung over his shoulders in easy companionship. It was there in the warm brown eyes that followed him across the room. It was there in the quick, devilish smile that appeared whenever he suggested something particularly, innovatively destructive. Somehow, in the storms and the calms that made up the Fakes' life, Michael Jones had become overwhelmingly… there, in Gavin Free’s world.
Gavin stared drunkenly at the dark ceiling over his bed one night, sometime after this realization, and decided that Ryan could go fuck himself. Michael was not just like any old star. Michael was like the damn sun. And not in the way that most people would think, either. Because yes, “Mogar” was fiery, perpetual energy. “Mogar” wielded rage like a solar flare, leaving charred ashes in his wake. But Michael? Michael’s incessant chatter was like… sunshine through dust motes, turning brown flecks to a rosy gold. Michael’s grin was like twilight: familiar, an everyday thing, yet lovely to see. Michael was like daybreak, washing over a nighttime cityscape until every artificial light paled and winked out in its brightness.
Gavin screwed his eyes shut in the darkness of his room, thinking that perhaps he should set himself on fire for his shitty maudlin analogies. When had Michael become… this? Had he always been this way, and had Gavin just never noticed? Had he been slowly growing on Gavin over time?
Or had Gavin been the one changing, being drawn in, slowly growing attached to Michael’s warmth?
Gavin rolled over impatiently. It was the drink talking, probably. Maybe. And anyway, one was allowed to get sentimental about friends, once in awhile.
He couldn’t shake the thought, though, of how comfortable it would be to have Michael’s shoulder nudging against his right now, Michael’s voice informing him that he was being a freakish idiot, that they could go blow up a bank together tomorrow and he’d feel better.
Gavin huffed out a quiet laugh, then sighed. Even an imaginary Michael was enough to get him to cheer up. At this rate, if Michael was the sun, then Gavin was probably already flying a little too close to be able to back away now.
Then again, when was Gavin ever one to take the safe path, when there were thrills, and heights, and such brightness to chase?