A/N: Oh my god, I'm so sorry, you guys! It's been more than six months since I last updated! I have to apologize. I'm almost done with my freshman year, which has been pretty terrible and is the main reason why this update has been so delayed. However, I think this chapter is one of the best and furthers the plot much more. It's also the longest. So, enjoy! I'll try to get at least two more chapters out before I go away in July. I have a feeling that this story's almost over.
George-Michael sat down on a bench outside the ice cream parlor, where his mint chip ice cream began to devour his hand. He attempted to lick it all off before he ended up with 6.50's worth of ice cream all over his favorite khakis, but ultimately failed. "Oh well. At least I still have a waffle cone…that's my favorite part anyway…" He miserably began to nibble on the wet waffle cone, which was bland aside from the small accents of mint, which George-Michael discovered were also pretty bland.
Sighing, the young, troubled boy crossed his legs and looked up at the sky. In the clouds, he imagined that he was with his beloved Maeby, chatting the early afternoon away. He also imagined that he was punching Steve Holt in the stomach repeatedly, having a conversation consisting soley of "STEVE HOLT!" "Steve Holt!" "STEVE HOLT!" "Steve Holt!!"
"I think I…should get in the shade," George-Michael decided, forcing his strange vision to end. He tossed out the remainder of his cone and began to trek back home, which apparently was where the only available shade was. George-Michael's feet carried him there unwillingly. Right now, he had wanted to go anywhere but home. At home, he felt like a huge wall of tension was trying to crush him constantly – Maeby was home, his dad was home, and they were the people he cared about the most, and likewise the people who left the deepest wounds on him.
And that's when he decided to put himself in control for the first time in a long time.
GOB and Tobias entered the large toy store, their eyes and identities protected by black sunglasses – a sultry, cop-type for GOB, and large aviators for the always ostentatious Tobias. Glancing at each other ever-so-subtly, which of course for them was not subtle at all, they proceeded to look for the Doll aisle. GOB scanned the Barbies, massaging each of them with his eyes. "Oh man…we better find these damn dolls soon before people start asking me if I have a gun in my pocket."
"I found them!" Tobias called appropriately. He was motioning for GOB to come over with his one free hand; he was holding a "Yasmine" Bratz doll in his other. "I think he's quite the pretty Petunia. Shall we purchase him?"
"It's a girl, and you're the rich bastard, you buy it." GOB started to awkwardly walk towards the exit, getting very antsy all over.
"Oh, right, right," Tobias replied, disappointment in his tone. "I could've sworn that these were…males…" He sighed, then proceeded to the checkout. Everyone else in line was of the female persuasion, and were buying items such as the latest Barbie (GOB was barely holding it in), diapers, and sanitary napkins, which they sold at Toys R Us for some really crazy reason. What said reason was, only Geoffrey the Giraffe and his minions knew.
Finally, it was Tobias and GOB's turn to checkout. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," GOB said silently to no one in particular. The cashier was named Margot, an oddly named man that looked to be about 40 with frizzy red hair and had a really disgusting mole on his chin. "Why, good day…Mar-got," Tobias said, leaning in to read her name tag. "How are you this fine day?"
"…is that all, sir?" Margot asked, wiping the contents of her nose on her sleeve while scanning the doll.
"Oh yes, miseur" –Tobias nudged GOB, winking—"that will most definitely be all. At least, for the doll and I…but from you, my king, I still require something. Something warm and…"
"Don't finish that sentence. We're going." GOB grabbed the bag, swiped Tobias' credit card out of his wallet and through the necessary slots, and ran out of the store. "Jesus the Mexican Immigrant working for Mom, that took way too long. What the hell were you doing in there? You know he was a guy? I don't want to be seen with some poof in public." As he was saying this, GOB was leaning on Tobias' shoulder sensually and whispering in his ear, giving the public the impression that the two were, indeed, a gay couple. Not that GOB noticed.
"Hi, could you direct me the lot where Your Mother Doesn't Love You, Son is filming? I have a gift for the director." George-Michael crossed his fingers, trying to hide any nervousness he possessed.
"Sure, um…if you want to just give it to me, I'll make sure they get it -"
"No, I'd really like to give it to her myself," he said sternly, the most confident he'd ever sounded.
"Oh. Well, then. Lot 78." The security guard opened the gate, a bit miffed at George-Michael's hostility.
"Thank you." He entered the studio lots, amazed at how big they were and the large number of them. "So this is where Maeby works, huh." He itched his arm, an impulsive tick of his that occurred whenever he sensed something bad about to come on. Or whenever he needed a shower. As he walked throughout the large area, he saw not one single woman, and no one above the age of 45. A grimace invaded his face, not liking the idea of his "hot" girlfriend being surrounded by men that he admittedly thought were better looking than him. The pressure he was feeling was unbearable and intense. A wall of tension was forcing itself upon him, not letting him go until he gave up. But George-Michael was a new, changed man that did cave in to pressures as petty as this one.
He finally found Lot 78. Standing outside of it, he marveled its features. It was beige and huge, and an overall beautiful building, as beautiful as a set for filming could be. He smiled a little, happy that his girlfriend got only the best. He then proceeded to knock on the large door.
"Who the hell knocks on a set door? Like, seriously?" someone yelled from within, cracking up the rest of the crew. "Who is it?" he then asked in a sing-song voice.
"Um, hello, this is George-Michael, George-Michael Bluth, here with a gift for the director," he said, "my girlfriend." He grinned ear-to-ear, proud of himself for confidently stating that Maeby was, indeed, his girlfriend, to an absolute stranger.
"Hey, Maeby, I didn't know you were a lesbian!" More laughs. "Okay, Birdman, hold up a sec."
Birdman? Oh, ha, witty, George-Michael thought, ignoring the "lesbian" comment entirely. The door then opened, and George-Michael peered in. There was a blinding light set up, and loads of cameras, but not that much else. But there was Maeby, in the lone chair on the whole set, staring back at George-Michael with some fear in her eyes.
"George-Michael. Hey," she called to him. George-Michael waited a few seconds to see if she'd get up to spare him from embarrassing himself any further in front of her crew, but she did not bother to lift herself off her chair in even the slightest. He then proceeded to walk over to her, making sure to not trip over a single wire that might mess up the whole production. As he got closer to Maeby, he saw Steve Holt, barely clothed, looking up at him.
"Hey, George-Michael!" Steve Holt waved, sitting on his knees and placing himself in a location that just covered his "naughty bits".
"Um. Hi, Steve Holt."
"Steve…Holt." George-Michael continued his way over to Maeby, his face completely maroon. He was crushing the box a bit, something he was unaware of. "Maeby."
"Hey." She looked at the box. "Is that…for me?"
"Um, yeah. Yeah, it is!" He thrusted it into her hands, forcing it upon her. "I bought it for you just before I came. I hope you like it."
Maeby smiled politely, and then began to rip off the wrapping paper in a hurried fashion. The box was small; rivaled, it did not, the boxes her negligent parents often handed her on holidays and birthdays. However, it was from George-Michael, who was someone she felt was important to her, and thus it did not matter the size.
Until, of course, she saw the sweater.
Inside the box was a sweater; a disgusting, ratty sweater with Christmas trees on it and ¾ sleeves. It was black, red, and white, and seemed to scream, "I didn't know what to get you for Christmas, so I just picked up the first Christmas-related thing I could find at Macy's." took out the sweater, looked at it for a brief moment, then placed it back down, blinking back tears. "George-Michael…"
"Do you like it? I thought…I thought you would. I thought it suited you. It works for you, y'know?" The entire soundstage was silent, except for Maeby's sniffles.
"This isn't working."
"What? What do you mean?"
"I can't do this, George-Michael. Just…come outside." She pulled him outside into the bright sunlight, and her boyfriend could finally see the tears streaking her face. "I can't believe you had the gall to come down to work to give me this shitty sweater that you KNOW I don't need, want, like, anything. What the fuck is wrong with you, George-Michael? What's up with you?"
George-Michael's jaw refused to let up, and his mouth hung open for a short period of time. This wasn't going well at all, at all. His plan to win back some of Maeby's affection for Steve Holt was backfiring. It was obvious to him, and he wasn't going to take the backseat anymore – Maeby liked Steve, who she invited to be a part of her film to get closer to. He spent more time with Maeby than George-Michael even got to, and the envy was consuming him.
"You're jealous, aren't you? You're jealous that I have a job, and friends, and people who care about me other than you. You're jealous because you don't have any of that, George-Michael. Do you even have a single friend? Do you?"
"You don't, George-Michael. You honestly fucking don't. I'm the only one there for you, and you don't want to share me. Well, y'know what? I'm not Mrs. George-Michael Bluth, okay? I'm me, and I'm not going to let myself get tied down by you or any man, you understand that?" She headed towards the door. "I'll see you at home. Maybe you'll have grown up by then. Jesus." The door slammed behind her.
George-Michael was dumbstruck, stunned silent, and crumbling into a broken shell of himself, not sure about what just happened.