♡

In Trevor's dream, he was back where he'd first met Michael—in that tiny, rundown hangar. He'd talked, traded and thieved his way into getting his hands on it after the Air Force spat him out. Done everything he could just to keep flying.

Michael had heard it was “Philips” he needed. A young pilot with a battered crop duster and a reputation for keeping his mouth shut. Barely more than a kid, really—naive enough to undercharge, reckless enough to take the smuggling jobs nobody else wanted. If the cargo fit in the plane and the money was upfront, Trevor would fly it.

Their meeting played out in front of him again in his sleep. It was almost exactly the same as it had happened the first time—Michael strutting in, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

He didn't apologize for interrupting Trevor while he tinkered with his plane. Didn't even hesitate. Just walked right up and started talking like Trevor already worked for him. 

Trevor remembered thinking he was an asshole.

But not this time.

This time, Dream-Trevor practically fell to his knees at the sight of him. His lip trembled, vision blurring as he asked Michael if it was really him. If he was really still alive.

Dream-Michael didn't answer. He just kept talking through the haze of smoke curling from his lips, describing the cargo as though the previous twenty years had never happened. 

But it had happened. Trevor knew it. He looked down at his hands—they were tattooed and scarred and battered. Older hands. Hands that had lived through everything that came after this.

Trevor remembered it all. Every bank job. Every car chase.

Michael’s blood in the snow.

Dream-Michael didn’t seem to know.

And unlike Trevor, he was young again. The light was still in his eyes, untouched by all the responsibilities that would come later. No wedding ring on his finger. 

Trevor begged him to listen. Begged him to just tell him he was really there, that he hadn’t bled out in the cold after all. For a few perfect seconds, he stopped caring whether it made sense. He could already feel himself believing that none of it had really happened, that there was still time.

That they were about to get back in that plane together and start again.

But Michael looked straight through him.

And then… he left. He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushed it beneath his boot, and turned away. 

Trevor was screaming.

Michael got further and further away, heading for the hangar door. Trevor tried to follow, but it was like pushing against concrete. There was an invisible barrier between them: Michael, before everything. Trevor, after.

Trevor pounded his fists against it. Kicked it. Cried. Begged.

Useless.

He was trapped on the wrong side of twenty years, forced to watch Michael slip away from him all over again.

The crying didn't stop when he woke. Trevor squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to force himself back into the dream. He'd take the screaming. He'd take the begging. He'd watch Michael leave him over and over again if it meant just a few more minutes with him. 

.

Michael’s dream was different.

It took place exactly where he was—lying in a king-sized bed in Los Santos, the air con turned up to max against the summer heat.

It was the shadow he noticed first.

Sprawling across the floor through the gap in the bedroom door, the size of it felt wrong. Michael couldn't quite make sense of it. It looked almost human.

Almost.

But if it was human, then someone was standing in the hallway, completely still.

Waiting.

Then came the noise.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

The door creaked open slowly, the strange shadow now stretching all the way to the foot of Michael's bed. 

Thunk. Thunk.

It didn’t sound like knocking. It was more like heavy boots on the floorboards, except… wrong. As if the boot-wearer couldn’t bend their knees properly...

Of course, Real-Michael would’ve yelled out, pulled a gun on the shadow and demanded to know what the hell was going on. But Dream-Michael was frozen. He was pinned to the mattress, completely voiceless and powerless to do anything but cower.

Thunk. Thunk.

Closer.

Michael’s brain desperately tried to make sense of the figure coming through the doorway. It was only a dream—and dreams were confusing. Distorted. They warped faces and twisted shapes.

Then the recognition finally struck.

And so did the terror.

It was Him. Trevor.

Michael was sure he must've been screaming. His mouth was open, his chest straining from the effort, but no noise would escape him.

Trevor continued towards him. Thunk. Thunk. Heavy, like every organ, every skin cell in his body was burdened by some impossible weight.

Closer and closer to the bed, until there was nowhere left for Michael to look but his eyes. 

Eyes that were once a deep brown were now light. Clouded and blue—no, grey. Mottled and empty. His irises looked like they'd swallowed their own pupils. 

Eyes that looked like they could no longer see anything at all. But Michael knew they could see him.

Trevor loomed over him, wearing exactly what he'd been wearing that day in Dorff. His green duffle coat was torn and slimy. His mullet clung wet against his skull, strands tangled with algae and river weed.

His moustache barely concealed the steady stream of filthy water pouring from his mouth. It was splashing onto the floorboards, leaving a wet trail all the way from the bedroom door to the bed.

Michael could feel the droplets hitting his face.

Bugs, worms and tiny crustaceans had embedded themselves into Trevor's greyed skin. Some were still moving.

Michael stared up at him, breathless with horror. 

In that moment, it made perfect sense that Trevor had drowned.

Michael had convinced himself T was dead a long time ago. He had to. The alternative was that he was still out there, alone and suffering for all these years. The alternative was that one day, he'd figure it all out and come looking for him.

No.

Trevor had to be dead.

He'd buried him a thousand times in his imagination during that first year after the North Yankton job. It was always the same—his mind would lay Trevor to rest so that he could finally move on. Forget about him. 

And it was probably true, right? Trevor probably topped himself shortly after—whether on purpose or not. Better than being on the run. Better than living with the memory of his friends being murdered by the feds.

The idiot probably finally got so high that he fell asleep near a river. The water took him. He never woke up. Hell, it was Trevor. He probably finally pissed off the wrong person and ended up fish food.

It all made sense.

Trevor was dead. It was for the best. It saved Michael. It saved his family. And maybe, in some twisted way, it saved Trevor too.

But now…

He was here. Standing over his bed. 

Now, Trevor knew the truth.

“T-t-t—T...” Michael stammered. “Y-you gotta understand—”

The words wouldn't come out properly. They tangled together in his mouth.

Another droplet of water fell from Trevor's lips.

Plop.

Straight into Michael's open mouth.

He spluttered violently, choking on it. The water tasted foul. Stagnant.

Rotting.

“T!”

But Trevor didn't react. He just kept staring. A maggot pushed through the flesh of his cheek, splitting the skin as it forced its way free. It wriggled down his jaw and disappeared into the collar of his coat.

Michael made a strangled noise.

“T-Trevor, I—I can explain—”

Another droplet landed on his face.

Then another.

Then another.

The room smelled like river water and decay.

Trevor leaned closer.

Closer.

Michael couldn't breathe.

At first he thought it was the water—that somehow it had found its way into his lungs. He could feel it there, cold and filthy, filling him from the inside.

But it wasn’t the water. It was Trevor’s fingers around his throat, getting tighter, tighter, tighter.

It was here: the day Michael’d always secretly known would come. His worst fear.

Trevor had finally found him, and he was going to take his revenge.

He was going to drag Michael back down to hell with him, back where he belonged…

.

Michael was still choking and gagging when he woke.

His throat felt shredded from crying out—apparently he'd been making the screams he couldn't turn into sound in the dream, after all.

His heart was racing, and the air conditioning did nothing to stop the sweat running down his back. He took a few deep breaths, letting the relief that it had all just been a dream slowly wash over him.

Trevor was probably dead.

And Michael was safe.

He settled himself back onto the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, unable to shake the memory of those terrible, dead eyes. 

Neither of them knew it yet, but one day, years from now, the pair would meet again.

Trevor would tell Michael that he’d mourned him. Michael would tell Trevor that he’d missed him.

That night in 2009, Michael mourned Trevor one last time in his head. He pulled his bloated body from the river. He laid him to rest. He said his goodbyes. He moved on.

Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.