we're all gay down here

Michael’s palms are sweaty. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest. He swallows.

“Is there anything important to attend to, Trevor?” the King turns away from him, tilting his head back to look at what Michael assumes is his advisor. His father wasn’t kidding when he called the southern men waifish, the man is tall and skinny like a one of the sickly adults in the north. 

As is the King, which is… strange. Shouldn’t he be healthier if he’s the King? Is there something wrong with the food, or a sickness in the air? Michael considers the offer of private land elsewhere, if only to keep himself healthy and safe from whatever plagues the southern lands.

“Unless some sort of emergency arises,” Michael blinks and forces himself to focus, biting the inside of his cheek and looking between the three men in front of him, “you are free until your dinner with some of the lords and ladies taking care of the western towns this evening.”

“Ah, yes,” the King pulls a face and presses his knuckles between his eyes, rings shining in the light coming from the stained glass window behind him, “that sordid affair. Are you sure we cannot cancel it?”

“We cannot, sadly, but I am looking forward to it just as much as you are, if that is any consolation.” Trevor laughs gently, a handsome smile curving the edges of his mouth. 

Michael has so many questions. His head is practically spinning. Why are his advisors stood at his sides? Why is there only one guard in the room, apart from himself? Why is ‘Trevor’ laughing and disrespecting the lords without punishment? Michael looks to his feet and curls his hands into fists.

“Take pity on the poor boy, Gavin,” the other advisor says gently, rustling comes from his position next to the King, “not everyone is as malleable as you.”

Michael doesn’t know where he is.

He’s- he’s  somewhere , and there’s smoke pretty much everywhere. It takes a few moments of staring at said smoke before he begins to remember small things.

They’re taking out a rival crew somewhere on the edge between blaine county and los santos city proper. Everything was going smoothly, and then things start to get blurry. Michael can vaguely remember setting up the explosives, and now he’s laid out flat on his ass between two abandoned buildings. 

Michael sighs, going to push himself to his feet before fumbling and hitting the ground again. His ears are ringing and he idly realises that his comm device isn’t in. he looks at his arms and sees the singed and shredded sleeves of his jacket,  god fucking damn it , and the bloody mess of his forearms under the ruined fabric. When he looks down, his jeans are singed too but his legs escaped most of the damage, but they’re still an irritated red and michael knows they’ll be sore tomorrow. There’s also shrapnel in his vest, but he’s breathing clear enough to know that he’s not taken any damage from the metal. Maybe some minor bruises.

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Michael doesn’t know where he is.

He’s- he’s  somewhere , and there’s smoke pretty much everywhere. It takes a few moments of staring at said smoke before he begins to remember small things.

They’re taking out a rival crew somewhere on the edge between blaine county and los santos city proper. Everything was going smoothly, and then things start to get blurry. Michael can vaguely remember setting up the explosives, and now he’s laid out flat on his ass between two abandoned buildings. 

Michael sighs, going to push himself to his feet before fumbling and hitting the ground again. His ears are ringing and he idly realises that his comm device isn’t in. he looks at his arms and sees the singed and shredded sleeves of his jacket,  god fucking damn it , and the bloody mess of his forearms under the ruined fabric. When he looks down, his jeans are singed too but his legs escaped most of the damage, but they’re still an irritated red and michael knows they’ll be sore tomorrow. There’s also shrapnel in his vest, but he’s breathing clear enough to know that he’s not taken any damage from the metal. Maybe some minor bruises.

At the beginning, Michael never really knew what to think of Gavin. He was loud, first of all. Loud and obnoxious and overbearing and always sparking near Michael’s fuse. 

Never igniting it, though. 

The younger man, as annoying as he was, was funny and kind and fiercely loyal in a way that Michael respected. 

“Your tattoos,” Gavin started, then stopped himself. Michael looked up from where he was cleaning his pistol, frowning heavily.

“Spit it out.” Gavin was standing in the doorway and Michael honestly wanted him to move, not used to having limited exits. He doubted he would survive the fall from the kitchen window. 

Gavin wandered further into the kitchen, sitting across from Michael and staring at the video game tattoos closely. “They’re… big.” Michael didn’t deign that with a response, rolling his eyes and starting to put the gun back together. “How did you know?”

He paused. “Know what?”

At the beginning, Michael never really knew what to think of Gavin. He was loud, first of all. Loud and obnoxious and overbearing and always sparking near Michael’s fuse. 

Never igniting it, though. 

The younger man, as annoying as he was, was funny and kind and fiercely loyal in a way that Michael respected. 

“Your tattoos,” Gavin started, then stopped himself. Michael looked up from where he was cleaning his pistol, frowning heavily.

“Spit it out.” Gavin was standing in the doorway and Michael honestly wanted him to move, not used to having limited exits. He doubted he would survive the fall from the kitchen window. 

Gavin wandered further into the kitchen, sitting across from Michael and staring at the video game tattoos closely. “They’re… big.” Michael didn’t deign that with a response, rolling his eyes and starting to put the gun back together. “How did you know?”

He paused. “Know what?”

Michael doesn’t know where he is.

He’s- he’s  somewhere , and there’s smoke pretty much everywhere. It takes a few moments of staring at said smoke before he begins to remember small things.

They’re taking out a rival crew somewhere on the edge between blaine county and los santos city proper. Everything was going smoothly, and then things start to get blurry. Michael can vaguely remember setting up the explosives, and now he’s laid out flat on his ass between two abandoned buildings. 

Michael sighs, going to push himself to his feet before fumbling and hitting the ground again. His ears are ringing and he idly realises that his comm device isn’t in. he looks at his arms and sees the singed and shredded sleeves of his jacket,  god fucking damn it , and the bloody mess of his forearms under the ruined fabric. When he looks down, his jeans are singed too but his legs escaped most of the damage, but they’re still an irritated red and michael knows they’ll be sore tomorrow. There’s also shrapnel in his vest, but he’s breathing clear enough to know that he’s not taken any damage from the metal. Maybe some minor bruises.

Michael is loyal to a fault, Gavin has learned. The man has only been Gavin’s personal guard for seven or eight moons and he has fulfilled his duty without preamble or hesitation. Even on his days of rest, Michael still finds his way into Gavin’s chambers. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you sleep,” Gavin comments, sat up in bed. His legs are crossed under the covers and there’s a delicate cup clutched in his hands, steam rising and warming his face. “You must be exhausted.”

Michael, sprawled on the chair in front of Gavin’s desk, simply smirks. “If i’m sleeping all the time i can’t very well guard you, now, can i?”

“Can you focus on your job while you’re sleep deprived?“ 

"I can assure you I will always focus.” Michael sits up, tilting his head and pressing his fingers against his own face, pale skin going paler under the pressure. “Can you focus and make decisions for the good of your Kingdom if you stay up talking to a simple king’s guard all night?”

Gavin rolls his eyes, placing his cup to the side carefully and pushing himself to his feet. “How am I meant to sleep on a night like this, Michael?”

Michael is loyal to a fault, Gavin has learned. The man has only been Gavin’s personal guard for seven or eight moons and he has fulfilled his duty without preamble or hesitation. Even on his days of rest, Michael still finds his way into Gavin’s chambers. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you sleep,” Gavin comments, sat up in bed. His legs are crossed under the covers and there’s a delicate cup clutched in his hands, steam rising and warming his face. “You must be exhausted.”

Michael, sprawled on the chair in front of Gavin’s desk, simply smirks. “If i’m sleeping all the time i can’t very well guard you, now, can i?”

“Can you focus on your job while you’re sleep deprived?" 

"I can assure you I will always focus.” Michael sits up, tilting his head and pressing his fingers against his own face, pale skin going paler under the pressure. “Can you focus and make decisions for the good of your Kingdom if you stay up talking to a simple king’s guard all night?”

Gavin rolls his eyes, placing his cup to the side carefully and pushing himself to his feet. “How am I meant to sleep on a night like this, Michael?”

Michael doesn’t know where he is.

He’s- he’s  somewhere , and there’s smoke pretty much everywhere. It takes a few moments of staring at said smoke before he begins to remember small things.

They’re taking out a rival crew somewhere on the edge between blaine county and los santos city proper. Everything was going smoothly, and then things start to get blurry. Michael can vaguely remember setting up the explosives, and now he’s laid out flat on his ass between two abandoned buildings. 

Michael sighs, going to push himself to his feet before fumbling and hitting the ground again. His ears are ringing and he idly realises that his comm device isn’t in. he looks at his arms and sees the singed and shredded sleeves of his jacket,  god fucking damn it , and the bloody mess of his forearms under the ruined fabric. When he looks down, his jeans are singed too but his legs escaped most of the damage, but they’re still an irritated red and michael knows they’ll be sore tomorrow. There’s also shrapnel in his vest, but he’s breathing clear enough to know that he’s not taken any damage from the metal. Maybe some minor bruises.

Michael doesn’t know where he is.

He’s- he’s  somewhere , and there’s smoke pretty much everywhere. It takes a few moments of staring at said smoke before he begins to remember small things.

They’re taking out a rival crew somewhere on the edge between blaine county and los santos city proper. Everything was going smoothly, and then things start to get blurry. Michael can vaguely remember setting up the explosives, and now he’s laid out flat on his ass between two abandoned buildings. 

Michael sighs, going to push himself to his feet before fumbling and hitting the ground again. His ears are ringing and he idly realises that his comm device isn’t in. he looks at his arms and sees the singed and shredded sleeves of his jacket,  god fucking damn it , and the bloody mess of his forearms under the ruined fabric. When he looks down, his jeans are singed too but his legs escaped most of the damage, but they’re still an irritated red and michael knows they’ll be sore tomorrow. There’s also shrapnel in his vest, but he’s breathing clear enough to know that he’s not taken any damage from the metal. Maybe some minor bruises.

--------

Michael sits with his forehead against the cool kitchen table. His arms are folded to shield his ears, palms cupped over them to restrict any noise that might enter. He suppresses the instinctive urge to fight, to leave the apartment and dodge punches and crush his opponent into the ground with his bare hands. His chest stutters every few moments, a choked breath escaping and prompting him to restrain the next breath, pausing to get a fucking grip.

The darkness of his apartment helps, allowing the extra lost sense to force a strange headspace over him. His slow, measured breathing returning once more as he calms himself down. He isn't that person anymore, he isn't young and mean. He doesn't want to be like that. He’s changed, for fuck’s sake.

He can vaguely recognise the sound of a door opening somewhere in the apartment over the pressure held on his ears. He doesn't jolt when the overhead light in the kitchen turns on, the light swaying gently when the storm outside batters the windows hard enough to force a breeze through. The exposed brick in the kitchen forces a cold wave through the apartment every once in a while and all of the different feelings make him want to shove his head under faucet and turn the cold tap on so that he can somehow stimulate being out there, being exposed to the biting rain and the sting of an open wound on his body. The fridge opens and closes behind him. The chair next to him squeaks and a hand settles on his arm, a beacon of warmth.

The hand retreats, the warmth leaving slowly. Something taps on the table every couple of seconds. Michael opens his eyes slowly and shifts his right arm onto his lap so that he can look over. 

Tanned fingers, bare of any rings and exposed tan lines left behind that almost glow under the kitchen light. short nails dig into the bright orange skin of a tangerine, peeling it away to reveal segmented fruit underneath. Michael blinks and watches the actions in silence, breath fogging the cold wood under his head. The entire peel is removed, set aside in a little pile. The pith is peeled away from the orange flesh. He closes his eyes and shudders through a single breath. a zing of fruit appears under his nose, permeating his focus and forcing him to open his eyes.

Half of the tangerine, tenderly removed of any pith or skin.

Michael forces himself to focus, reaching his right hand up onto the table and running his finger along the fruit. A foot presses against his own under the table. He slowly moves his head, pushing himself up with his left hand to sit against the back of the chair. He holds the piece of fruit between his fingers and carefully pulls the first segment away, putting it in his mouth and sighing tiredly at the burst of flavour when he chews.

The foot remains pressed against his own, bare feet cold against the glossy hardwood.

He finishes his half of the fruit quietly, breathing measuredly through the action of chewing and swallowing. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his pants. Warm flesh presses against his arm once more, squeezing around muscle and bone fondly.

“C’mon, love,” gavin whispers carefully, smiling soothingly as he rises from his chair, “let’s go to bed.”