#pre-ludendorff

His heart painfully wrenches watching Trevor flirt antagonistically with Lester for the umpteenth goddamn time, telling him that he loves him whenever the ailing man tells them he has something good planned, something that can bring them in some actual bank for their wallets -- or in T’s case, some support for his ever-growing crank habit.

He’s unsure if it has less to do with the way Trevor snakes himself around Lester’s fragile body with a laugh because he’s always doing inane shit like that to everyone than more to do with the actual words themselves being uttered.

He rolls his eyes and sighs when T hugs his friendly neighborhood crystal supplier and tells him how much of a lifesaver he is and how much he loves him so fucking much right now while he’s sticking wads of cash in the man’s pockets without counting them. Michael is sure that he overpaid by a mile but also knows that at this point, his best friend has so much saved up that he doesn’t care about the money. He doesn’t do this shit for the cash. It’s purely for the thrill.

(And Michael knows somewhere deep inside of the wall of denial he’s built that Trevor has told him several times that he’s only along for the ride because Michael keeps him entertained more than any drug could ever hope to do.)

He tries to laugh it off every time T blows kisses at women, and hell, even men, because he knows that Trevor doesn’t really care about any of them. He likes to freak people out. It’s a mind game thing with him. He wants to be perceived as weird and scary because he spent so much time being kicked around as a youth. Sometimes...sometimes it gets old though, and he wishes he’d grow the fuck up already.

He bristles angrily the night Trevor drunkenly puts his arm around Brad Snider and whispers that he thinks he loves him into his rapidly turning red ears, and that’s it. Michael threatens to put Brad’s miserable ass into a hole in the ground. He’s pretty sure women everywhere will thank him for it, too.

It takes several people to pull him off Brad’s shaking and beaten body, including Trevor who’s hotly in his ear the entire time, asking him what his fucking problem is.

He looks at his fists as if they no longer belong to him.

Sure, he’s hit people before, but not family. You don’t turn on family. What the fuck is wrong with him? He feels like he’s channeling his father right now, and it’s not a pleasant place to be.

Someone pulls him away from the rest of the crowd into a janitorial closet back by the bathrooms of the bar, and he’s not surprised to see that it’s Trevor.

“What the fuck has gotten into you, Mikey?”

He looks down at his hands again, studying the wrinkles and finer details that mark them in the same vein as his father’s DNA. They’re meaty and hairy, sweaty at times, can palm a ball and fire both that and a gun with deadly accuracy, just like his old man. And can apparently beat the shit out of family, just like his old man.

But there’s a sour milk taste in the back of his throat that makes him want to gag. Brad Snider’s obnoxious ass has never felt like family.

He regards the tall, lanky barely man in front of him with his almost sometimes borderline splay of curviness in places that make Michael tick, especially in the right clothes, sees the long brunette locks of hair framing his face and neck now -- a far cry from when they’d first met, and he’d still been trying to grow out his RCAF crew cut.

Michael sees his big doe eyes and feels that no matter how furious they may be or no matter how fucking crazy this lunatic can get, Trevor’s his fucking lunatic, and he’s family. He’ll always be family.

It hits him like a ton of bricks at 90mph then why those three words mean so much.

Trevor’s never said them to him. Just like his sad-sack father and his miserable mother. Never even got so much as an “I’m proud of you” or an “I love you” out of them even when he made All-State.

And Trevor shouts how much he loves the whole fucking world except for one Michael Townley. Why is that? Doesn’t he deserve to be loved, dammit??

As T is still going off half-cocked about jealousy and double standards, Michael squares his jaw and looks him dead in the eyes, and that stops the other man in his tracks slightly. It’s not ever been a thing born of fear between them but of fascination, Michael knows, and of attraction.

“Why don’t you ever tell me you love me, T?”

“H-huh?” the Canadian is taken by surprise. “What the fuck are you bitching about? Of course, I have.”

Michael shakes his head and crosses his arms, rubbing the elbows for courage or security, he’s not sure. “Nuh uh. Not one time, Trevor. You tell every other fucker on the planet including that sorry shitstain Brad, but me? Not even once,” he laughs bitterly.

Trevor looks at him oddly for a while as if contemplating what he’s said, and eventually, it’s as if an old lightbulb tries to flicker on inside his head, so he shakes it, grinning. “That’s where you’re wrong, sugar. I tell you every fucking day.”

Michael wants to sputter and cry and lash out with everything he is and has because this has got to be the most delusional bullshit Trevor Philips has spewed yet, and sometimes he regrets ever running into this miserable bastard from up north who’s made his life colder than a thousand Canadian winters could ever hope to be cold.

Before he gets the chance though, Trevor continues. “You see a pretty piece of ass? I stay by your side. I find you face down in muff? I stay by your side. You sometimes hurt me with words or actions like my old man used to hurt me, Mikey, and it’s only you that I let hurt me so good, so just remember that when you say I don’t love you. I didn’t think it needed saying, but sure, I love you like no other,” he finishes as he grounds his boot into the floor absentmindedly.

Suddenly all of the rage that has been building behind Michael’s wall dissipates, leaving him feeling wondrously stupid and exhausted. When he looks up in Trevor’s doe eyes again, he wonders how he could have ever doubted him, this beautiful creature before him, as he crushes Trevor's lips to his.

“Jesus fucking Christ, that’s where we are with this?” He finished the rest of the beer, swilling it in his mouth to rinse the taste of despair and hatred for himself away, but no matter what he did, the painful sickness in the deepest part of his belly lay dormant like a growing beast of which he couldn’t rid himself even when he swallowed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his flannel coat and glared at Norton with contempt. “I’m not going to be a part of this shit. You can do whatever the fuck you want. Arrest me, I...I don’t...I really don’t give a fucking shit, you know?”

But he didn’t mean it, and he hated himself for that too. He was scared shitless even thinking it because his mind spiraled around Amanda and the kids back at the house, and goddamn, how had Trevor seen his downfall into a fucking coward before he ever had?

An unsteady hand reached out to grab his arm, slithered onto his skin, not unlike a snake, and the honey voice poured into his ears again with sweet words. “You know how it is, Michael. He’s a mad dog. He has to be put down. You know as well as I do that he’s got his fingers in many pies these past months.” Stone cold eyes drooped upwards and stared him straight in the face. “You said so yourself. He’s been pushing you out, bringing Snider in more for these newer jobs.” Cold fingers stroked unpleasantly at his wrist, and Norton’s lips curled into a knowing grin. “Do you know what kind of jobs he’s been doing? Or are you too preoccupied to ask when you’re around him?”

“You shut the fuck up,” Michael hissed irritably but couldn’t find it in himself to yank his wrist back. It felt unreal, like that time his dad had caught him and his long-time buddy Howie fooling around in his room when they had thought no one was home. Howie had been kicked off the freshman football team in town, and they had never spoken again after that.

He had been so pissed off at his fucking dad, but he hadn’t had the guts to stand up to him because he was The Authority. Don’t go against the grain. That’s all he’d ever been taught, for fuck’s sake. Obey the parents and follow God. Listen to the coach. Don’t break the rules unless Coach or Dad says so then go to confession. Say the rosary. Pray for forgiveness.

Only like girls. Don’t like boys too.

And Dave Norton was The Authority. Or part of it, at least, and by extension, a part of this group of people who’d approached him with the idea of making his life better by having him set up the only people in his life besides his wife and kids he’d ever fully cared about.

OK, so maybe he didn’t give two shits about Brad Snider.

They wanted Lester Crest, and well, Lester was just too intelligent and way more slippery than the slimiest lizard at the FIB. That was already asking for too much trouble, he knew. Lester would figure things out quickly.

But Trevor Philips?

“It’s you who cares,” Norton quipped, obviously amused. “You’re the only one who cares.”

His grip on the bottle tightened, and the glass whined, aching at him to just go ahead and break it already. Unleash some anger on something. But he shook his head and blew out a calming breath. He wasn’t Trevor, couldn’t do the “living in the moment” or “feed your emotions” bullshit anymore. No, he was getting busy with eating them, instead. “I’m not the only fucking person who cares, so I wish you’d stop saying that,” he ground out.

Norton leaned back against the booth seat and shrugged. “Almost all of the pieces are together. We’re getting our end ready, so you’d better not get cold feet. This isn’t your wedding.”

Michael shot him a miserable wilting look. “Hey, I didn’t get cold feet there, you asshole.”

Norton smiled, tapping his knee. “No, indeed. You just took a different approach. Better not do that with us, Michael.”

He frowned, the threat duly noted.

The hand that had been tapping the knee patted him on his knee, and it made him feel slightly clammy suddenly instead of being the reassurance he supposed it was meant to bring. Norton’s eyes twinkled brightly, looking awkward and almost downright ghoulish but not quite at the same time in the atmosphere of the restaurant with its gaily strung outdoor-style fairy lights.

Really, it was just out of place with timing and subject matter. He wanted to think that had they met given any other circumstances, Dave Norton would’ve been a decent man.

Quirky, but decent...maybe? He wasn’t sure, choosing to shiver instead.

“Look, Michael,” Norton coaxed soothingly like some great earworm that had begun to burrow itself into him, and he felt himself swaying to the words a bit, “it’s late, and your family is probably wondering where you are. We’ll talk more before it’s showtime, so get some rest.” A stray hand gripped his shoulder, massaging the tender flesh there underneath layers of outerwear, and no matter how much he tried to move away, he couldn’t. “Before you know it, all of this snow will be a thing of the past, and you’ll be in sunshine all of the time.”

He practically ran out of the building.

There was no need for sunshine, was there? He had sun and heat in the midst of the snow and cold. There was Trevor. That was the source he’d always flocked to during the deepest, darkest parts of winter where no one else dared to tread.

And he called out to Michael like a warming beacon in the chill of the night, his body moving towards his hideout without even having to think about the steps it was taking; just knowing it wasn’t moving towards home with the wife and kids, and that would be yet another fight, but he just had to see him.

He knew Brad wasn’t a good influence. Jesus, none of them were good, but he had always likened himself, Trevor, and Lester to a sort of modern-day Robin Hoods. Banks were insured. People got their money back. The whole system was a fucking joke anyway, of that, Trevor was right. And they were always working themselves toward something bigger and better -- knocking at the US government’s back door. Readying themselves to rob from the biggest thief in the land.

Of course, thanks to Lester, they were a revolving door of pieces to a big puzzle for whatever the jobs needed, but the constants had remained Lester, Trevor, himself, and Brad. Moses had even pulled out after having a come-to-Jesus moment of sorts after a job-gone-wrong caused by Brad’s own carelessness, and the latter had never once offered an ounce of apology or a hint of regret. It had just been “that’s the nature of the game,” and of course, Trevor had grunted his agreement, so Michael hadn’t pushed the matter further.  

Of course, he’d bitched to Norton. How chummy those two had gotten had been one of his first concerns along with the rampant drug use around the kids. The minute Amanda had told Trevor to knock it off, he had turned on her like a dog snapping on its master--

No, no… no, he didn’t want to go there with the same terms Norton had used, but Trevor just wasn’t himself anymore. And his hatred and depression seemed especially fixated on Amanda to the point in which she no longer allowed him at the house.

Maybe the final straw that had made him even entertain these discreet evening chats with Norton which made him feel scummy like a cheating lover -- and oh ho ho, the irony in that wasn’t lost on him, thank fuck -- was the saddening realization and painful hit to his heart that his own children were too worried to have their formerly precious Uncle T around. They wanted him to get help.

There was no getting help for Trevor though was what no one understood.

He’d always been a ticking time bomb, a beautiful bright sun on the verge of going supernova. Stupidly, maybe innocently, he’d thought he could harvest that raw energy and help Trevor use it for something good, but there were just too many variables in life.

Brad Snider was such a fucking variable.

No, he wasn’t stupid. He knew things, heard rumors, tried to ignore because he didn’t want to think things about the person he thought he knew, loved with all of his heart. Brad loved drugs too, wanted to expand out, but he wasn’t just into selling to turnt-out old junkies and calling it a day, no; he sold to teens. He was dangerously close to selling to Michael’s own kids, which was probably an effort to push his fucking buttons, and he had succeeded.

And the fat fuck had just yucked it up in that annoying squeal of his, saying they’d learn sooner or later because everyone does, and they’d already come from addict parents. He’d been so close to slitting that fuckwad’s throat but had stopped and could only blame his upbringing and the whole misbegotten code of “honor amongst thieves” that kept him from doing it.

Or maybe it was because Trevor had been passed out in a corner on a stained mattress, naked and tangled between the sheets, looking thinner than he could ever remember, and he’d wondered briefly if Trevor would be mad at him for killing Brad. It was something he hadn’t wanted to chance.

But he had left Brad with a nasty shiner that day that he still hadn’t explained to Trevor, and thankfully, neither had Brad. It had come after he had stared at Trevor’s prone form for way too long, remembering how beautiful he had been when they’d first met despite the leftover scars he’d acquired from a youth filled with abuse, and the scars were still there now but ached brighter on his paler emaciated body.

It had filled him with sadness, but there was no denying that Trevor would never not be beautiful.

And then Brad had saddled up beside him, touching him like they were old buddies sharing a sick secret, and whispered cockily in his ear, “His ass looks all nice and fucked there, doesn’t it? Too bad he only calls out for you.”

That’s when Michael had seen red. And hadn’t been back.

Until now.

He stood outside the battered building that had served as the hideout and base of operations for whatever the fuck Brad and Trevor were getting up to. A quick look around didn’t turn up Brad’s clunker of a fucking Ford which was a blessing, but he gnawed his lower lips with worry, wondering if maybe Trevor was gone too, and this was a mistake.

But it didn’t feel like one. A small lamp was on inside, and the unmistakable stink of Trevor was all over the place. He just knew he was here, somehow. Playing Trevor had come as easy to him as playing football, and something screamed out at him that maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t right, but it just simply was.  

Knocking produced no response, but Trevor was never one for answering the goddamn thing these days, in any case, so he tested the door and found it unlocked. He snorted dismissively and rolled his eyes; Brad would be a stupid fucking asshole just like that, leaving things wide open. The same stupid asshole had always poked fun at Lester’s complete obsessiveness -- and yes, perhaps borderline paranoia --  about security measures and safeguards, calling him anal about such shit. He’d insisted that “staying in plain sight was sometimes the best safety” which sounded like it came from some bad Stallone film, he swore to God, but he always managed to keep his opinions to himself.

Brad was going to get Trevor killed--

And then he remembered and pursed his lips, bile and stomach acid creeping up his throat along with bits of chips and crappy salsa and skunky cheap beer, and he barely bent over in time to puke them onto the concrete beneath his feet.

He spat the remainder out and wiped his mouth sullenly, then threw the door open before calling out, “Trevor?”

There was just a need to hear his voice, his mind told him. He needed to think about what he was doing, to think about how final this was. There was no taking this back. Norton had told him as much. He couldn’t fuck around with this. His family was at stake. He was at stake.

“Mikey?” a voice called out weakly from the room where the light was fizzling out, occasionally blinking off and then back to life with a strange crackling sound.

He was at stake. His sun was winking out.

His feet shambled towards the source as they always had since that very day long ago when that same heat had sent a solitary flare ripping through time to save his life. Had he ever remembered to thank him for that? Had he always been so selfish in all of their actions together or had there just never been time for it? There was another job to fulfill, another place to be, a party to fuck around at, snort this, drink that, smoke up, pop one, and it had become an endless rush.

He was getting too old for it all. Trevor was getting too old for it all, but he was too stubborn to see it for what it was.

Gilded Apollo was laying on the same stained mattress as if he’d never left, draped in sheets and covers with spots of undeterminable origin, and he could only hope that they were food or at the very least, were Trevor’s own bodily fluids, but it was hard telling where the damn covers had even made their way from, or if they’d just been in the sad-sack building when it had been put back into use. Trevor was a “waste not, want not” kind of guy. Unfortunately, sometimes.

He moved towards him and basked in his glow, could feel the warmth radiating from him even though he stood a full five feet from the bed. “I’m here, T.”

The fallen sun god drew himself under the mass of clouds surrounding him on the makeshift bed. “Why the fuck are you even here,” he mumbled from underneath. “The warden will have your dick if you aren’t back in your cell soon.”

He tried to keep his temper in check, the need to keep stringing Trevor along be damned. They were too old for this shit, really too old to act like fucking stupid ass kids. He could smell this for what it was: typical hurt Trevor lashing out.

Well, fuck. He supposed he had a right to be hurt. They hadn’t really spoken in about five weeks. He hadn’t been by here since the night of the coldcocking to Brad’s sneering face which had been about three weeks prior.

When had things gotten this bad?

He settled for a small laugh. “Hey, she doesn’t always have me by the balls. I just came to check up on you because I...I’m worried, OK?” He inched towards him, preparing himself for prostration if need be. “Can’t I miss you?”

He didn’t mean it to come out as a whisper, but his vocal cords just wouldn’t comply no matter how much he tried. Everything else came out like half-hearted moans and grunts as if he’d temporarily gained muteness over a set of words.

But the room stayed overcast. Even the shitty lamp hadn’t popped back to life, as if it shared a hivemind with its gloomy master. “You tell me. You’ve told me I can’t miss something I don’t even have.” An amber eye peeked out from behind the stained mass of clouds and glared at him condemnatorily. “So tell me, Michael, how does it feel?”

Fuck, he wanted, no, really needed, to be angry right now, but for whatever, well, he really didn’t know. How could he be mad at the truth? He could recall saying real shitty masterpieces as such when he was drunk and depressed. Hell, he did it to Amanda all of the goddamn time.

And then he laughed.

Trevor’s head poked out of the covers curiously. “What the fuck is so funny?”

Deciding he no longer gave a fuck about whatever Petri dish assortment of bacteria was on the mattress -- because it hadn’t killed Trevor yet, right? -- he plopped down and moved towards Trevor with an understanding gleam in his eye. “You think Amanda is set on some fucking pedestal high above you as if I treat you two any differently. She and I fight. You and I fight. Trevor, I’m just always going to be a cold insufferable bastard to be around. I was raised as a Catholic, for fuck’s sake. All we know is suffering and penance.” His hands removed the filth and cloudy covers from his golden sun god, and he hugged him to him gently, careful with his fragility. “I’m cold, Trevor, and I need you to warm me up, please.” His lips rushed in to melt into the molten gold that was Trevor’s. “Please, I need you. I need you to show me that you’re still there inside, Trevor.” He peppered him with kisses, stroking a fine fire that elicited a roar from the golden god before him, and he was both excited and fearful.

Would he get the golden boy of his youth who’d run and laughed and played alongside him? Dreamed big fantastical dreams that were the dreams of harebrained youth who’d known no better?

Or would he get the fiery new god who’d raised like a dark phoenix out of the ashes; scary, beautiful, and untamed? Ready to take over and lay waste to all in his path?

Two confused honey-colored eyes stared into his, and Michael was taken back to that day all of those years ago when they’d met over flare guns, unplanned extras, and dust trails. “Mikey? I...I don’t understand. The...the stuff...Brad said we gotta test the stuff...I...I’m still here.” A fine dusting of red colored his cheeks, and he cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean anything by it, OK? Just forget what I said.”

Michael laid him back against the mattress, preparing to worship him. It had been so long, and even though everything inside of his head that was Catholic, his parents, his upbringing, and hell, even the FIB very much revolted and screamed at what he was about to do, the parts of him that were all truly Michael Townley hummed like a finely-tuned piano that had yearned to play this song again, and they thanked him. He needed this, he needed to warm up in the godforsaken cold that was North Yankton, and the only way to do it was the eternal sunshine that had been at his side, and he had to do it before that star would wink out because he knew it was coming.

Beautiful stars weren’t meant long for this universe.

He looked in Trevor’s slowly fading eyes and loved him, cared for him, breathed life into him the only way he knew how.

“Warm me up, Trevor. I’m so cold.”

And Trevor, to his credit, looked at him warily but slowly raised an arm and invited him under the blankets. “It was you who gave Brad that black eye, wasn’t it.” It wasn’t even a question. He just knew.

Michael didn’t even hesitate. “He deserved it. I’d do it again.” He trailed kisses down Trevor’s stomach and twirled his tongue around his belly button, enjoyed listening to him groan with wanton rage and innocent desire, still unsure which side he’d wind up with in the end. He could understand why Trevor gained satisfaction in playing with fire, but he, himself, could only get as close as this to doing the actual practice. “He doesn’t get to fuck around with what’s mine.”

Trevor perked up, raised up on his elbows. “How’s that now? Yours? I haven’t been yours in how long?” His eyes narrowed, and he tried to shrink away from Michael, but Michael held fast. “This is more of your head game bullshit, I swear to--”

He looked Trevor in the eyes and saw every bit of the scared young manchild with no direction he’d still been when they’d met, locked gazes with the same loyal lover whose passion was like trying to love a raging fire and was often the very thing he needed to melt away the ice from around his soul, shared memories with the man who’d become his best friend, brother, and partner in more ways than one.

And exchanged parting glances with the person who’d grown closer to Brad Snider because he’d felt forsaken by his friend, the person he loved, all because that person didn’t know how to tell the truth to people or to his own damn self.

Trevor was many things, and he was capable of some pretty shitty things, but he knew Trevor. There was a reason to his madness. He did have some rules that he operated within which is how they had managed to work together for so long.

But he couldn’t make anyone else understand Trevor because the man just didn’t care to be understood by anyone other than his mother and Michael Townley.

“You’ve always been mine, baby,” Michael said firmly as he softly took Trevor’s weeping cock into his hands. “And to tell you the truth, the real truth, you can miss something you don’t have. I miss you so much every day.”

************************************************************************

He almost let it slip that he’d miss him always. Jesus Christ, how was he supposed to go through with the fucking plan now that he knew that it was just Trevor being Trevor, following along without much direction? Doing shit because he missed him? God, he hated himself so fucking much. Was it possible for a person to hate themselves this much? If it was, it existed within a man named Michael Townley’s soul. And God had to hate him twice over.

Norton had called him again to remind him that there was no backing out, and he’d told him again that he wasn’t getting cold feet, that this wasn’t his fucking wedding -- that had thrown Amanda for a loop because she’d been in the goddamn room when that conversation had transpired, and he was still scratching his head over how to explain the meaning behind that certain turn of the phrase -- and had assured him that soon they’d all be traipsing about sunny Los Santos without another thought about North Yankton, snow, the old times, or Trevor Philips ever again.

Well, probably most of them.

Mandy had noticed he was drinking more and more as the weeks went by, and she had asked him, point-blank, if he was having second thoughts. She’d always been good at reading his body language. Or half the male populations, for that matter. He tried not to hold it against her since he had his little secrets too, but Trevor had helped him to realize that his problem with everything was that he liked being the one in control of what was going on and who was being fucked. He didn’t like it when someone else took that from him. “A typical repressed Catholic,” Trevor had so lovingly called him once.

Trevor….

He found himself in front of his door, or what consisted of a door for their rundown shack, again, and he knew it wasn’t right. It was like trying to make up time with a beloved ailing pet before putting it down. Even Trevor knew something was up because he was just that observant, but he was so starved for affection that he ignored his gut feelings just to feel something close to old times.

God, Michael felt so fucking shitty.

Trevor’s head currently rested in Michael’s lap, who sat smoothing the coarser strands of hair while also contemplating about what to do with the FIB mess and Trevor. He was at a loss of what to do.

He regarded the sleeping man in his lap. At rest, Trevor looked so much more youthful and at peace than his years gave off. He knew that if he gave at least half a rat’s ass at trying to maintain his mustache and run a comb through his waning hair, he’d look better, but it had been a battle they’d fought over the years.  

He was struck with a strong desire to protect him, but it wasn’t the same as with Amanda. He knew Trevor could fight for himself, but there was something buried deep within him, like a lost little child, that cried out sometimes. They cried out to each other, only understood each other.

And it was that which kept him and Trevor circling around each other like broken satellites in the night.

A crusty amber eye slowly opened and darted around, taking in its surroundings before settling on Michael. The mouth that accompanied it yawned not so gracefully. “I was pretty fucking sure you were gone.”

“And why would that be?” Michael countered with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Trevor stretched in such a feline way, it made Michael grin and reach out to stroke his belly, but his hand was batted away. The man stuck his tongue out and shrugged. “Because you always leave at the first sign of intimacy. Ask Amanda.”

And what could have been a pleasant morning screwed his face up into a look of wretchedness as if Michael had swallowed some of that fucking gasoline Trevor was always sniffing when he thought no one was looking. “Fucking Christ, Trevor, why the fuck would you want to bring her name up, for God’s sake? And there are no intimacy problems with Amanda, you asshole.”

“Not talking about sex, killer. Is that all you men think about?”

Michael hung his head while Trevor guffawed like a hyena on cocaine. He was supposed to spend his last remaining week preparing for Ludendorff with Brad and this fucknut. Lester had already done what he was going to do, but he’d bowed out without really specifying why. The looks he’d shot Michael had given him all he’d needed to know though. Jesus, as if he hadn’t felt bad enough. He’d always genuinely considered Lester a friend.

Who was really the bad guy here? He’d wondered that more than once. Probably wouldn’t be the last time either. He was already having problems sleeping. He’d begun to have nightmares a few weeks back but was trying to keep those under wraps. The last thing he needed was anyone getting tipped off as to what was actually going on.

The changes in Trevor had happened over the past two weeks, ever since he’d come to stay. He’d started out a shell of his former existence, fucked up on whatever Brad was feeding and injecting into him, and yeah, Brad was probably making him feel great and masking the pain, but he wasn’t loving him, so Michael had taken on that daunting task, trying to nourish him with actual food, kindness, and real love...and Trevor had begun to take root and sprout back like a flower, growing on the thaw produced from what had leaked out from Michael’s cold heart. His roots had lapped it up like he’d been thirsting for that affection his whole life.

And he probably had.

Then mistakes were made. Michael had fallen in love with him all over again. And was very close to calling the whole thing off, even if it meant his life.

But then Brad had started pumping Trevor full of shit again, and Trevor ate it up like a kid in a candy store, claiming he needed the rush to do this job. He’d need to be prepared. And Michael reminded him they’d never needed it back in the old days, back before Brad, and for a minute, he’d seen a glimpse of that fiery red phoenix in Trevor’s eyes as they’d glistened with burning rage while he’d insisted that he needed it, thank you very much, you are not his goddamn father, Mikey.

He couldn’t save Trevor, and it was eating at him inside. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t kill someone who was just messed up inside. They weren’t so different. Flip a coin, and he’d be the one they’d want dead.

He couldn’t kill someone he...loved. The boy who’d saved his miserable life that wasn’t worth saving. He loved him more than he loved himself.

******************************************************************************

Trevor paced back and forth not unlike an angry beast for the sixth time that day. Michael had lost count of how many times Trevor’d taken a hit of the pipe, but he’d smelled the tell-tell sign of the plasticness between him and Brad multiple times, of that he was sure. His nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Trevor.”

The pacing stopped. “What.”

A crazy idea hit him earlier while he’d been dreaming about Trevor’s death for probably the hundredth time that week. The notion was foolish, especially in the presence of fools who didn’t suffer the concept of romance, but he tried anyway. Thank fuck Brad was outside. “What if...what if we just left?”

His long-time friend looked at him curiously and started to laugh but then thought better of it. “Is this a joke, Mikey?”

“No, it’s not,” he sighed. Fuck, why the hell had he even bothered? But he was knee-deep in shit anyway, so may as well trudge further into it. “I’m saying, uh, what if you and I just left? Like what if we just up and left and went somewhere else? Start over?”

“With no Amanda?”

Why the fuck was he so angry about the idea of no Amanda? “Of course not. Why the hell would I bring her along?”

“What about the kids??” He wanted to feel better about Trevor’s answer because even though his ties towards Amanda only extended as far as “mother of precious Townley children” where she was concerned, Michael was still stuck with this pit in his stomach that was definitely several bleeding ulcers by now. “Besides Michael, what the fuck has gotten into you? This is getting us closer to the Big One, to our dreams, man. Isn’t this what it’s all about? Think about all of this money, Mikey. What you can do for the kids.”

His blue eyes cast to the ground in shame. Even still, Trevor was thinking about him. “I...I don’t think I can do this shit anymore, Trev. I’m getting too old.” His weary gaze fell back up on Trevor’s burning one. “It’s too much, too fast. It’s not fun like it was when we were young.”

A wild mishmash of emotion fell over Trevor’s face, and it was hard to get a read on any of it, but at the end of it all was a very damning cruelty which reminded him of his own father, and maybe it was reminiscent of the forever-gone Mr. Philips that had abandoned Trevor in his childhood. “What the fuck, Michael! It’s a fucking job, it’s not meant to be all fun and fucking games! The small-time shit we did when we were kids was two fucks with snot on their noses who could barely hold up a kid for lunch money, much less do some of the shit we’ve pulled off in recent years. You’re always bitching about growing up, and well, dumbass, this is the big time! We’ve grown up! You can’t back out now!!”

As he watched Trevor huff and puff, blowing spittle onto the floor, he was humbled by the realization that he was right, of course. He couldn’t back out.

His family was counting on him.

Dave Norton and the FIB were counting on him.

Trevor was counting on him.

He had managed to fuck up Trevor over the years with his own failed repressions and shortcomings, mismanaging his feelings and not understanding others. Not long ago, he’d told Trevor that he needed to grow up, and now here he was getting it thrown back in his face, well-deserved.

Didn’t Trevor deserve a new start too? Away from everyone who was using and abusing him?

God, even if it would hurt Michael, he’d do anything to save Trevor, and he’d take his secrets with him to the grave.

The cold feeling was back, his sun was dying, but he wasn’t going to let it supernova, not when he held the keys to save his Apollo.  

He texted Norton and let him know that preparations were complete, everything for Ludendorff was a go. He said that he didn’t get cold feet.

But when Dave had said he’d taken another approach that day on his wedding, he was correct. He had by taking Trevor as a mistress of sorts, so while Amanda had suspected he was fucking all sorts of other women, he was in the arms of the only other miserable bastard on the planet who understood him.

In about two more months, he’d be a father, and he knew that Michael felt he should be ecstatic, but his emotions felt out of place, and the man, himself, felt out of place. He knew his friend like he knew himself: neither one was cut out to be a regular Joe, muddling about at a 9 to 5, coddling the kids, fucking the missus with the lights off and pajamas on, and piddling off to bed to repeat the next day before Carson came on with the late show.

No, he knew Michael even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself. He was sometimes long, pleasurable, drawn-out fucks in the back of alleyways when drunk at 4 am, whispering in ears, asking if that’s how it’s liked, one dirty talking motherfucker, begging to be called Mikey, Daddy, and everything in between while increasing speed and bringing both to completion with just a flick of his tongue, a suggestion in his voice, and a stroke of his wrist. During those times, Trevor felt desired.

Other times, he was a romantic and take-it-slow old school gentleman, just content to stroke Trevor’s body and admire him till the end of time as if they were the only two who mattered in the world. Those times, Trevor actually felt cherished.

And then there were the dark days where you didn’t know where Michael’s lust began, his anger ended, and vice versa. Those were the dangerous times where he was possessive and needy, and he could forget that Trevor was a person outside of him with needs too. He would drink too much, be too mad about something, and as of late, it was his predicament with Amanda, the former stripper-slash-hooker girlfriend he was currently shacked up with and pimping out. He was none too happy with approaching fatherhood, jokes thereof, any attempt at actually talking about it, and the whole nine yards, so Trevor had tried to lay low, but it didn’t matter what he did.

Michael would seek him out like a dog sniffing out a bitch in heat when he wanted to...or worse, like a predator in the middle of bloodlust being alerted to the stench of fear of a wounded rabbit, and Trevor was always that little rabbit, eyes wide, just waiting and knowing what was coming.

And he couldn’t entirely complain because a huge part of him enjoyed the hunt and what came after. He enjoyed how vicious Michael could get, and he wasn’t stupid; he didn’t need a shrink or Dr. Freud to tell him he had leftover Daddy issues along with a need to protect and love his mother. His Daddy issues were something slighter worse, something based more on craving love and affection from any man who could put up with his shit and put him back in his place. He was built to take a lot of abuse, fortunately or unfortunately, he wasn’t sure. He just knew he could do it, and he enjoyed giving it as much as he could get it.

Maybe that’s why his dumb ass kept coming back to find Mikey even after each argument, after each week that would go by, after times with no explanations, after the man he loved with his whole heart would find solace in soft curves, long hair, and sweet giggles repeatedly with no regard to his feelings.

He understood. Women were pretty, soft, and delicate. You wanted to protect them, love them, put them on a pedestal, and feel like their fucking hero out of a storybook. They had a habit of making you feel that way. And dammit, sometimes did he want to be that woman and make Michael feel that way.

But he also knew that during the dark spells, Michael didn’t need something soft and gentle. He needed something as hard and built as him that couldn’t fall apart so he could lash out when he needed so desperately to vent his frustrations.

And Trevor knew that’s all the role he could ever hope to be.

He wasn’t sure what Michael he’d get greeted with today. Sometimes he could see a mix of all three depending upon what kind of action they’d recently seen: if he and Amanda had another drag-out pissing match over what would be a space for the baby since there wasn’t much to work with, if he’d fought with his recently acquired in-laws again for the umpteenth time because they always sided with their daughter, or if he’d attempted to try to tell his parents he was about to be a dad only to hang up the payphone again frantically. It could be anyone’s guess.

He watched as the wind ruffled bits of hair which Mikey had let grown long again because he hadn’t bothered to get it lopped off with them pulling job after job for weeks on end, and he smiled in spite of himself because even if he thought he looked like sex on a stick no matter how he looked, he always did prefer his hair to be a little on the longer side, but he’d never admit that out loud. It gave him something to play with, to reach out and stroke affectionately, and to pull on passionately.

Daylight was quickly fading to dusk even though it was only 4:23 pm, and it was wiping away the bit of warmth the glow of the sun had brought with it. Adjusting his collar on his coat to make it slightly higher, Trevor went to announce himself, but his voice died in his throat when he looked at the face of his first love.

His eyes were cast towards the ground in despair, and his face wore a petrified mask of turmoil.

If anyone would follow in the footsteps of Jesus and allow himself to suffer more, Trevor supposed it would be Michael. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be amused or annoyed by that thought.

He decided to come in with a gentle approach, let the rabbit sniff at the predator. Show the big bad wolf she means no harm to him. He began with rubbing his shoulders lightly through his coat even though he was sure his goddamn fingers were probably close to frostbitten by now because he refused to wear gloves wherever he went, but he ventured that maybe the simple friction would warm them up.

The big bad wolf startled and bared teeth. “What the -- who the fuck?”

He stood back and threw his frozen hands up in the air in a defensive posture trying to mimic something harmless. “Just me, Mikey. Was just looking for you, that’s all.”

“Did she fucking send you to look for me?” he bristled cantankerously. Oh good jolly fuck, he had been drinking quite a bit already apparently, so things were going to be very, very interesting in the ol’ town tonight. “I don’t need a fucking keeper.”

He snorted at that thought. “When the fuck have I ever been your keeper, eh? Could swear it’s usually the other way ‘round.” He slipped next to Michael on the bench.

That got a sharp chuckle out of Michael, and he leaned into Trevor’s body but jumped back right after settling into him. “Sweet Jesus! Why the ever-living fuck are you so cold, Trevor?”

He laughed and cracked one of those piss-poor Canada jokes right back at Michael at his own expense. “Ah shit, I guess that Canadian secret winter power bullshit doesn’t work, after all. What’d’ya know?” he finished with a huge smirk.

Michael’s mind was lost to the joke though and instead was looking at his nearly frozen fingers. “T, what the fuck have we talked about with this whole concept of gloves and cold?”

Trevor settled back against the bench, face heating up even if his fingers remained a slight hue of palish blue. “You have your fucking miserable racist jokes, I have my eccentricities.”

“You’re something else, T,” he responded and then did the very last thing Trevor expected him to do.

A cold finger slid easily into his warm, squishy mouth, followed by another, and goddamn, the unholy groan that unleashed from Trevor couldn’t be stopped because it had been weeks since he hadn’t humped something that wasn’t a pillow, makeshift hole, or his own pathetic hand. If he really calculated it in his head, the last time they’d had a chance to get together was a quick handjob in a gas station bathroom, but it hadn’t accounted for shit in his mind because they hadn’t even had time to really touch, to kiss, much less look each other in the eyes.

He had felt like his mother then afterward, a cheap whore, and he’d cried himself into a fitful sleep in his truck bed. Not far from the same spot he currently sat with his eyes transfixed on the mouth slowly playing magic tricks with his fingers, making them disappear behind the hot heat of his mouth while Trevor himself whined pitifully.

“Why?”

“Got to make your fingers warm,” was the simple reply as if Michael was a former Boy Scout, and who knows, maybe that was another secretive part of him that only belonged to him that Trevor would never know while he spilled positively everything about himself with no shame.

But boy, oh boy, the way Michael’s tongue danced sinfully around his fingers...there could be nothing Boy Scoutishly moral in the way he did that.

Trevor whined again and hissed with need. Just a few measly seconds on this frigid bench and Michael had the tables turned. Now he was the suffering one, dammit. “Mikey, please.”

Michael popped a solitary blue eye open and gazed deeply into his. There was something taunting, spirited, boyish, and maddening just in that single action. Innocent but not really. “Please what?” he said from around a mouthful of fingers the same way a person would say with a mouthful of Nanaimo during a family get-together.

Trevor just stared back at him, both in shock and irritation. “Are you serious? It’s been weeks. Don’t make me beg, holy fuck.”

He withdrew each finger from his mouth, and Trevor began to protest at the lack of heat until Michael pulled his zipper down a bit and guided Trevor’s arms into his coat.

Nope, he wasn’t about to complain as this was a rare opportunity to snuggle close, and he was going to run with it. There weren’t too many of these days coming, he could smell that fire on the horizon as he gladly shoved his freezing digits up and under Michael’s warm armpits and reveled in the body heat they produced before he leaned his head into his chest.

Michael peered out and over him without really meeting his eyes. “I like hearing you beg. No one’s ever begged for me in my life like you do. No one needs me like you.”

Trevor felt his breath catch. Was that what he thought it was? Were his ears playing tricks?

“You...good, Mikey? You know we can cut and run anytime you want. I go where you go.”

Michael relaxed visibly somewhat at that admission. “Nah, I’m good. Just the jitters, ya know?” And then his long-suffering eyes returned to Trevor’s. “But sometimes, I wonder….”

Trevor wondered too. He wanted to speak up and tell Michael that they could take their chances anywhere doing the same things they were already doing but without pregnant newlywed hormonal wives and bitchy in-laws, that they could go out west where it was OK to be themselves, that no one would care or pay them any mind. That Michael could be free of his suffering in silence, and so could he. They could both just be.

But during the gloom of winter, it seemed too farfetched and unattainable to be happy, like none of them were deserving of that fake life. It was all just pretend.

The best he could hope for was that his life was miraculously short and that he was forever frozen next to Michael’s side, etched in his memories because that’s all he really wanted to be. Not much else mattered in the end. He didn’t want to stay pretending. It was too fucked up, and he didn’t do this emotions game all that well.

He blew out a long sad sigh and looked up at the encroaching stars littering the newly-formed night sky. He tried telling the truth. “I’m suffering.”

Beautiful eyes turned down at him followed by a sultry grin. “Aw, I guess I need to do something about that, don’t I?”

All he’s ever needed was his quick-fix medication. Fuck civilization. Fuck the goddamn RCAF too right up the ass. OK, so flying was another addiction of his. He felt more at ease in the air than he felt on the ground, and he wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe because there’s no one in the friendly skies to disappoint him or leave him behind when they don’t want him anymore or beat the shit out of him just for being himself.

And that was all that he felt he ever needed in his miserable existence, but then he had to come in and ruin it all by being a better feeling than any of it could ever hope to be just by flashing his gorgeous pearly whites along with those intoxicating blues.

Does he know just how much Trevor is willing to brave just to have a small sliver of a taste of him? To be able to prostrate before him and worship at L'autel de Michel because he knows he can do it for hours if given the mere chance. He would lather every inch of that skin with his tongue if Mikey would only say the word.

Michael is a dangerous drug, the kind he desires, the one his body demands he give into, but it can’t easily procure. He can drink all day long, smoke a cigarette without a care in the world. Hell, pot or speed aren’t hard to come by at all, and if he really tries his luck, neither are the harder ones like heroin, ice, or angel dust.

But even trying with all of his might, the addiction known as Michael is slightly harder to come by because it alludes him as much as the man himself does.

And it leaves him withdrawing, bitter, depressed, and craving in pain no different than anything else. Goddamn, he wants the world to end. What the fuck is the point of anything if he can’t cave in and know what the hell it is he is even missing?

Oh, but he knows. He knows.

It is sloppy drunken kisses claimed during the late-night hours, touches here and gasps there, random acts of love only shown when inebriated or high as fuck only to fade away as quickly as the approaching dawn, leaving him feeling breathless, somewhat mystified, and crazy in love.

Sometimes just purely crazy.

God, Michael is just magnificently beautiful, and if Trevor could only figure out how to bottle the happiness he feels whenever he is around, he would figure out how to mass-produce it and keep it all for himself forever so he would never be without it for the rest of his life since he’s gone nearly the first quarter of a century without.

He knows the problem with his plan is that he wanted to keep something as great as Michael to himself because he was afraid of what would happen if everyone gets ahold of him, and he simply disappears one day. He will go nuts with grief, and the thought of it nearly causes his stomach to wrench in panic, but he isn’t sure he can keep something like Michael to himself. Michael will always find a way into other's hands, by hook or by crook. He knows that it is simply a matter of time and place, not something he can avoid.

So he tries to be OK, for the benefit of all because Michael is definitely a helluva drug.

But it comes at the cost of some of his happiness, so he tries to grab more time, longer and harder hits just so he can feel. Silently, he wonders if he’s on Michael’s mind when he’s with her, but then he laughs and remembers.

He’s a walking disease for which there is only one cure, standing before him, waiting to offer him blessed relief from his lips like spun golden beams from some sun god of old. He’s lucky to even touch the face of this god, so no, he’ll never be on Michael’s mind when he reaches out.

Occasionally, he whimpered in his sleep, and it called to something buried deep within Michael, dared him to reach out and touch him, like gently stroking and taming some sort of wild spirit only he could understand, but he’d shake his head and wonder what the fuck had gotten into himself.

Another bad terror moved through the boy who was barely a man next to him, and it shook his whole body, almost appearing like a seizure and worried Michael nearly to death. Trevor’s longish locks were slick with sweat and clinging to his skin, and he panted as if he were in pain. It went on for several minutes like that until his eyes shot open, and he screamed, “MIKEY!”

Michael grabbed his friend’s hand reassuringly. “Whoa, buddy. What is it? I’m right here.”

Hazel eyes peered up at him warily, and a tongue darted out to lick quivering lips. “You...you wouldn’t leave me, would you?”

“Where the hell is this coming from?” He looked at Trevor in confusion. What had ever given him the idea that he’d do that??

“Just answer the fucking question, will ya!” Trevor barked at him, nearly snarling like a mad dog that had been prodded, and Michael inched away from him out of habit until he noticed how that left a sorrowful look in his friend’s eyes.

What the fuck had Trevor been through already in his time on this planet? “No, I wouldn’t just up and leave you. You should know that by now.”

“I don’t know anything,” Trevor mumbled half-heartedly, more to himself than to Michael. “People always leave me.” It felt like his eyes were penetrating Michael’s soul. “You’ll leave me too.”

Then he laid back down and turned his back to Michael.

He sat quietly contemplating the not-quite-a-boy-or-man beside him, not understanding how to get through to him, to get him to see that they were in this together, and he had meant it. Michael Townley was a man of his fucking word.

His hand had a mind of its own and reached out to stroke Trevor’s back before he had even finished the thought, but as soon as he realized he was doing it, it wasn’t so bad. Why had he been so nervous about doing this?

And so he rubbed Trevor’s back in earnest who answered with one long groan of suffering and looked back at him with a glare as if he’d done the worst goddamn thing in the world instead of just trying to help ease his friend’s misery.

“What the fuck are you doing, Michael??”

Michael choked slightly as if he had been thrust back to the days when he was still getting caught jerking off by his mom, but then he thought about who was in front of him and stared back, steeling himself. “I was just trying to make you feel better, you dumbass. Jesus, there’s no need to snap my head off.”

Trevor heaved a huge sigh and ground his hand down his face. “You aren’t fucking helping at all.”

“Well, how the fuck can I help?? Tell me!” It was silent for several minutes with Trevor looking just like a scared rabbit, eyes darting everywhere except Michael. “For fuck’s sake, say something!”

“What do you want me to say??” Trevor cried out and started to sob again. “You can’t help!” In a smaller voice, he admitted, “You’re part of the problem.”

“What the fuck did I do??” he shouted back exasperated. For fuck’s sake, they had to be able to talk to be partners even if they weren’t the world’s best at this chick shit because their relationship would never last if they couldn’t get past stupid small stuff like this.

...when had he started viewing them as a relationship?

Trevor moaned into his hands. “You exist, OK? You...you’re here, and you exist.”

“That doesn’t even make any fucking sense.”

“Why are you making me spell it out, Mikey? Do you like torturing me? I mean, so did everyone else,” Trevor whispered into the darkness of the room.

That was more about his past than he’d ever told Michael so far, but it came on the back of riddles that needed to be figured out, and it honestly sounded as if his friend was saying that he was the reason for his pain which made him frown. He didn’t like that, didn’t like it at all. “I’m sorry if I’m hurting you, T. You’re my friend, you dipshit. You’re supposed to say something if--”

“I DON’T WANT TO BE ‘JUST FRIENDS,’ YOU COCK TEASE!” Trevor yelled into his face with the force of a wailing banshee, panting just as he had been when he came out of his fevered dream. “Do...d-do you get it now? Do you hate me now? Are you going to leave?” he whispered with his eyes closed.

He was stunned into silence. Never in his life had he been on the end of something like this. Yeah, he’d played football, and everyone joked about who did what to whom, but no one had ever dreamed of doing anything to him beyond the same set of girls who’d followed him everywhere.

It’s not like he hadn’t had random thoughts or dreams at times, but he just hadn’t acted on them. He’d thought it was that way for everyone.

And now he had a living, breathing confession right here in front of him, screaming at his body to do something, anything, just do something. Why didn’t he move??

Trevor looked at him sadly and moved away from him. “You’re going to leave. All the same.”

His same offending hand reached out without his permission and touched the person it desired, gripping his shoulder tenderly. Michael sighed lowly. “I’m not going to leave. You’re my friend, and I...I love you, OK?”

His friend shivered like an old dog, chilled to the bone. “No, you don’t. You’re going to leave, and I’m going to be alone again just like in my fucking dream.”

He grabbed Trevor’s hands and held them. “You’re not alone. I’m here.” And then his body did something before his mind could react.

Their lips met, and he’d never known that Trevor’s lips could be so soft or sweet like beer residue and maple, but he knew that he didn’t want to stop tasting. And he liked the sounds his friend made while his tongue slipped inside for more of that taste.

His heart thumped wildly behind its bony cage. This was something wonderful and scary at the same time, and he wasn’t sure what it was because it was all new, just like those days long ago now when he’d realized that the person next to him was more important than just “some contact.”

What was it about this guy? Why him? He was like a damsel in distress minus the damsel part. He did things, brought out sides of Michael that had long laid dormant. He wanted to rescue Trevor, to fix him, to help him, protect him.

Rough calloused fingers caress the soft pads of his feet with a weird featherlike touch that’s almost ticklish but also sensual, and he finds himself grinding his bottom lip between his teeth wishing he could actually see what Mikey’s doing, not just feel the lovely ministrations.

He whines again, not for the first time, and probably not for the last time either, behind the soiled sock that’s been put into his mouth as a gag. Given explicit instructions to not spit it out -- and really, why would he when it still tastes like yesterday’s heavenly offerings from Michael’s last wank session -- he tries to sit as still as possible, but the smell is overwhelming him along with the touching and tasting...he’s just missing seeing Michael commit these atrocities to his body.

Because he knows the hearing will come shortly. Michael loves to talk, and his charisma and penchant for knowing how to talk shit with the best of them have gotten them out of so many jams during heists, they should be criminal all on their own.

And talking dirty is something he especially loves. He has it down to an art. He can literally make Trevor come buckets just by describing the act of fucking.

He knows. Michael’s done it out in public before. That’s another love of Michael’s: exhibitionism. The thrill of getting caught.

“Comfy, baby?” his silky voice clips through the lonesome darkness.

Trevor nods, albeit somewhat reluctantly at first. They’ve played games, sure, fucked around quite a bit in their short time together already, but something about this feels as if they’ve reached a point of finality, that this isn’t just friendly screwing around anymore.

He thinks part of it is definitely in the way Mikey refers to him as “baby” a lot more, but he finds he doesn’t mind.

But another part of it is in the frequency of these games, how much they’ve increased, and how Michael talks to Trevor as if he’s the shit on his toilet paper one minute and then the most precious piece of amber the next, whispering things that scare Trevor’s heart because he’s not used to lines from old romantic black and white films with Bogart. The kind of bogarting he’s used to comes on the end of a joint.

And Michael’s intense, so fucking intense like a goddamn tornado. One minute he’s as clear and calm as a sunny day, and out of nowhere, a storm comes in quickly, wrecking everything in its path, setting everything on its side, and it’s gone like it was never there. That is Michael’s inability to control himself sometimes. He’s getting better. Jesus Christ knows he’s not nearly as fucking bad at it as Trevor is, but a lot of it does seem to be reserved towards Trevor for whatever reason.

But that’s not even it, either. Michael doesn’t even hurt him.

Trevor’s not some clueless dipshit and has actually talked to a few women who are like his mother and, well, maybe a couple of twinks like that too, but he’ll never tell that to anyone. He’s aware of things called limits and safewords, but it’s never been something they’ve discussed because it feels like the pussification of sex to Trevor, and well, Michael always seems to just know when enough is enough.

Hands brushing up the insides of his thighs bring him back into the moment. He sucks in a breath and chokes on more of the salty used fabric remnants, whimpering around the offending piece of material.

“It’s OK, T, “ Michael’s soothing voice coaxes again, and he finds himself reaching towards it without realizing. “You’re safe with me. You know I’m not gonna hurt you.”

It’s not even a question because he knows. He just knows that Michael can’t bring himself to do so. They won’t hurt each other no matter how mad they get over the dumbest bullshit because there’s now a bond that goes beyond brotherhood.

He thinks...no, he knows. This isn’t friendly love. This isn’t even brotherly love.

They are soulmates, and this is the stuff that gets written into novels or the stars.

A wet tongue drags a long trail of saliva and desire down his semi-chub while a meaty digit strokes at his insides, bringing his cock painfully to attention. He wants to cry out, tries miserably to do so, but the realization that if he does, he could choke on an article of clothing sets in, and he thinks that would probably be the most fucked up way for him to die.

Trevor Philips? Death by sock. Did he enjoy it? Check.

There’s a shifting of limbs, his and Michael’s, and he becomes suddenly aware of the junction of his ass meeting Mikey’s groin. Room temperature oil drizzles between his cheeks, and hands work diligently to knead it in where Michael wants it to go. Before Trevor can stop himself, he’s blushing embarrassedly like some fucking ridiculous wedding night virgin because no matter how many times they’ve been together now, this part always gets to him for reasons he can’t explain; the part where he knows what’s going to happen next.

There’s slight pressure and some pain until Michael adjusts angles searching out where they both love it the most, and when he hits it, Trevor sings out for him, sock be damned.

“Oh yeah, my pretty baby,” Michael says in the lewdest tone to date Trevor’s ever heard him use, “don’t fuckin’ fight it.”

The tie over his eyes comes off, and sky blue eyes penetrate him as deeply as the cock in his ass is doing his soul. He stares up into his keeper’s face and muffles nonsensical declarations of devotion into his restraint along with begging and pleading as he feels white-hot fire deep in his belly begin to form.

Michael captures his lips with his own, kissing and sucking as if he’s a succubus who craves the life from him. He pushes Trevor’s legs forward, trying to go as deep as he can, warranting a loud groan as a reward. “C’mon, Trevor...look in my eyes.”

He’s literally a sopping ball of a mess as he peeks upward at the body hovering over his. His dick is so engorged, it’s practically purple and ready to explode like a fucking rocket right off his abdomen if only he’d let it, he’s so hot all over like the fires of Hell have sucked him in for being so goddamn wicked, and when he realizes he loves the beautiful being gazing down at him so lovingly yet so possessively, tears leak from the corners of his eyes.

Michael gently touches his cheek and wipes away an errant wet strand, shushing him. “Hey, don’t cry. C’mon T, look at me. Cum with me, baby. Together,” he promises as he grips Trevor’s fingers in his.

He never has to lay a hand on himself or have Michael touch him. Michael can get him off just by the act of talking him there and the thought of them cumming together, just as Mikey says.

After the rush is over, they rest together still connected by hand and pelvis. Neither one is willing to be the first to break contact, and that’s how it’s becoming. They’re growing more and more like this, connected at the body and soul, bound to each other.

Trevor sighs as Michael pulls him to his chest tenderly. “C’mere, angel.” And he drapes the old threadbare comforter over them, then throws an arm over Trevor before settling into sleep.

He regards the dozing figure before him and thinks that the term of endearment is wasted on the likes of himself and that it’s really the sleeping beauty next to him who’s a fallen angel sent to heal him somehow.