Very Common Crisis

Trevor smirks. “Ah, come on, Mikey! It slipped out. Whats the big deal? We’ll be in a new town tomorrow.”

“The big deal is that I prefer not to have my name plastered on the evening news!”

“Relax,” Trevor rubs his hand up and down Michael’s tricep. “Wear it like a badge of honor. Your name is in the paper, and those idiots still have no idea who you are. You’re a fuckin’ legend!”

At that, Michael finally cracks a smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

“And you’re hot, too,” Trevor says while taping up the sticky note next to Michael’s picture, his smirk growing as he listens to the shorter man laugh beside him.

“Now that I knew already.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

Overplayed Christmas songs and the faint smell of gingerbread fill the house. Michael can barley make out the sound of Amanda griping to her father over his questions about her chosen profession and when she was going to “grow up.”

He knows he should be out there pretending to enjoy the family bickering and Christmas cheer, but he honestly feels like a fish out of water.

The family, the gift wrapping, the normalcy — it’s certainly better than any holiday he spent during his youth. Still, he can’t help but compare it to every year with his maniacal counterpart, Trevor.

“Mikey-boy, got those beers you were wanting,” Trevor says, dropping the six pack on to the motel bed. “I better be rewarded. It was hell out there.”

Michael glances over from his spot on the bed, his eyes immediately drawn to Trevor’s once-clean outfit that has now become disheveled and stained with dark red within the short time the man was gone. “The fuck happened?”

“This fucking family,” Trevor starts while stripping from his clothes, not bothering to warn Mike since it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. “All I did was tell the father to watch his fucking kids before they get hit by oncoming traffic.”

Michael, knowing there’s way more to the story than his partner in crime is telling him, shoots him a look. “Jesus Christ. Did you kill him in front of his kids?”

“What? No! God, M. Who do you think I am? I killed the kids first obviously since he clearly didn’t give a shit about them,” Trevor shrugs, pulling on a fresh pair of sweatpants.

Seeing Michael’s face pale, Trevor quickly continues. “I’m kidding! Sweet Jesus. I hit a deer, so I gutted him a little for meat. You’re welcome.”

Michael sighs softly, relieved that Trevor hasn’t done anything to prematurely set off alarm bells to local authorities for their next score. “Sorry, T. Just on edge, I think.”

“Come on,” Trevor grabs the beer pack and pulls Michael up by his hand, leading him over to their portable oven. “Let’s bake some cookies, probably ruin them since that’s our tradition, and then just watch one of those fruity fuckin’ movies you like.”

A knock on the door brings Michael out of his flashback, and a few seconds later, Amanda‘s head pops through the door, followed by her hands holding two decorated Christmas cookies.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Amanda asks, gesturing to the letter beneath his hand.

“Nothing, nothing,” He stands up, dropping the marker, vowing to finish the letter later and send it out in the morning. “I’m coming.”

He grabs the sugar cookie out of her hand and takes a bite as he follows her back into the living room. Somehow, the golden brown cookie with a soft center and a delicate balance of sweetness is no match for the dry and crumbly cookie sporting burnt edges and artificial flavors that he’s used to tasting every year with Trevor.

God, he misses him.

“How the hell did you even get into my office without security stopping you?”

Trevor looks up from his office chair at the Vanilla Unicorn to see Michael standing over him. “What?”

“This,” Michael drops the paper in front of the other man. “What does this mean, Trev? I thought we were over this shit.”

“First of all, Michael, I will decide when we are over it,” Trevor snaps. “Second — can’t a guy joke around anymore without there being some deeper, psychological reason for it?”

“With you? I think there’s always a deeper, psychological reason,” he grins. “But c’mon, how’d you get this in the studio?”

“I’m a seasoned robber, pork chop. Don’t you think I could get in without anyone knowing?”

“Uh, you’re more the type to be so loud and brash that everyone ends up knowing you’re there.”

Trevor shrugs, knowing his running buddy has some sort of point. “Alright, I told them we were married, and I needed to see you.”

Michael laughs, but his amusement is short lived when Trevor’s face stays earnest. “You didn’t.”

“I sure did, Mikey. And a few of those assholes weren’t very supportive, so you need to watch the company you keep, man.”

“Trevor! I work with those people! They all know I’m married to Amanda. What did they say? Were they shocked?”

“Not one soul was shocked,” Trevor huffs out a laugh. “Eighty percent of Vinewood is in the closet.”

Michael falters. “But … I’m not. I’m not —”

“I think we both know that’s not true, sugar.”

First dates. They were one hundred and ten percent first dates — or were they? What even is a date?

Longing looks, some sort of nerves, maybe a sprinkle of sexual tension for a lot of people — Christ. By that definition, he and Trevor had been on nothing but dates their whole lives with one another.

It’s not that Michael didn’t know there is something between them, but what that something is often eluded him.

He had miraculously talked Trevor into going to a Los Santos Panic game. Neither guy was a sports fanatic — Trevor choosing to forgo watching sports altogether for the most part because, in his words, “if I wanted to watch a bunch of guys touch balls, I’d just watch porn,” and Michael was undoubtedly more of a movie buff since most games only reminded him of what could have blossomed out of his high school football career.

Nonetheless, Michael indulged in a game or two — if not for the game itself, at least for the buttered popcorn and greasy hotdogs.

“You know that shit is bad for you, right? One day, I’m going to have to call the paramedics to haul your fat carcass out of the bed after you have a heart attack in your sleep.”

Michael rolls his eyes before halfheartedly giving Trevor a shove. “Ha, ha. Very funny, cocksucker.”

“It’s not a mean insult if it’s true, Mikey.”

Their next “date” is at Beachwalk Bistro near Vespucci Beach. Both men slipped into some unspoken agreement that they are delicately walking the line between friendship and more.

Michael fidgets with his napkin, glancing over at Trevor who seems uncharacteristically uneasy as well. The air crackles around them with an energy, a blend of nostalgic and unexplored feelings.

Michael clears his throat. “So, uh, how’s life?”

Trevor smirks, his eyes glistening with amusement. “How’s life? You mean since you last saw me yesterday?”

Michael gives a subtle sigh before changing the subject completely. “Amanda and I are getting divorced.”

At that, Trevor nods. “Yeah, Jimmy told me.”

A look of shock crosses Michael’s face, but before he can ask, the waiter comes over and interrupts them. They hastily place their orders before retreating into silence.

As the night unfolds, their conversation sticks — for the most part — around work, upcoming plans with Franklin and Lamar, and anything else but the emotions lingering beneath the surface. That doesn’t stop Trevor from brushing his hand against Michael’s while grabbing at his plate for a taste or Michael from taking an extra long glance at his best friend.

With plates emptied and stacked, they both leave the restaurant, choosing to make the short trek to Vespucci Beach and walk.

There is a hesitant pause before Trevor breaks the silence. “This wasn’t terrible, Mikey.”

“It was different.”

Trevor hums in agreement, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah, different. In a good way.”

Their eyes met, a shared understanding between them. The unspoken tension that’s been building since Trevor made his way back into Michael’s life gave way to a warmth that only hinted at the depth of their connection.

Michael reached out his hand and tentatively linked his fingers through Trevor’s, and the taller man reciprocated immediately by giving a subtle squeeze.

“We’ve been through a lot of fucked up shit, Trev,” Michael says, stopping along the water to look at Trevor. “I know we’ve worked through most of it by now, but I didn’t really expect things to turn out like this.”

“Life’s full of surprises, sugar.”

Their eyes meet, and suddenly one — or both — are leaning in to finally close the distance. The first brush of their lips ignits the metaphorical spark that has been smoldering for months.

As they pull back, neither man is quick to say anything. Instead, Michael just tugs on Trevor’s hand, and they head down the beach once again.

“So, Mikey. Kissing your best friend on the beach under the moonlight. A little cliche, even for you, don’t you think?”

Michael just grins and shakes his head. “What? You’ve never had a fantasy?”

“Well, there was one,” Trevor starts. “We kill a bunch of those bikers, dump their bodies in the river, then fuck in their van — or keep their bodies in the van … you know, if you’re into that.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Michael mutters. “Let’s just keep our thoughts to ourselves from now on.”

“Your loss.”

Yeah, they were definitely dates.

“You’re ‘embarrassed’ for us? You’re the one who spray-painted that in the first place!”

“I was trying to be loving,” Trevor huffs. “At least I didn’t take a picture of my meal like I’m a middle-aged white mom on Lifeinvader.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael says, running his hands through Trevor’s grown-out hair. “Make fun all you want. You wrote ‘Trevor plus Mikey’ on the wall. You love me.”

“Shut the fuck up before I tell Amanda about the time you wore her underwear.”

Michael points a finger at his boyfriend. “That was one god damn time, and it was only because you asked.”

Trevor laughs. “You looked pretty, sugar. Don’t worry.”

“You can’t avoid her forever, Mikey.”

Michael groans, his head resting in his hands as he lays on their shared bed. “Tracey saw the notes, T. She knows.”

“Well, we do live together now. I’m pretty sure she already knows.”

“No,” Michael drops his hands to meet Trevor’s eyes. “Christ. She knows what the notes said. How the fuck can I look her in the eyes now?”

Trevor’s face scrunches up in confusion. “You divorced her mom to shack up with her uncle. How the fuck could you look her in the eyes before?”

Michael tries to glare at him, but it doesn’t come off as menacing as years prior — it never does now. “I know you ain’t wrong, but you don’t have to say it.”

“She loves you. Stop worrying.”

“But —”

“‘No buts,” Trevor cuts him off, placing a kiss on the top of his head. “She just wants you happy. So stop moping like a sad sack of shit and come cuddle me.”

“Now who’s the one hanging shit like it’s art?”

Michael feels Trevor wrap his arms around him from behind and place a kiss on his neck. “What do you mean, T?”

“Has your memory deteriorated already? You used to hate when I’d pin up pictures of our various … activities.”

“That was different,” Michael links one of his hands with Trevor’s, who are still wrapped around his waist, and uses the other one to sort through more photos before landing on one. “Do you remember this night back in North Yankton?”

Trevor lets his gaze fall down to the photo, which shows a young Michael and Trevor sporting a buzz cut and long hair respectively. They’re standing in front of a fire, the soft glow from the flames highlighting their features. Trevor, who has one arm around the shorter man’s shoulders is flipping off the camera, and Michael is smirking up at Trevor like he just said something amusing before the flash went off.

“Sure do, pork chop,” Trevor says. “Think Brad took this one. More importantly, I couldn’t forget this night if I tried. Your questionable singing still haunts my nightmares.”

Michael chuckles, reaching for another photo. “I thought I sounded pretty good.”

“Keep dreaming,” Trevor unwraps his arms around Michael to look through the remaining photos. “Can I add stuff to this board too?”

“So long as it doesn’t scar anyone,” Michael jokes.

invite your friend(s) and go to the cable cars (the icons aren't visible during hangout, so it would be easier to tag the place in advance) wait one, get in, get out, then get in again. you'll see the option to use the cable car for $10, do it. and once more if you're not exited of hanging out on the Chilliad peak.

keep in mind that:

- you can't go to the bar or do any other activity (except shops & customs), the map will be empty as if you were on a mission

- you also can't drop your friend(s) off, only abandon them but you'll still be unable to do something else

- the only way to get out is die

- or load. not sure if you can save during that, but it makes sense to try (as you can save during a normal hangout but not with your phone, the bed only)

- you might accidentally abandon them so make sure they aren't stuck. if you do, you won't get a warning notification to come back, they'll just stop following you (still react on bumps and shoves though, if you're into that))

- they might die. from a tank shot or a plane crash (even if you're on a painkiller and made it out alive)

SO WHAT'S THE POINT? well, first, they'll not be scared when shit hits the fan (did you ever get a message "Trevor got scared" when your car went underwater or something exploded nearby? what a nonsense). second, they'll not be wounded so you can bump into them as much as you want and they'll become much more tenacious during shotouts. third, they'll not suddenly leave you with an unavoidable goodbye cutscene after you spend a few days together. kinda satisfying, for T especially)

♡♡♡

and now a little background. a few months ago I saw a cute trikey dream where they had a cable car ride together. it wasn't the game's one, more like a ski lift but without skis and without even winter, rather a blossoming spring. it felt sorta "secret after-ending scene which you can get only after fulfilling some conditions" so I was somehow aware of myself as a player and took A HELL LOT of screenshots. they weren't an actual couple there, just chilling buddies with a complicated backstory to talk out, so they talked (it's a shame I didn't remember any dialogues, visual only, but the vibes were like "so everything settled, we're both alive thanks to Frank, he did great and we did great too"), they argued, they laughed, and then Michael almost fell off (for wtf reason), Trevor grabbed him. and held in his arms for the rest of the way, Mikey didn't mind (what surprised me most) and they kept talking. then the cable car stopped (or they just jumped off while it was closest to the ground? more likely) and later they were standing on a cobblestone sidewalk, whispering quietly, without moving even an inch away of each other's faces. I turned on my paparazzi mode again wondering why this scene is so underrated and no one even said a word about that. and when I already was like "omfg, they're so damn close it nearly looks like a kiss!!1!1" they really STARTED KISSING without any "looks like". AND AFTER THAT, I thought sincerely, SOMEONE STILL CLAIMS THEY AREN'T LOVERS? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU PPL? ehh it's rather what's wrong with me but ok... more importantly, the one who initiated was Trevor. the view was from his back, so I only could see Michael's face: he wasn't surprised, rather uncertain if he should've done it first. their kiss was long, not really passionate but very affectionate and gentle. like they finally reached their comfort zone and it all worked out the best way possible.

don't recall anything further, guess I just woke up or the dream channel changed to something boring. hmm... probably first.

(just to say, it was long before I learned how to use rockstar editor and started to take these kiss-alike shots, but yeah, I've become obsessed with the idea since that))

next day I tried a cable car with them and detected the bug (or whatever else it is). was playing as Michael and got confused at first, like what do you mean he can't get rid of T now? I suddenly felt trapped. tried a lot of shit to trigger back a normal hangout, with no results. didn't dare to simply abandon Trevor but I knew it can't go on like this. so I just killed Mikey to let him escape lol. such an irony.

No one had turned the lights on in the motel room. And as the sun had sunk, it found the windows – rosy, prying fingers of light forced through cracks – and painted the walls a sultry orange. But no one was there to witness the warm golden hour and it quickly faded to gloom. And no one turned on the lights

So that it was sitting dark; slipped into night without any acknowledgment of the march of time. No recognition of the day that had passed for all the – no doubt – innumerable creatures who inhabited the economical room. The rats in the walls; the cockroaches beneath the bath; the microbes growing between the sheets. This last should certainly have been afforded some kind of celebration for seeing in a new sunset. Given how short their lives were.

But what no one tells you, is that the question – you know the one. The one that goes If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it. You know. That one?

Yeah.

That question is only important, or even interesting, because we assume the no one – the one who isn’t around to hear – must be human.

No one cares, or thinks about, empty motel rooms.

There must be people in them to make them interesting. To make a story.

So, let’s add some.

---

This is not an empty motel room.

This is an emphatically not empty storage lock up.

Not empty because it contains a car. And not empty because that car contains three dark clad figures.

Their faces are covered by masks – ridiculous, plastic clown masks – and they sit in the car, in the dark. They are listening to sirens outside.

Muffled by the shuttered door of the lockup, the sirens nonetheless grow louder. And louder still.

And then, once more, louder.

Then they receded.

A breath was released. Not by any of the figures in the car. No, they were far too experienced by now to hold their breath for the LSPD. They released no puff of relieved air when the patrol cars fled past without a care in the world.

By the universe then. The breath released.

As though the universe gave a shit.

Or at least, it never had before to the man who climbed out of the motionless vehicle first, yanking off the claustrophobic mask first and tossing it in the back seat. It hit the man sitting there who made a wordless noise of disapproval. Michael De Santa, nee Townley, pulled his phone from his pocket as he levered himself out of the passenger side seat. He squinted in the blinding blue light, and it took a moment for him to find the number. It rang only a couple of times.

‘Hey, Lest,’ he said into the hand piece, keeping his back to the car. ‘Yeah, we got it. Pretty easy actually. Maybe too easy. Ground forces seem to have lost us, but you mind checking they don’t got a bird in the area before we come out of here with our asses hanging out?’

A pause and then Michael said, ‘Okay. Thanks.’

He turned back to find his two accomplices had emerged from the car as well. Franklin was leaning with his arms folded on the roof – he’d taken his mask off too. The third had left his on.

Michael found the plastic eyes – with the dark holes cut out for sight – disconcerting. He looked instead at Franklin. ‘So?’ the younger man asked. ‘We good?’

Michael shrugged before saying, ‘Apparently. No more units in the area and Lester said-’

The rest of his sentence was drowned out by a whoop that filled the confined space of the garage. The third man finally ripped off the mask and Michael didn’t think what lay beneath was any easier to look at.

The lock up was hot in the early evening sun, but it was more than just that which drew the sweat from Trevor’s brow. Beneath the heavy structure, eyes glinted. Deceptively keen, deceptively clever eyes. But the grin the spread across his face, that showed all his teeth, was genuine – as much as it was chemically fuelled. Natural and synthetic.

Adrenalin and speed.

‘Lester said,’ Michael repeated loudly, avoiding looking too long at his old running buddy, ‘we should be good to leave the stuff here. Someone will come by and pick it up and we’ll get paid once it’s been verified.’

‘And we got a guarantee on that?’ Franklin asked, eyes narrowed. ‘Like, it’s for definite.’

‘What are you expecting, kid? A pro forma? Guy said he’d pay us on delivery. We gotta take him at his word.’

Trevor scoffed loudly. ‘And we all know what a man’s word means to you, Mikey.’

 This earned him a look – albeit short lived. ‘For now,’ Michael continued doggedly, ‘let’s all go home; keep quiet; and see what happens.’

Franklin nodded, but Trevor was blocking the exit. ‘Oooooor,’ he drawled, placing his feet wide and raising his hands to point at them. ‘We could not be total fucking pussies. Go out. Get a few drinks.’ His movements became more energetic as he spoke, more erratic. ‘Fucking celebrate, man! We’ve done a good, long day’s work here. Least we can do is get some beers in.’

Michael looked doubtful, but Franklin was already nodding. ‘Sure, dog. I could use a fucking drink.’

‘Alright!’ Trevor’s hands clapped together – the sound echoed off the wall. ‘Mikey? Come on, sugartits. You owe me a drink.’

‘I don’t know, T. Amanda is-’

‘Fuck Amanda!’

‘Watch it, T.’ The look Michael gave him was dangerous, but at least he was looking at him.

Trevor’s smile grew.

‘Come on,’ he wheedled. ‘One fucking drink. Just to toast our success. Come on. One.’

---

Six, Michael thought, looking down at the heavy-bottomed glass on the table. It shifted before his eyes, splashing amber liquid. No. Seven?

And Michael was laughing. Genuinely, belly-clutching, wiping tears away, laughing. Laughing like he hadn’t in years.

Because Trevor was telling stories.

There were many things about Trevor that were utterly clear to the naked human eye. Many aspects of his personality that made themselves known to even the most obtuse observer. That he hadn’t bathed in a number of months; that some substance stronger than caffeine was fuelling him; that he was dangerous.

But as clear as all these things were, there was still – even Michael must admit – much about him that was unexpected. And one of these hidden attributes, one that was making itself known tonight, was that he was a great storyteller.

‘So the guy – headless chicken in hand – looks at Michael. And Michael’s walking like he’s just shit his pants with all this cash stuffed down the back of his jeans.’ Pausing, Trevor pointed a finger at Franklin, and said, ‘Now, if there'd been a dye pack in this take, that'd’ve been quite a show.’

‘Man, fuck you,’ Franklin said, but he was laughing too.

‘I don’t know how we'd have explained that one.’

Trevor’s eyes slipped to Michael, who shrugged and suggested, ‘Explosive diarrhoea.’

‘Always did say you were full of shit, Mike. But, as it was, we never even got that far. Because before we could even ask if he had a phone we could use, he turns to us and goes-' Trevor’s voice ratcheted up an octave, taking on an exaggerated yokel twang that was completely out of character with where the story was actually set ‘- Hold on just one gosh-darn minute! I know you fel- Bang!’

The table shuddered, ice clinking in glass, as Trevor drove his fist into the surface.

‘Mikey shoots the poor old guy. Straight through the fucking chicken in his hands. Chest cavity explodes. Blood and fucking feathers everywhere!’

Not laughing any more, Franklin looked at Michael, sitting in the booth beside him. Michael shrugged again.

He knew the ending to this story.

‘Then, this man,’ Trevor continued, indicating Michael once more. ‘This man, who has just mowed down droves of pigs; who has just massacred some poor, innocent old farmer. This man steps up to the body, looks down at the gory sight, and says-'

Trevor stopped, hands held out to Michael like a showman presenting his finest act. Looking down at his drink and unable to hide the wry smile creeping across his face, Michael concluded the tale.

‘Poor chicken.’

Trevor was the only one who laughed. Head thrown back and loud enough that, even in the crowded bar, he drew some irritated looks. It was the type of place that, ten years ago, would have been considered a dive. But after a celebrity was spotted slumming it and trying to pass for a normal human being, it had experienced a brief period of trendiness – during which it had exchanged its real grit for the faux stuff. The kind that made you feel like you were somewhere with an edge, while you rubbed elbows almost exclusively with finance bros.

And though the celebrities had long since moved on to other, harder to find spots, their pictures still adorned the walls amidst the store-bought, easily consumed knickknacks of Vinewood glitz and glamour. The bar desperately clinging to their five minutes in the sun. That they had allowed Trevor on the premises was a sign that things were returning to the natural equilibrium though. Already Michael could see the nervousness settling in. Young men in suits looking uncomfortable as their favourite dive bar became just a little too realistically gritty.

Though, Michael was perhaps being unfair on them. After all, Trevor was too gritty for most people.

Grit ingrained so deep within the pores of his skin it would never come off.

‘Yo,’ Franklin said. ‘For real?’ He was looking at Michael with a perturbation he hadn’t in a long while.

‘Look, kid, it’s not what you think. The guy was a retired cop. He knew me from back in the day. Plus he was a prick. Used to beat the ever-loving shit outta his wife. Everyone knew.’

‘As if you gave a fuck about his wife,’ Trevor barked.

Franklin felt the conversation needed some steering. ‘What happened to the chicken?’

Michael looked to Trevor who shrugged and said, ‘Made a mean pot pie.’

With a chuckle and a shake of his head, Franklin slipped out of the booth and said, ‘Sure, dog. Was the chicken you put in the pie.’

‘What are you implying, Frankie?’

‘I ain’t implying nothin’, man. You may be inferring some shit, but I ain’t implying nothing.’ He gave the older man a look that was entirely innocent. ‘I’mma hit the pool table. You dogs wanna join?’

‘Nah.’ Michael burped. ‘I stand up right now I’m gon’ end up on my ass.’

‘Trevor?’

‘You go ahead, kid. I’m quite comfortable where I am.’

Michael heard Franklin walk away and concentrated on the table in front of him. The wood grain was flowing water – streaming across the surface in a rippled wave. He blinked and realised his excuse to Franklin had been truer than he'd thought.

It took an effort to raise his gaze and he wished he hadn’t. Because it was only to find Trevor’s on him. Those dark eyes that could glint no matter how dull the light was – like they contained it. Like a log in a burned low fire, black and cracked on the outside but still a scintillating, fluid inferno within. They lit a fire beneath Michael’s skin.

And it sparked his temper.

‘The fuck do you want?’ he snapped before he could stop himself.

The slow smile that unfurled across Trevor’s face was triumphant. ‘Nothin’.’

‘Then quit fuckin’ staring, creep.’

Trevor’s brow shot up. His grin was still amused, and it only pricked Michael’s nerves more. ‘Creep?’

‘Oh, fuck off.’

‘Didn’t realise it bothered you so much.’ There was a creak of cheap pleather as Trevor settled further back into his seat. ‘What, I’m not even allowed to look at you anymore?’

‘Not like this, man,’ Michael muttered. His fingers drummed on the table spanning between them, wood still shifting like sand. He could almost feel it beneath his fingertips.

That’s what they had exchanged it for, right?

What he had exchanged it for.

Fucking sand.

Fucking sand and fucking palm trees.

But he could smell snow.

‘You’ve been staring all day. It’s creepy.’

‘Only ‘cause you’ve been avoiding meeting my eye all day.’

Like a string pulled taut between them, Michael’s eyes sprung up and caught on level with Trevor’s. ‘I-‘ There was heat rising from the collar of his shirt. The AC in this stupid, pretentious dive was probably busted. ‘Like hell I have.’

Trevor’s head cocked to one side. He said nothing.

‘I haven’t,’ Michael insisted, though even to him it sounded unconvincing. ‘I-’ The lies melted on his tongue – dissolved in whisky and salt water – leaving only the truth. Still he hesitated over it. Less than honest at the best of times, Michael had always found it even more difficult where Trevor was concerned. So he took a breath before saying, ‘You look weird.’

Whatever Trevor had been expecting, this drew him up short. His brows crashed back down; fresh fuel to the fire. ‘What?’

Michael looked down again, back to the safety of his drink. He raised it to his mouth but didn’t drink yet. ‘I don’t like that you shaved your head,’ he slurred into the glass. His lips felt strange – swollen.

There was a pause and then. ‘I don’t like that you abandoned me for nine years.’

Bleary eyes found Trevor, grown around mournful frustration. ‘Can we hang out for once without you bringing that up?’

Another pause.

Michael didn’t look this time.

He couldn’t imagine a favourable response. But then Trevor said, ‘Sure, Mikey.’

Though he half suspected this to be Trevor’s intention, Michael looked up again nonetheless. But Trevor wasn’t watching him now. Face turned away, he was staring at the table. One elbow resting on the surface, he scratched at the back of his freshly shorn head.

Michael found himself watching the movement closely. The flex of his roughened fingers and the crease of skin stretched thin across bone, revealing every curve and line.

‘After all,’ Trevor continued after a moment. ‘It’s a celebration.’

---

The strip club was a mistake.

Two blocks before they arrived at its door, Michael had already realised it was a mistake.

It had seemed like such a good idea when they’d left the bar.

But somewhere in the short walk between the two establishments, Michael had sobered up enough to rethink this decision. Still, he followed Trevor and Franklin inside regardless and – after a number of whiskey shots and a couple of private dances – it was back to being the best damn idea they’d ever had.

After all, like Trevor had said, it was a celebration.

And Michael felt like celebrating.

So much so, that he didn’t even care when – several hours and another, fresher number of whiskey shots later – he was all but carried outside by Trevor.

He didn’t care. No he didn’t care. Not at all.

It’s not like there hadn’t been nights in the past, many in fact, that had ended the exact same way. There was something familiar about it. Even now, nearly a decade later and untold pounds heavier, Trevor’s arm around his torso, strong as an iron beam, kept him up. Familiar. Almost comforting.

Not that he cared.

He didn’t care.

‘Ughhh,’ he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut against the assault of night air. ‘I’m gonna throw up.’

‘Let it all out, bud.’

Michael could feel the words pass from Trevor’s chest to his. ‘Or I’ll shit the bed.’

‘Let it all out.’

‘Ay.’ Franklin’s voice. The kid was still here? Shit. Had he said anything weird? Done anything? He hadn’t- Everything was spinning.

He remembered his eyes were still closed. But opening them didn’t help.

‘He gon’ be good?’ Franklin was asking. ‘He’s pretty drunk-’

‘Yeah, I’m drunk!’ Michael agreed enthusiastically – too loudly. ‘I’m fuckin’ drunk- mm’fuckin’… Bleeeeeh.’

The world heaved and for a terrifying, stomach-lurching moment Michael thought he’d fallen, but it was only Trevor readjusting his hold – pulling Michael’s arm more firmly over his shoulders. ‘He’s fine, kid,’ he assured Franklin easily. ‘I’ve seen him worse. He just needs a bed to sleep it off. I’ll get him home. He’ll be fine.’

Doubt softened Franklin’s voice. ‘Man, you sure?’

‘Trust me.’ Trevor’s was solid as wood. ‘I know him.’

‘I- I know me,’ Michael informed them. He added, in a quieter mumble, ‘I just don’t like me.’

Trevor met Franklin’s pointed look head on and said, ‘Ahh, he’s always saying that!’

And Franklin had to admit that was true. ‘Alright,’ he said, and the word trailed into oblivion. He remembered that he was far from sober himself and suddenly his bed was the most enticing thing he could imagine. And Trevor was sober – well, as sober as T ever got. He’d see them alright.

Right?

But Franklin’s head was spinning too fast now to properly answer that question. With a shake of his head, which he quickly regretted, he waved the two men, alongside his concern, away. ‘Whatever, man,’ he slurred as he stumbled away. ‘I’ll see you next time.’

‘Safe home, kid.’

‘S’f’ome,’ Michael echoed.

And then Michael blinked and Franklin was gone. And they’d teleported several blocks over. And Michael’s head felt like it had a tent peg buried in it. The kind he’d seen fathers teach their sons how to anchor into the ground in movies. Film fathers that took their sons camping. Not like his old man who’d left before teaching him anything approaching useful. Not like his stepfather who had taught him only how to take shit that didn’t belong to him – but never got around to imparting the secret of how to enjoy it.

Not like-

Michael’s feet – half walking, half dragging along the sidewalk – stopped.

Trevor stopped too. He looked over at Michael and their faces were discomfortingly close. ‘What’s up, buddy?’

‘Hey, T?’ Michael’s tongue felt twice its usual size and he had to concentrate on forming the words.

‘Yeah, M?’

‘Did your dad ever take you camping?’ His vision was still blurry, like looking through rippling water, but Michael thought Trevor was frowning.

‘Are you fucking kidding?’

‘Yes… No.’ He laughed through his nose. ‘I always wanted to take Jimmy. But I- I never did. I don’t know why. And now- now…’ He laughed again and, flinging his arms suddenly wide, knocking Trevor away, he gestured in an expansive circle around them. ‘Now, where would I take him? If he was even interested. An alley behind Vinewood Boulevard? A homeless camp under an overpass in Mission Row?’

There was no reply. After a moment, Michael noticed Trevor watching him – not with animosity, but something that might be called thoughtfulness. Michael, swaying on his feet, looked back at him belligerently. ‘What?’ he asked, his voice husky.

He could almost feel the whisky seeping from his pores. Sobriety crept over his limbs, injected by Trevor’s fierce look.

It felt hot. Like morphine in his veins.

‘What are you fucking looking at?’ he snapped.

Trevor stepped forward.

For the first time Michael noticed where they were. The alley was bare and quiet. Gas stains mottled dusty concrete and drains steamed with heavy fug. A half-hearted street light spread a soft glow across the deserted urban landscape. Warm orange light that caught Trevor’s eye.

Michael’s heart stuttered in his chest. He felt lightheaded.

Trevor was close now. And normally that would make Michael nervous. But whether it was the alcohol, or the residual high from pulling off the job, tonight it didn’t. For some reason. Tonight, Michael didn’t step back. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t put space between them.

Still Trevor said nothing. Only looked.

And those eyes – near hidden in the shadow of his heavy brow – were inescapable.

Growing up there had been few restraints in Michael’s life. So long as he didn’t annoy the adults in his life, they couldn’t give a shit what he got up to. So long as they didn’t have to see him, he could pretty much do as he pleased.

There had only been one hard rule.

Never take his stepdad’s beers.

And so, of course, Michael had begun sneaking them at a very early age. And though he could have found other ways to get booze, and though each bottle was a risk of getting the ever-loving shit beat out of him, he kept taking them.

Because it wasn’t about the beer. It wasn’t about getting drunk.

It was about the thrill.

And there and then, in that dingy alley in Los Santos, he felt like that kid again – carefully extracting a glass bottle from an open fridge. Praying that it didn’t clink against the others; or the door didn’t open behind him and his stepdad walk in; or his hitched breathing, deafening to his own ears, give him away.

Michael felt that same thrill now as he reached up and, without looking in those eyes, brushed his fingers against the shorn, bristly stubble on Trevor’s head. He could feel the hot skin, and beneath that thin barrier, his skull.

Heart in his throat and praying the bottles didn’t clink together, Michael asked, ‘Why did you do it?’

Trevor’s voice was low and gruff, and close enough to feel. ‘It was going anyway.’

Michael’s fingers moved, rubbing the strangely soft cranium. Trevor’s face changed, but Michael wasn’t looking to see it.

‘You don’t like it, huh?’

Michael shook his head.

But even he couldn’t be blind to the grin that spread wolfishly across Trevor’s features. ‘Yeah,’ Trevor said softly. ‘You do.’

When Trevor moved it was blurry – fuzzy like a film not quite in focus. And Michael wasn’t sure if – if he’d been sober – he’d have reacted differently. But, confused and cotton-headed, he didn’t draw back. And when Trevor’s mouth crashed onto his it was as teeth. As want and need and heavy desire.

It was as heat and pain. As razors and pleasure.

He didn’t pull away.

He didn’t pull away, he kissed him back.

And the heat and pain and desire and need – it wasn’t all on one side.

In the end it was Trevor who pulled them apart. Only to look – as he had been looking all night – at Michael and, breathless, say, ‘Motel?’

Michael could feel artificially cold air on his cheeks; could smell the contents of a fridge left too long. He nodded.

Bottles clinked.

And Trevor grinned.

‘After all,’ Michael said with his heavy tongue. ‘It is a celebration.’

---

No one had turned the lights on in the motel room. And as the sun had sunk, it found the windows – rosy, prying fingers of light forced through cracks – and painted the walls a sultry orange. But no one was there to witness the warm golden hour and it quickly faded to gloom. And no one turned on the lights

So that it was sitting dark; slipped into night without any acknowledgment of the march of time.

That is, until a key – fumbled in drunken fingers – scraped against the lock.