Work Text:
They’re both sitting on the hood of Michael’s car. Facing the Alamo sea, with the sun down low and a pack of beer between them, Michael finds it hard not to get swept up in this haze of nostalgia that, if voiced, Trevor would probably make fun of him for.
Even after all these years, Michael still tries not to look at him. The moment they are sharing is private; it is personal. He’s worried that if he looks at Trevor, and Trevor looks back at him then he won’t be able to help himself. He’ll unravel himself right before their very eyes, he’ll indulge himself and let this raw, wounded, part of himself be put out on display. Trevor wouldn’t be able to keep away. He never could.
Sex with Trevor, kissing Trevor, looking at Trevor has always stirred this deep conflict in him that rots away at his insides. It’s like yearning for Adam when you know you’re supposed to be yearning for Eve. During an argument, years ago, Trevor had grown frustrated towards Michael’s ‘Catholic guilt bullshit’. The argument ended with a bloody nose, and soon after Michael had found himself on his back, thighs parted and Trevor’s blood in his mouth as they kissed.
He wants to say that he’s gotten better with it; that the guilt no longer festers so resolutely inside him, but that would be a lie, now, wouldn’t it? Denial and purposeful ignorance is an artificial blanket that warms him now but will leave him cold when he needs it the most. His corpse will be frozen in his grave.
Sometimes, in rare moments of honesty, he feels as if the only things that belong inside him are guilt, anger and Trevor.
In the glovebox of his car is the rosary his mother gave to him when he was younger, and in moments when his actions overwhelm him, he hangs it on his rearview mirror as he drives. It never stays up long, though. The brief reassurance it gives him is overshadowed by the painful memories and embarrassment it stirs up.
One night, Michael had forgotten to take it down and Trevor had seen it dangling there. For the whole drive, he hadn’t said anything, and Michael had driven with his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth began to ache and his head began to hurt, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. Afterwards, Trevor had just given him a look over the hood of his car, eyes piercing and narrowing in that way it does when he’s being annoyingly observant and seeing you at your most intrinsic level. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how smart he is. Trevor knew, and Michael knew that he knew.
Trevor’s abnormal reticence about it all had just made it worse somehow. A part of him had coveted conflict, had yearned to hear Trevor’s snide voice jeer, “back on your finding God bullshit again, Mikey?” It would have been easier that way. It would have been easier because Michael would have grown teeth, and he would have snapped and bit like a starved dog fighting over scraps. Maybe it would have ended in an argument. Maybe it would have ended in a fight and Michael would have found himself hovering over Trevor with a gun pressed to his temple. Perhaps even he was the one feeling that familiar cold metal pressed against his forehead, he really doesn’t know. At the time he had just thought: this, Michael, this is why God hates you.
Trevor remained silent, and as they walked, side by side, Trevor had brushed up against him, their shoulders rubbing as they walked, hands shoved awkwardly in the pockets of his jeans. It was his way of providing comfort. Michael knew that he should have pulled away, but he didn’t; he didn’t want to. He felt this guilt festering in the pit of his stomach for always assuming the worst of people he cares about. He is cursed by it; it will be his undoing.
After they had parted ways, the first thing he did was tear the rosary down and shove it into the back of his glovebox. It has stayed there ever since. He thinks it's ironic how his rosary is right next to his gun. Holiness and unholiness sitting together in matrimony; the devil and the angel on his shoulders.
They both sit there still, in his glovebox, only a few feet away: a reminder of things that he wants to forget and a life that he could never run away from. Trevor had always longed for that live fast, die young life, whilst Michael had always longed for something else. He wanted to escape it, to escape the thing that his whole purpose was centred around. He thought he could defy the stars, like how the protagonists did in his favourite movies. It was never that easy. He knows that now. Maybe that’s why his favourite characters always died tragic deaths.
“Nice view, ain’t it?” Trevor says, motioning with the bottle in his hand to the sea in front of them. It breaks Michael out of whatever form of reverie he was in and he blinks rapidly to reorientate himself.
Michael follows the gesture of Trevor’s hand, turning his eyes to the sea. He takes in the movement of the waves, slow and consistent, and the sounds of the birds squawking over the swash of the ocean.
“Sometimes, I like to come out here and just think.”
Michael bites back a scoffing remark of, “I didn’t know you were even capable of that, Trev,” because there’s something genuine in Trevor’s voice. Despite the general explosiveness of Trevor’s personality, fraught with sudden highs and lows and ambiguity, to Michael, Trevor is an open book. Often, he is sincere, and if there is any mockery or ridicule when he is at his most candid, he bites back with teeth made of steel and a tongue as sharp as a blade. Michael doesn’t want to fight anymore. He is tired and weary; he wants a pleasant life for himself.
Instead, he hums his agreement, a lazy smile on his face. Despite the sudden chill of the wind (Michael had offered Trevor his jacket, and now his own arms are riddled with goosebumps), he is content to stay there forever. A part of him thinks it’s funny how well they get along when they don’t want each other dead.
Michael looks at him, finally, and every time he does, it feels like the first time. Sometimes, he wants to go back to when they were young and felt like they could swallow the sun, when their imagination was the only limit they faced. Trevor looks back at him.
Michael holds his beer up, a toast, “we fucking did it, Trevor.”
Trevor’s lips mould into a smile that feels more like a smirk. Behind his lips lie his fangs, jagged and sharp. If he wanted to, Trevor could have torn him to pieces. Trevor catches him looking, and when Michael meets his eyes again, residing in them is a knowing glint that sets his nerves on fire.
“Yes, we fucking did, Mikey,” Trevor replies, clinking their beers together.
A few hours later, Trevor fucks him in the backseat of his car. He feels like he is the closest to God he has ever been, and the furthest away from him simultaneously. In a way, that feeling has defined his entire life.
—
Michael is there again, by the Alamo sea. This time sitting at the end of the dock. The wood is rotten and creaks worryingly every time he moves, and for the past half an hour he had been latently expecting it to give out from underneath him. His legs are dangling over the edge and he peers down at the water below his feet. The noise of the waves soothes him, and he feels like a little kid who has been there his entire life, unable to leave.
The wood behind him lets out a loud squeak and Michael looks over his shoulder to see Trevor carefully navigating his way over the various holes and broken boards, arms out sideways to balance himself when his footing starts to get unsteady. In a way that would have been surprising to him all that time ago, the anxious knot that had been tightening around Michael’s innards loosens slightly at the sight of him.
“What’s up, sugartits?” Trevor says once he’s reached him, letting out a low groan as he lowers himself to a sitting position that mirrors Michael’s own, “why’d you call me down here?”
Michael grips the edge of the dock with his hands and hopes that Trevor doesn’t see it. It was a stupid hope: Trevor sees everything about him.
“Ah, I just wanted to get out of the house. Felt like I was going crazy in there.”
Trevor nods his head slightly as he hums in agreement. Michael lets go of his grip when he catches Trevor looking out of the corner of his eye, and moves his hands so that they’re cushioned under his thighs.
“Thought you didn’t like it out here? What with all the hicks and the gangbangs and the crank.”
Michael huffs out a laugh, but it’s hollow slightly; half-genuine and half-forced, “yeah, well, I still don’t. It fuckin’ sucks out here but it’s… y’know.”
“Quiet?”
“Yeah. Quiet.”
Trevor makes a noise that sounds as if he’s agreeing, but Michael can tell there’s some tension, like he’s trying to figure him out. It makes Michael nervous.
He looks like he wants to pry deeper, to ask Michael again and get him to answer right this time. But Trevor stops himself by letting out a breath through his nose and turning his head to the side, away from Michael. Whatever sort of internal conflict Trevor must have is over quickly, because he’s turning his head almost instantly back. He doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t look away either. Michael supposes that’s good enough.
“The mid-life crisis bullshit has hit you hard, huh, Mikey? Next, you’re gonna be asking me if I wanna go fishing with you,” Trevor says, lightheartedly, a small grin on his face.
The smile is evident in Michael’s voice when he replies, “ah, shut up, you prick. You go hunting, that ain’t much different.”
Trevor huffs out a laugh and waves his hand in silent dismissal, “it was either that or I blow my brains out from how fuckin’ annoying Cletus gets when you ignore him for a couple’a weeks. He might just be more needy than you, Mikey.”
Michael laughs as he rolls his eyes, biting back with his own retort that has Trevor grinning even wider. He thinks he needed this.
They talk pleasantly for a few more minutes, which is honestly longer than Michael thought it would be, but then Trevor inhales deeply, and Michael can hear it whistle through his nostrils. Instantly, dread starts to coil at the bottom of his stomach, twisting and churning. He feels nauseous slightly. Trevor looks at him, then, and his eyes are piercing. There’s something in his expression that Michael knows will cause him to cave, that everything will just come spilling out despite his best efforts to keep it hidden away. The dread in his stomach twists into something bitter when he remembers how skillful Trevor is at uncovering secrets.
But deep down, Michael knows that the reason why he called Trevor is because he doesn’t want to keep it bottled up. He doesn’t want it to stay dormant in its place behind his ribcage until everything becomes too much; until suddenly the dam is broken and he can’t stop himself and there’s blood on his hands and it’s all his fault. He is tired of that.
And so he knows that Trevor will dig up his secrets. And he knows that Trevor will not care about the blood. And he knows that Trevor will not stop until he finds out what’s wrong, and in a way, Michael craves it. He craves to be known.
Therefore, he is not surprised when Trevor asks, “so are you gonna tell me what’s really going on?” his voice gruff in that way it becomes when he is sincere but is utterly uncomfortable in being so. In a fucked up way, Michael is glad that they’re both suffering from this.
Even though he’s not surprised, he still feels incredibly underequipped to handle the chill that passes over him at Trevor’s words. It feels as if the blood in his veins is freezing, cell by cell.
When he opens his mouth to respond, he tries to look Trevor in the eyes, fails, and instead looks at the foam on top of the waves in front of them. He can still feel Trevor’s eyes boring into the side of his head, and Michael doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.
Worse, he decides, much, much worse.
“I-” he starts before snapping his mouth shut with an audible clack. Michael had stupidly thought that with the amount of fucking money he spent on therapy, he should be better at opening up now. He’s not, and he probably will never be. The thought upsets him more than he thought it would.
The dread coiling in his stomach has transformed into fully-fledged anxiety, and it gnaws away at his insides like a parasite. He lets out a frustrated noise, and it briefly reminds him of a wounded animal before he spits it out forcibly, believing that if he didn’t say it now, he possibly never would.
“My mother died.”
Silence.
And then he’s speaking again, because now he can’t stop himself, “fuckin’ Dave told me, guess he must’ve felt sorry for me, or some shit. Said he just found out that the funeral was last week and I missed it. And- and, I don’t know, I’m fucking upset, I suppose.”
He’s gripping the rotten planks beneath him so tightly that he swears he can feel them creak under the pressure. Trevor takes in a deep breath beside him, and lets it out slowly.
“Your… mom died.”
And the way he says it, the tone of his voice, blunt and monotonous in his disbelief, makes Michael realise that this was a fucking mistake. Idiot. Fucking idiot. You should have just kept it to yourself. Now you’ve ruined everything. Again.
“Your bible-thumping mom, who lied to you about why your dad left. Who hates fags-” Michael can’t hide his wince, “-and who said that you were never, ever -”
“Trevor. Don’t.”
Trevor inhales sharply, so sharply that Michael thinks it might have hurt in some way. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like he might start crying.
There is a sort of pain in Trevor’s voice when he says, “she could barely stand to be in the same room as us, Mikey.”
Boiling anger burns its way through his veins and Michael has to bite down on his tongue so hard he tastes blood to stop himself from saying, “can you blame her?”
He waits for a few seconds, minutes, hours, years, to get a handle on the sudden anger he feels. He is terrified by how much it burns him. Did this really use to keep him warm all those nights ago? How did he survive the heat? His body is so tense, and he forces himself to relax. The movement is probably obvious to Trevor, but he can’t find it in him to care. His limbs feel like they are trembling.
It’s entirely too long before Michael speaks, and he intends for his voice to come out strong, but instead, there is just something vulnerable there and it sounds hoarse instead, “she was my mom, Trevor.”
There is more silence, and it builds and builds and builds until it starts to become oppressive.
“Fuck,” Trevor eloquently says, more to himself than to Michael.
“Fuck,” he repeats, quieter, and there’s a strain to his voice that tells Michael he regrets the things he said.
A few seconds pass by, and then Michael feels a hand placed on his back. It’s Trevor’s attempt at comforting him, but the touch is so light that it exposes the tentativeness of the action. His face feels hot and his eyes burn when he thinks: he’s trying to comfort me, but he doesn’t know how.
He wills himself to stay together, thinks that it will be unbearable if he falls apart now. He knows it is to be expected, that people grieve. But he does not want to allow that for himself.
The thoughts come out of nowhere (You don’t deserve to grieve. Why are you grieving over a mother who didn’t love you? Remember that time when she found out you like men and screamed until she lost her voice and drank for the first time in years?).
He is powerless to stop them; they have been there his whole life.
Trevor’s hand presses itself more firmly against his back, fingers spreading wide, and Michael subconsciously presses back into it. When he realises what he’s done, he wants to pull away. He hears his mother’s voice in his head, and doesn’t like the things she says. But Trevor’s hand is warm. It’s warm enough to make Michael realise just how cold he was all of a sudden. He yearns for something, but doesn’t know what it is, and it makes him feel nauseous.
“I’m sorry, Michael,” Trevor says, and it’s so genuine that it makes the corners of his eyes prickle even more with his attempt not to cry.
“It’s okay,” Michael says, clearing his throat when the end of his sentence wavers slightly. It’s not okay. Not really. But neither of them are brave enough to call him out on it.
“Wanna go get drunk until we pass out?” he adds after a while, making his voice as light as he can as he turns to look Trevor in the eyes. He watches a small smile form on Trevor’s face. One of his lips is split and Michael can’t take his eyes off it. The part of him that will always be his mother’s son is disgusted at himself because of it.
“You driving or am I?”
—
It’s been a week or two or three since Michael told Trevor. The time flew by in a haze, half-remembered and barely comprehended. He’d be lying if he said that he’s taking the grief well, because he’s not, and he’s not even good at hiding it. On the best of days he feels numb, and on the worst, he feels like a walking corpse, barely in control of his own existence.
Amanda stopped by the house after she found out about it. He thinks that Trevor or Dave must have told her, or fuck, maybe even he told her one night when he was too drunk to remember. It’s been… weird living in the house by himself. Whilst he and Amanda are still close friends after the divorce, and whilst he knows it was the best thing for them, he’s still hesitant to admit out loud how much he’s struggling to be alone.
When they first moved to Los Santos, and Dave solemnly told them that they couldn’t divorce no matter how much they wanted to at the time, it seemed incomprehensible to him that he was stuck in an unhappy marriage for the rest of his life. And now that it’s finalised, and they’ve gone their separate ways, it is now incomprehensible to him that he’s not stuck in an unhappy marriage for the rest of his life. Funny how things change, huh?
When she stopped by the house to check in on him, he felt that same mix of emotions stir up in him that always does whenever he sees her. It’s that mix of love and despondency. He loves her still, he doesn’t think he could ever stop loving her, but he doesn’t love her in a way that is meaningful anymore. She is everything he had and wanted and needed, and yet it wasn’t enough. Michael wasn’t enough.
(When Michael was younger, he prayed that his relationship with Amanda would somehow rid him of all his perverted desires, as his mother liked to call them. It never worked, but he stopped blaming Amanda for it years ago.)
At the time, she had lingered in the doorway of the house, leaning on the frame with her arms crossed, although not unkindly, over her chest. His eyes followed the curve of her body, the clothes she wore, the makeup on her face. She’s probably going on a date, he thought. Michael remembered those clothes, she had worn them on a date with him too, once. She looks as beautiful as she did back then. For a split second, his heart shattered behind his ribcage, and nausea found its way to the back of his throat. I ruin everything I touch.
Amanda looked sad to see the state he was in, and honestly, he couldn’t even blame her. She’s so beautiful, all of the time, and, yet again, Michael found himself upset that they fell apart in the way that they had. But hey, at least we can talk to each other now without having an argument, right?
“You look like a mess, Michael,” she had said, stepping slowly into the house and lowering her arms to her side. Her voice was so gentle that it made him feel better slightly. She had this way about her that made him feel as if all his problems could be solved so easily, that everything would eventually be alright.
He had let out a self-deprecating laugh and smiled as best he could at her, “I know, Mandy.”
Amanda smiled back, sadly but warmly, the corners of her eyes softening when she looked at him.
“You never even liked her.”
Michael had let out a deep breath, his shoulders sagged and his eyes remained fixated to the same spot on the floor, his vision blurred slightly. She wrapped her arms around him before he even realised what was happening, and her hair smelt the same as it always did — and it smelt like apples because on their second date, Michael embarrassingly blurted out how he liked the smell of her hair and she laughed until she had tears in her eyes. She still uses that same damn shampoo, even though now Michael is sure she has forgotten why.
His arms had hung awkwardly around her at first, unsure where to put them. Before, they would have slotted together like two pieces in a puzzle, they would have moulded into one to create something beautiful, and sacred, and holy.
There is nothing holy about him anymore.
He placed his arms tentatively on her back, fingers barely touching the fabric of her dress as if he thought that anything more would cause her to crumble in his grasp.He didn’t want to break anything else.
“You’re gonna be okay, Michael,” she said, and she said it so assuredly that a part of Michael wanted so desperately to believe her.
When she pulled away she left a kiss on his cheek, a gentle kiss, a loving kiss. A kiss more loving than a man like him deserved.
“I have to go now, but promise that you’ll call if you need anything?”
“I promise, Mandy.”
It’s a lie. They both know it.
She smiled sadly, and left.
After he heard her car pull away, Michael threw a chair at his television and drank until he passed out.
—
Michael is sitting on the ground in front of the Alamo sea, his back resting against the side of his car. His knees are drawn up slightly, his forearms resting on top, and he’s been there so long half his body is numb. The slightest movement has his body protesting in a way that could only be created by all the years he has survived.
It feels as though his mind is filled with static, and he can’t remember the last time he had a clear thought without that uncomfortable sluggishness to them. The gun is positioned on the ground in between his shoes, and he’s been staring at it for as long as he can remember. At times, he believes wholeheartedly that the majority of his life has been spent looking down the barrel of a gun and wondering, “is this finally the end?”
The wind is chilling, but his body remains uncomfortably hot, the uncontrollable anger that has been running through his veins keeping him warm unlike anything else could.
He thinks that this might be it.
That is until he hears the telltale crunching of sand beneath feet and looks over to see the last person he wants to see.
Michael isn’t surprised, not really. He’s had a suspicion that Trevor’s been keeping an eye on him lately, but Michael had pretended not to notice. In a way, it was nice to know that he cared. On the other hand, it pissed him off immeasurably to feel coddled.
“Fuck off, Trevor,” Michael says as soon as Trevor’s within earshot. His voice comes out annoyingly hoarse.
“Woah, Mikey, what’s with all the animosity? I thought we put all that behind us, man.”
Trevor’s voice is light, and joking, but Michael can sense some sort of frustration underlying his tone. Michael had ignored all of Trevor’s calls and messages ever since the last time they saw each other, and he could tell it was getting to him. Some self-destructive part of him revels the decimation of something important to him.
“I said, fuck off, Trevor. I just want to be alone.”
“And I want my best friend to stop moping around like the middle-aged depressed cliché you are, but we can’t all have what we want, right, pork chop?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Michael responds, his voice low with anger. He stands, perhaps too abruptly as his whole body aches with the movement, and turns to face Trevor, “if anyone’s a fucking cliché around here, it’s you. A fucking, lonely psychopath, with abandonment issues from your mother’s neglect, oh, how fucking refreshing.”
“Did you ever stop to think that maybe my abandonment issues were from my best friend faking his death and lying to me about it for ten fucking years?”
“I had a family -”
“Oh, here we go with your fucking family again. You never fucking cared for them. They were just excuses.”
The anger burns bright hot through his veins, and his fists are clenched so tightly that he thinks his bones might break. Michael’s voice is raw now, wavering with barely suppressed emotion, “you don’t know what it was like. Trevor.”
“I know enough! I know how you used to pretend to love your wife and kids. I know how you used to pretend to love me. I know how you’ve been lying to yourself all these years like some fucking textbook closet case just because mommy didn’t love me enough as a child.”
“How fucking mature, Trev-”
“I am fucking mature! I’m mature enough to know that this little trip back into the closet, or coffin, because I really don’t know where you’re trying to end up this time, is fucking pathetic.”
“You’re really starting to piss me off, Trevor.”
“Good! Get pissed off, Mikey, because you haven’t seemed this alive since I fucked you in the backseat of your car.”
Michael feels bile bubbling up in his chest, and has to fight the urge to throw up right then and there.
Trevor continues, his voice mocking, “oh, was that too far? Are you only a faggot like me when it’s convenient?”
“Trevor, I’m giving you one chance to walk awa-”
“Always running from your problems, aren’t you Mikey? Where was all of this coyness when you went down on me in the confessional in your hometown?”
With that, all of Michael’s rational thinking leaves his brain, and all he can bear to do is hurt Trevor in the same way that Trevor has hurt him. He barely feels in control of his body, not fully aware of what he’s doing or thinking or saying.
All he is aware of is the pain in his knuckles and the taste of blood in his mouth. It’s such a familiar situation that he ought to feel disgusted with himself. The adrenaline is making his limbs tremble and his heart race, a part of him is worried that it’ll burst in his chest.
Trevor’s right, it’s the most alive he’s felt in weeks. It’s a shameful and devastating realisation.
Trevor’s pulling his punches, Michael knows that much, and it angers him impossibly so. There is a rotten and broken part of him that is coveting the unwavering and insufferable pain that only Trevor could provide.
His mind is racing, thoughts tumbling and spiralling everywhere, being knocked loose by every punch that rattles against the side of his head. The thoughts are becoming more dangerous now, and this time the impulses are real and tangible, they’re plausible and obtainable.
Trevor could kill him right now. Michael yearns for it so suddenly and so desperately that it causes him to pause in shock at the realisation. He doesn’t see the fist flying towards his jaw until it knocks him to the ground and he gets a mouthful of sand.
He spits it out, watches as it clumps together with blood and saliva before Trevor’s hands are on his shoulders. Then, he’s being pushed on his back and there’s a hand gripping his hair too tightly as Trevor hovers over him and punches him in the face again and again and again.
At first, Michael’s hands scramble to stop him, nails digging into flesh, and tearing under his fingernails. He manages a weak punch to Trevor’s chest, but the thought is embedded into his mind and he is unable to escape it.
There is an all-encompassing anger in Trevor’s eyes now, wild and enraged like a rabid, starved dog. He is now attacking with full force.
And all Michael can think is: I want to die.
I want to die, I want to die, I want to die.
He doesn’t realise that he’s stopped fighting back until the punches stop, and Trevor’s eyes widen in a betrayal that only Michael could provide. The last time Trevor looked at him like that was when he found out that Brad was dead.
Trevor pushes away from him as if burnt, as if he doesn’t trust him anymore, and paces wildly around, blood dripping down his face and knuckles. From where Michael is lying, he hears Trevor make stuttering noises, the beginnings of sentences cut off by growls and curses. He’s so angry he can barely speak.
Eventually, Michael hears, “what the fuck was that, Michael?”
Michael turns his head and spits out more blood into the sand. He’s pretty sure that there’s a tooth in there somewhere, but his vision is blurring slightly and he can’t be sure. He starts to push himself into a sitting position as he says, “what was what?”
“That. What was that, you fucking scumbag. You know what you did. You- you ain’t been fucking right lately. This-“ he pauses and lets out this animalistic noise of anger and hurt, “-this is more than your cunt of a mother dying. Now tell me what the fuck is going on with you, why’d you fucking give up ?”
Michael pushes himself onto unsteady feet, his muscles trembling and vibrating in place as if they’re trying to rip themselves apart. He is so tired, but almost habitual anger keeps him upright. He is terrified to realise that it is his only crutch. Where is that peaceful life he always craved?
“You know what? Fuck you for even thinking that you know me. ”
Trevor laughs, but it’s hollow and mocking, acidic and venomous. They’ve both reverted back to how they acted before: hurt and petty, like two unloved children fighting over scraps they were never able to obtain.
“That’s the thing, Mikey. I do fucking know you. I know you better than anyone else on this fucking planet,” there’s something dangerous in Trevor’s voice. He’s all tensed up like a lion, ready to attack at the slightest provocation, “I can fucking see it in your eyes. There’s something wrong, something different that I’ve never seen before, and you know it, you know something is wrong but you won’t fucking tell me.”
Trevor has his back turned to him now, fists clenched, and Michael eyes his gun on the ground, left abandoned from their fight.
When Trevor turns back around, Michael’s gun is pointed right at his chest.
Trevor scoffs before letting out a crazed laugh. His teeth are stained with blood, but his eyes can barely conceal his shock.
Michael wants to shoot him (he doesn’t, not really), and he’s so sure that he will (he’s not sure, not at all).
“Ah, there he is. That’s the Michael I know, a fucking snake in the grass. How long have you been waiting to do this, huh?”
Michael stands his ground, but he can quickly feel himself unravelling, whether it be from the blows to the head, or the general instability of his own mind, Michael doesn’t know. His chest hurts when he breathes, and his vision is wavering. He feels as if he’s a thousand years old and crumbling apart in the wind.
Trevor takes a step closer, “come on, Mikey. Just pull the fucking trigger.”
Michael doesn’t.
Trevor takes another step, and another, and another, until the barrel of the gun is centimetres from his chest. Michael’s hands are trembling; they both can see it, but neither of them point it out.
“What’s stopping you, huh?” Trevor says, and his voice is uncharacteristically soft now. It’s fucking terrifying.
Trevor gently grabs the barrel of the gun, and moves it so that it digs into his chest.
“It’s not like you haven’t broken my heart before, right, baby?”
And with that, Michael breaks with a devastating noise.
His legs give out from underneath him, his knees connecting roughly with the sand, and pitches forward so that his head digs into Trevor’s hip. He thinks he might be crying, or maybe he’s hyperventilating. He doesn’t fucking know anymore. He wants it to stop. He wants to be fixed.
Trevor is saying his name now, and he says it in a gentle way, a way in which he’s never said it before, like he’s sad, like he’s devastated. Like Michael really has broken his heart this time. He feels sick to his stomach and wishes that he could get the taste of blood out of his mouth.
Trevor’s hand finds its way to the back of Michael’s neck, his thumb gently digging into his skin. He briefly wonders if Trevor can feel his heartbeat thrumming underneath. His touch is warm, and grounding. In a way, it hurts more, but Michael would be undone without it.
At first, when he tries to speak, his breath gets caught in his lungs, and it stings and burns. His whole body trembles with every inhale and exhale, and all that comes out are embarrassing stutters, high-pitched and warbled like his vocal chords don’t know what sound to produce. But, he has to say it.
He feels as though if he doesn’t then he might possibly die.
“Take the gun, Trev,” he finally manages. His voice is hoarse, and his eyes are burning in their sockets. There is a heaviness to his organs, like the weight of his dread is causing them to sink inside his body, like the very fibre of his being has become irreparably unravelled and it’s slipping through his fingers. It comes out quieter now, “please. I- I don’t fucking trust myself.”
Trevor crouches down in front of him, and gently pries the gun from his hand. A part of Michael wants to wrench the gun back from Trevor’s grasp and blow his brains out right in front of him, to have him watch as fragments of brain and skull mix in with the sand, moulding together for eternity. The thought makes him feel even sicker.
Trevor has never been this soft with him before; it’s like he doesn’t know what to do with him. Fuck, even Michael doesn’t know what to do with himself. His head is still bowed, an act of penance, of submission. He used to pray like this when he was a child. God didn’t listen. God didn’t fucking care.
He can hear Trevor taking out the magazine and dismantling the gun with well-practised ease. If Michael wanted it desperately, that wouldn’t have stopped him, but he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless. Michael wishes that Trevor could do that to him, that he could take him apart and get rid of all the rotten and infected parts of him. He wishes that when Trevor puts him back together again, he’d be perfect and holy this time; something loveable and sacred, something that is better off alive rather than dead.
Michael settles back until he’s sitting instead of kneeling. His body and his mind feels numb, and he can’t take his eyes away from the sea in front of him. He feels little wet droplets pelt against him, it’s going to rain soon. He doesn’t give a shit anymore. He hopes it washes him away into nothingness. The thought should scare him, but it doesn’t.
Michael feels Trevor sit down next to him, he can feel the warmth that Trevor radiates. It’s comforting but in a bittersweet way. Trevor is still here, by his side, despite everything, despite him. It’s more than he deserves. He knows that Trevor wants to do more, but the entire situation is unprecedented and neither man knows what will help. Maybe he was just destined to be unfixable, maybe this was his penance for all the wrongs he had committed. Maybe this is what they deserved for being two men who fell in love.
Still, he stares forward, face expressionless, eyes empty, feeling as if he is not in control of his body. The ground could swallow him up, and he wouldn’t even care. Next to him, Trevor sighs, and it is this heartbroken noise that makes Michael’s insides twist up in shame.
In the end, they’re just two, fucked up, old men trying to survive in a world where they’re not sure they belong.
Michael’s voice is quiet and monotone when he says, “something’s fucking wrong with me, Trev.”
For the first time in his life, Trevor doesn’t respond.
—
This is it, Michael thinks, this is finally fucking it.
He thought he would feel elated, but he just feels fucking numb.
His feet are submerged in the water, and the water is ice cold. It makes him shiver. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt completely warm; he doesn’t know if he ever has.
When Michael was seventeen he stole a car and crashed it into a tree on purpose.
He woke up in hospital, and his mother was sobbing through her prayers. When she realised he was awake, she kissed his forehead and his cheek, and ran her fingers through his hair, and told him how much she loved him. He was so relieved that he forgot to remind her that the whole reason he tried was because she told him he was no longer her son after she found him kissing one of the other footballers on his team.
“Hey, Dad, so you’re like probably passed out drunk right now, but-”
He thinks he was born broken, with some part of him missing and no way to find it. He’s searched for it his whole life and he has tried everything in that search. He’s tried booze and cigarettes, coke and weed. He’s tried men, and women. He’s tried finding God, he’s tried being a father. He’s tried killing himself, and he’s tried living. He is still empty.
He is still broken.
When he got arrested for the first time, his mother cried and lamented, “why did God fail to improve us?”
He will die not knowing the answer.
“Michael, will you pick up the fucking phone? You’re really starting to piss me off. I just talked to Mandy and she said she went to your house and you weren’t there… just… let me know you’re okay, fucker.”
The water is up to his knees now, the dampened fabric of his jeans clinging uncomfortably to his skin, the cold seeping deep into his blood and his bones. The smell of salt from the sea is almost overwhelming; he can taste it in the back of his throat. He hopes that he chokes on it. He hopes that if they ever find him and bury him, they are unable to scrub away the smell of the saltwater.
He used to take Jimmy and Tracey to the beach when they were younger. They loved it. Amanda would lie on the sand in her hat and sunglasses and watch with a smile on her face whilst he and the kids played in the sea. They still love him now, he knows that, but they don’t look at him like they did before. It makes him cry to realise that he has become his father. He thinks there is no greater shame than that.
“Dad, are you seriously drunk right now? This is the third time I’ve called. Tracey said that-”
The water is now up to his waist, and he now has to push against it to move forward. He can feel the sand shift beneath his feet. It all feels so surreal.
Michael wonders what it’ll be like.
He’s been close to dying before, but each time he was filled with this unwavering determination to live. To be without it this time is terrifying. What is a man when he has nothing to live for?
“Michael, the kids want to see you. Call me when you’re ready, I’m here if you need to talk… By the way, Trevor keeps asking about you and-”
It’s up to his chest now, and his whole body is shaking with the cold. He feels encompassed by conflicting emotions: regret and resignment, fear and curiosity, dread and relief. Arguably, his entire existence is based on these contradictions.
His mother always said that he was his own worst enemy and he has spent his whole life trying to prove her wrong. In the end, she was right. He hates that. He hates her.
He hopes that wherever he’s going to next, she won’t be there.
“Mikey, God-fucking-damnit, I am this fucking close to getting Lester to put a fucking tracker on your ass. Just fucking say something!”
He pushes forward, and the water surpasses his head. He can hear the water rushing in his ears and can feel the formation of bubbles tickle his skin as his breath leaves his lungs. He lets himself sink, opens his eyes and tries to look up to see how the light reflects off the surface, but closes them when the saltwater starts to burn.
The last thing I’m going to see is nothing, he thinks. It’s scarier than he thought.
“God loves you, Michael Townley. Why do you choose to spit in his face with your perversion?”
His lungs are beginning to burn, and he has to fight against the instinct to resurface. Michael’s hands are clenched tightly around nothing in the water, as if gripping some invisible lifeline that will magically make everything alright again. It’s too late for that.
Fuck, he thinks, this really is it.
“I will not have a faggot for a son.”
I’m sorry.
He pushes out all of the remaining air from his lungs, and tries not to flinch when it’s replaced by seawater. The taste is overwhelming, flooding his nose and his mouth and making him struggle not to retch. Michael starts to feel cold all over, and his body grows weary and sluggish. His head starts to ache, and his lungs feel as if they’re about to burst.
His consciousness starts to slip away, and he lets his mind drift.
“We could’ve been happy, y’know. You and me. We could’ve been so fucking happy.”
I’m so fucking sorry.
The water moves behind him.
—
Michael comes to with a gasp. It’s wet and sickly, and gets caught in his lungs, making him choke. He can taste saltwater in the back of his throat and can smell it in his nostrils. It clings to him like how sin clings to the Devil. He gags, rolls on his side, and vomits up seawater. It scalds his throat as it comes up.
“Fuck, Mikey. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hears Trevor’s voice say. It’s muffled, but even through the haze in his mind, Michael can still make out the fear and panic in his tone.
Michael takes in a deep breath (it wheezes and crackles in his lungs), and focuses on his surroundings. Sand sticks uncomfortably to his body, and Trevor’s hand on his arm and back is the only source of warmth he has. His teeth chatters in his skull, and his skin feels entirely too tight for his bones, sticky and clammy, and he has to clench his fists tight to stop himself from digging his nails in.
He turns his head and sees Trevor in front of him. His clothes are damp and sticking to his body. Michael has to stop himself from laughing when his first thought is: fuck, he looks good.
Must be the oxygen deprivation.
“Mikey? Can you hear me?” Trevor says, moving closer so that he can get a better look at him. Water flows down his face, pooling at his chin before dripping steadily off into the sand below. He looks heavenly.
Michael sluggishly nods his head. He loves him so much that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Trevor lets out a deep breath, “fuck.”
“Fuck, Mikey. I didn’t know you were doing that bad. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I should’ve paid more attention.”
Michael’s whole body is numb now, and he struggles against the static in his brain. He feels catatonic again, and it worms its way through his insides until he is completely infected by it. He curls his arms around his body, both to soothe himself, and to keep in as much body heat as he possibly can. He is so fucking tired of feeling this way. He just wants it all to stop, is that too much to ask?
Trevor is leaning down now, letting his head rest on Michael’s shoulder and not giving a shit about the seawater-vomit that drenches his pants. Trevor’s other hand is curled into Michael’s hair, which is left stiff and sticky from the seawater. Michael uncurls an aching arm from his body, and grips onto Trevor’s shirt, damp and heavy under his touch. They cling to each other as if they were the other’s lifeline. Maybe they were. Maybe it would never be enough.
From the noises Trevor is making: quiet sniffles and wet gasps and stuttering breaths, Michael knows he’s crying, but is trying not to show it. He feels like the biggest piece of shit on the planet, and his eyes start to sting too.
“Trev…” Michael says, his voice rough and raw and broken.
He moves the hand clutching Trevor’s shirt so that it’s wrapped, instead, around the back of Trevor’s neck. He brings Trevor’s head closer to his own, and Trevor’s forehead instead finds itself pressed into the crook of Michael’s neck.
They don’t know how long they stay like that, it could be for a second, it could be for an eternity. In a way, they have almost moulded into one. He thinks he will always have a tenderness in his heart for Trevor.
Then, the moment is over and Trevor is taking a deep shuddering breath, pulling away and helping Michael stand. He steadies Michael when his legs wobble underneath him, lowly muttering out, “woah, Mikey, I’ve got you,” in a way that sets Michael’s nerves on fire. Michael presses into the warmth and then feels utterly stupid for doing so. He coughs wetly again and tries to ignore the pain in his chest that it brings him.
“Come on, I’m taking you home,” Trevor says after clearing his throat, flicking his head in the direction of Michael’s car. One of Trevor’s hands is still curled around his bicep, whether it’s to keep Michael steady, or just to reassure Trevor that he’s still there, Michael doesn’t entirely know. A part of him thinks he would die without it.
“We’re taking your car.”
Michael doesn’t argue.
The car ride itself is filled with tension, and the air is stifling. The AC is on full blast, but it does nothing to warm Michael from the bone-deep cold that has seeped into the very fibre of his being. He feels as if he’s damaged irreparably, like God has told him he was forgiven, before splitting him open instead.
They’re both slightly less wet now, but Trevor still insisted on going back to his to change their clothes. It’s far from a stupid idea, but the enormity of the task seems almost impossible for him to overcome. He is so tired all of a sudden. He wants to sleep for all eternity and wake up when he is finally fixed.
Surprisingly though, Trevor’s shitheap of a home is a sight for sore eyes, and the sight of it causes the tightness coiled around his insides to loosen its grip ever so slightly.
He reluctantly walks inside, arms still wrapped around himself, and feeling embarrassingly out of place. Trevor hands him some clothes, “they’re yours. You left them behind the last time you were over here. I meant to tell you.”
Michael takes them from him and wishes he could take a shower, but the last time he tried, there was a human leg in there. He doesn’t think his heart could handle something like that again.
His fingers are frozen, and he struggles to undo the buttons of his shirt. They’re stiff and unmoving, and Michael can feel himself almost grow overwhelmed with his frustration.
Trevor’s hands are suddenly undoing them for him, and for a split second, Michael wants to snap and bite at him, to tell him to fuck off and mind his own fucking business, to tell him I can fucking dress myself, Trevor. To tell him… to tell him I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I don’t know how to make it better.
He feels like crying again, and it makes his head start to ache viciously. He draws at deep breath in, and instead focuses on the feeling of Trevor’s fingers deftly undoing his buttons, and the way that the touch makes his skin burn. When finally Trevor pulls away to let Michael finish dressing himself on his own, Michael feels like he’s lost a part of himself. A part that he desperately wants back.
The clothes itch, they don’t feel right somehow. Something in the back of his mind gives him the urge to tear all his skin off from the sensation alone. Instead, he settles for digging his nails into his palms. The thought that he could change into something he’s more used to when he gets home is the only thing keeping him together.
They leave almost as quickly as they arrive, and Michael walks out the door just as Trevor is finishing drying off their seats with one of his old t-shirts. Once finished, he tosses it behind himself onto the ground, and gets back into the driver’s seat.
It’s a long drive back to Michael’s house, and the air is so thick that it feels suffocating. Michael feels as if he’s a kid again, sitting tense and nervous on the drive home after he got into a fight at school. His father would drive silently, but Michael could always tell that he was enraged. Even after his father left, the fear stayed in his absence.
He has to close his eyes, breathe deeply and remind himself that Trevor is not his father.
Even in dry clothes and the AC on, Michael can’t help the way he shivers occasionally, like a dog that’s about to be put down. The churnings of nausea begin to build up in his gut.
“She never loved me.”
Trevor side-eyes him silently, and Michael watches how his grip on the steering wheel tightens.
“Your mom? No fucking shit, Mikey,” Michael can hear the frustration bubbling in his voice now that the fear is gone, “I could’ve told you that shit without having to save your fucking ass from killing yourself.”
“I wasn’t-”
Trevor cuts him off, “wasn’t what? Wasn’t trying to kill yourself? That excuse didn’t work when we were twenty-five and it doesn’t work now, so don’t even try.”
His stomach churns at the memory, and it halts any form of response that had been building on his tongue. Amanda was newly pregnant with Tracey at the time, and Michael could barely cope with it all. All the stress had led to Michael taking a bullet in the arm for a job that was supposed to be easy, and was later struck with a fever when it got infected.
At a rare moment of clarity through his delirium, he had purposefully taken too many painkillers in hope that it would seem accidental. Apparently, the plan wasn’t as well thought out as he had imagined. His heart hurts at the knowledge that Trevor knew all these years.
“How did you…?”
Trevor gives him another glance, a sad one this time, like even just the thought of him fills Trevor with despair.
“I told you, Mikey. I know you.”
They sit in silence for a few more minutes, until it becomes unbearable.
“What was it then?” Trevor asks, voice rough in that jittery way he has when he’s all wound up and has no way to get rid of it, “what clued you all in on it, huh? Was it that she never tried to stop your father from hitting you? That- that she fucking lied to you when he left?
“Or maybe,” Trevor continues, his teeth gritted and his breathing coming out harshly, like it does when he’s angry and tries to control himself, “it’s because she only cared about you when you were on the verge of fucking dying .”
“Pull over, Trev,” Michael says, suddenly, his voice barely audible.
“What?”
Michael gags and slaps a hand over his mouth, his face pale. Trevor’s heart jumps into his throat.
“Shit, shit, okay just give me a fucking second, alright?”
“Hurry up,” Michael chokes out, barely concealing another gag.
“Ah, fuck this,” Trevor says to himself as he cuts across several lanes of traffic and flips off all the people that honk their horns at them.
Trevor hadn’t even stopped the car before Michael was pushing the door open, stepping out and throwing up all over the grass. Trevor waits for a few seconds, curling his arms around the steering wheel and pressing his forehead to it as he tries to get a hold of himself. Michael just makes him so fucking sad. He doesn’t think he’s delicate enough for a situation like this. He’s rough and hard in places where he’s supposed to be tender and soft.
He turns his head to the side and sees Michael hunched over with his head in his hands and lets out this sigh filled with despair. He hopes there’s a way they’ll come back from this; that he won’t have to bury Michael for real this time.
After a while, Trevor steps out of the car, and slowly makes his way around the front until he’s standing in front of Michael, the puddle of vomit (if it could even be called that, because it’s mostly just leftover bile and seawater) between them.
He crosses his arms, because he doesn’t know what to do with them otherwise, and leans against the side of the car. Michael doesn’t even spare him a glance.
Eventually, Michael sits back down in the passenger’s seat, body turned to the side with his feet planted firmly on the ground. He’s hunched over himself like he thinks he could hide away, that maybe Trevor would forget about him there.
“You okay?” Trevor says.
Michael huffs out a laugh that’s devoid of any warmth, and looks up at him briefly as he says, “I’m fine, Trev.”
Ask a stupid question, get a stupid response, he supposes.
Trevor heads to the trunk, where he knows Michael keeps spare bottles of water, pulls one out, and hands it out in front of him. Michael gives him a small look of thanks before gently taking it and using the water to clear out his mouth from the aftertaste of bile.
Trevor fleetingly thinks of saying, “I don’t think you can drown yourself with this,” but snaps his mouth shut before he can wrap his lips around the words. Anger is a crutch that will only make the situation worse, he’s smart enough to know that now.
They remain in silence for a few more minutes, Michael periodically taking sips of his water, and Trevor taking in the scenery as he patiently waits for Michael. He’s surprised at this, at his own patience for Michael. He knows that years ago he would not be treating Michael with this same delicacy. Maybe he has mellowed with age.
After a while, Michael clears his throat and says, “I think she knew how fucked up I was, Trev.”
Trevor looks at him, but Michael doesn’t look back and just stares at the same patch of grass that he’s been looking at for the past few minutes.
“She wanted to fix me, but how could she fix me if she didn’t even love me?”
Trevor feels completely unprepared to answer, but tries his best anyway, “she wanted to fix you for all the wrong reasons, Mikey, you know that. She wanted to fix the things that weren’t even wrong with you.”
Michael gives him a withering look, but there’s a small smile on his face nonetheless, “ah, yes, my… sexual perversions, how could I forget.”
Trevor gives him a lopsided smile in return, “always thought it was funny how she cared more about that than you killing and robbing people.”
He takes a leap in the dark and hopes it doesn’t backfire.
“She was always full of shit, Mikey.”
Michael gives him another look, but says nothing. Trevor counts that as a win.
Eventually, Michael settles back into the car with a low groan, and turns his head to Trevor as he says, “we heading back or what?”
“Just as long as you’re not gonna throw up again.”
Michael gives him a sarcastic yet lighthearted laugh, “very funny, Trev. I’m fine, I told you.”
Trevor just shrugs his shoulders with a small grin, even though he knows that Michael isn’t looking, “it’s your car, Mikey, not mine.”
—
Nothing eventful happens on the rest of the ride home, but Michael repeatedly catches Trevor glancing at him like he’s worried that Michael will open the door and fling himself out into two lanes of traffic.
He’d be more pissed off if the concern wasn’t warranted.
When Michael’s house eventually comes into view, he expects to feel some sort of relief, but instead, the memory of it just makes him feel alone.
As they pull up, a part of Michael thinks of thanking Trevor and then sending him on his way. A sort of: thanks for making sure I didn’t kill myself, but I’m fixed now, so you don’t have to worry.
But then Trevor is halfway towards his front door before Michael can even think of the wording, and takes that as Trevor’s response of: you’re even stupider than I thought if you think I’m gonna leave you alone now.
He wants to be annoyed, but instead, all he feels is this unending relief that he doesn’t have to be alone. I told you, Mikey. I know you .
Trevor is already helping himself to some leftover pizza by the time he walks in, and Michael just rolls his eyes as he heads upstairs to brush away the taste of vomit and seawater in his mouth. The taste has made him feel latently nauseous ever since he woke up in the sand. The smell of pizza only makes him feel more sick, even despite the curling pain in his stomach from lack of food.
He brushes his teeth once, twice, three times, and now the taste that makes him feel nauseous is mint instead of salt. He prefers it that way.
Trevor is already in his room once he walks in, sitting on his bed with greasy fingers and a half-eaten slice of cold pizza.
“Do you have to follow me around everywhere? Jesus, you’re like a dog,” Michael says lightheartedly, as he picks out clothes from his walk-in closet. Clothes are like a shield to Michael, a form of protection. Good, expensive clothes make him feel invincible, they make him feel like he’s worth more than he actually is. Right now, he thinks he needs anything that’ll bring him joy.
He hears Trevor bark out a laugh around a mouthful of pizza and tries not to think about all the crumbs and stains Trevor is going to leave on his bed.
“How’s Amanda and the kids?” Trevor asks once Michael’s halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.
Michael fights a smile, before letting it show once he realises that he’s alone in the room and no one can see him, “they’re doing good. Mandy’s got a new place nearby, and she loves it.”
Trevor hums as he looks around the room. It looks terrifyingly bare without Amanda’s things strewn around.
“Tracey’s doing well at college, she seems to be really enjoying herself, and Jimmy just got a promotion at work.”
“No shit, ” Trevor says. He seems genuinely impressed.
Michael huffs out a laugh, “yeah, that’s what I thought. They’re still trying to… y’know, adjust to me and Mandy not being married anymore. I think they’re secretly hoping we’ll get back together again.”
“And are you?”
If this was years ago, Michael might have thought Trevor was jealous. But he knows better by now. Trevor and Amanda have this… weird respect for each other now. One time, when Michael brought it up, Amanda jokingly said that it was because “we both understand how much of a dick you can be, Michael.”
He knows now that it was her way of saying: we care about you, Michael. More than you know.
At the time, it made him feel warm inside; it made him feel loved.
Now, he just feels woefully inadequate for their love. He has two people who love him, who truly love him. Some people don’t even have one. What has he done in his life to deserve that? He’s nothing special, nothing… worthwhile.
He doesn’t know the name for what he is, but he knows that it’s nothing good.
“Mikey?” Trevor’s voice is louder now, and it makes him jump. Michael looks to the side and sees Trevor standing there, leaning against the door frame. His face is screwed up in poorly hidden concern, and there are greasy fingerprints on his pants.
“Yeah?”
A small smile on Trevor’s face now, one that doesn’t hide the way his eyes are scrutinising every inch of him, “you didn’t answer my question.”
Oh, right.
Michael shakes his head, “I honestly think that Mandy’s had enough of marriage for the rest of her life. Besides, we’re better off like this. I don’t piss her off nearly as much anymore.”
Trevor snorts, and watches as Michael finishes dressing himself. He can feel Trevor’s eyes on him, and prays that Trevor can’t see how his face burns up.
“You look good in that,” Trevor says, before walking away, and leaving Michael red-faced and flustered on his own.
Trevor is sat on his couch when Michael eventually makes his way downstairs. He walks in quietly and pointedly doesn’t say anything when he notices Trevor looking at him in a way that’s clear he’s trying to hide.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, mindlessly watching some stupid reality tv show that neither of them care about.
“What happened to your old tv?” Trevor asks.
Michael resists the urge to rub the back of his neck and replies, “it broke.”
Trevor lets out a snort, one that sarcastically says, “uh huh. You mean you broke it,” but thankfully doesn’t say anything out loud.
After a longer while, when Michael is finally starting to get comfortable, and is sure that nothing more will be said, Trevor flips it all around in a way that Michael should even be surprised by anymore. He has a habit of that: of turning Michael’s entire world upside down on its head.
“So… are we gonna talk about it?”
From Trevor’s voice, Michael can tell that deep down, Trevor doesn’t want to talk about it. He knows him well enough to know that if it was possible, Trevor would ignore the situation and hope that everything goes back to normal. The fact that he’s trying, now, to talk about it, even despite the fact that talking has never been Trevor’s strong point, shows just how desperate he has become with the situation.
It should clue Michael in too. It should tell him that in his head, Trevor is scared that one day he’ll wake up and find Michael with a bullet in his skull, or will hear on the news about a middle-aged man found floating, face-down, in the sea. It should tell him this, and it does. But he is tired and weary of his own misery. He has been surrounded by it his whole life, and will take any precious seconds he can to escape it.
That being said, when he replies to Trevor with, “nope,” as nonchalantly, and dismissively as he can, he’s not surprised when Trevor retaliates by grabbing the tv remote and turns the tv off with an air of finality that sucks all the air out of the room.
He’s not… surprised, no, but it doesn’t stop the sudden wave of anger and annoyance that he has to quell down with a clenched fist and a deep breath.
Michael turns to look at Trevor, and is met with Trevor looking right back at him with an air of forced neutrality. He knows that inside, Trevor is vibrating apart at the seams, like a cornered animal that doesn’t want to bite, but also doesn’t know what to do otherwise.
“Don’t make me call Amanda.”
Michael is quick to respond, “leave her outta this.”
Trevor ignores him, “I’m sure she’d love to know that her wonderful ex-husband just tried to drown himself in the fucking Alamo sea.”
Michael scoffs, full of anger and hurt and shame , “just give me a fucking break, okay?”
Trevor takes in a quiet breath, and Michael watches as his chest rises and falls. Anxiety curls in his insides, like a poison, like a disease that he will never be able to cure.
“I’m scared, Mikey. Is that what you want to hear?”
Michael can’t bear to look at him anymore and instead focuses on the wall directly behind him. He huffs out a hollow laugh, “scared of me? That’s a first.”
“Scared for you, Michael, there’s a difference.”
The sincerity of Trevor’s response startles a breath from him, and he’s left opening and closing his mouth like a fucking idiot, as he attempts to form a response. He looks at Trevor, looks away again when his expression is too much for him to handle, and forces himself to look back. His eyes sting, and he feels like a little kid again.
“I know you want to ask me something, so just fucking say it.”
Trevor doesn’t even hesitate, “why’d you do it?”
Michael swallows thickly, and gives him a one-shouldered shrug with a quivering smile, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t… you don’t fucking know?”
Michael lets out this pathetic noise, “what d’you want me to fucking say, Trevor? That- that I had this huge fucking epiphany? That fucking God came down from heaven and told me to kill myself? I told you, I don’t fucking know why I did it, I just- I just saw an out, I guess, and I took it, is that so hard to believe?
“I’ve been feeling this way for thirty years, Trevor. I just got sick of it, that’s all. That’s all it was.”
Trevor’s eyes are wet now, and his hands are trembling in his lap. He looks like he wants to strangle something.
“Fuck you,” Trevor grinds out through gritted teeth, “just… fuck you.”
Michael scoffs as he throws his hands up into the air, his heart and his head just aches, “fucking typical. You wanted an answer, I gave one to you, and now you’re complaining?”
Trevor lets out an angered groan, and rubs at his face harshly, “I didn’t- fuck. I’m sorry, okay? It’s just that I had to fucking- I had to haul your lifeless fucking body out from the ocean. I thought you were dead, Michael, I thought you were fucking dead. I had to think about what I was going to tell your fucking children, alright? So, I’m sorry, okay, but fuckin’ excuse me if I don’t appreciate the reason behind this being that you don’t fucking know.”
Michael knows he should be angry, he knows that he should bite back with fangs encrusted in blood, but he’s just so tired. So tired of this, of everything. A part of him wishes that Trevor just left him in the fucking ocean.
“Truth is, Trevor… I gave up, okay?” Michael’s voice is bereft now, just fucking numb. He’s defeated, and all his fight is gone. That starved and rabid dog inside him has finally succumbed to its fate and is rotting away, “I gave up.”
Trevor says nothing, and instead, Michael watches the way his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows around his despondency.
“Every night, I have to sleep knowing what I’ve done. Every morning, I have to get up and act like I’m not as much of a piece of shit as I am. Mandy… she- she likes me, but she doesn’t love me, not anymore. My kids they- they have their own lives now, and do you know how hard it is to look at them, knowing that I ruined them the same way my father ruined me?”
“You’re not your father, Michael.”
Michael lets out a hollow, self-pitying laugh, “maybe not, but I’m not that much better either.”
Trevor lets out a noise of disagreement but says nothing.
“And you-” Michael continues, trying not to be deterred by the way that Trevor looks at him, “I love you, asshole. But I don’t love myself. I- I mean, how could I after everything I did to you?”
“I don’t hate you for that. Not anymore.”
“You don’t, but I do.”
“Mikey-”
“No , Trevor, you- you just don’t get it. I’m a piece of shit who just can’t accept that he wasn’t able to escape the life he always thought he could get out of. I- I mean, fuck, Trev, I wanted to be more than a fucked up queer -” he spits the word out like its poison, “-whose father used to beat him, and whose mother could barely look him in the fucking eye.”
Michael takes in a deep breath, and when he lets it out, it trembles in his lungs, “My time is up, Trevor. I- I think I really did die back in North Yankton.”
When Michael looks at Trevor again, when he properly looks, he sees the tightness of Trevor’s jaw, the quiver of his chin and his bottom lip, the wetness of his face and the redness of his eyes. Michael feels like the biggest piece of shit on the planet.
“I fucking love you, Michael,” Trevor says, the words quickly tumbling out of his mouth like he has no way to stop them. His voice is breathy, and high in the back of his throat. He’s unravelling at the seams, “I love you so much that sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself. Isn’t that fucking enough?”
Michael’s vision blurs at that, and he suddenly reaches for Trevor like he’s his lifeline. Maybe he fucking is. Maybe he always has been.
Trevor pulls him into a hug, arms wrapped tightly around him, and his fingers gripping Michael’s shirt so tightly that he feels the way Trevor’s fingernails dig into his skin. It’s a grounding sensation. He clings back just as desperately as he buries his head into the crook of Trevor’s neck.
Michael doesn’t realise he’s crying until his body is wracking with sobs.
He cries and he cries and he cries, almost as much as he loves and he loves and he loves.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” Michael says, his voice warbled from his distress, “I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”
Trevor’s voice is so fucking earnest and sincere when he responds with, “you won’t, I promise. I fucking promise, Mikey, okay? I’m here, I won’t leave you.”
“You should.”
Trevor just shakes his head, and Michael can feel the movement more than he can see it, “maybe. Maybe, I should. But I won’t, I don’t fucking want to. When will you realise that I’ve forgiven you? I love you and I don’t want to leave you, you fucking asshole.”
The conviction in Trevor’s voice is unprecedented; stronger, even, than the time in front of Brad’s grave in North Yankton.
All Michael can think is: he loves me, he loves me, he really, really loves me.
It makes him cry harder, and when they pull away from the embrace to kiss instead, it tastes wonderfully sweet, even with the bitterness of their tears.
They stay together for what could possibly be an eternity, before Trevor says, his voice hoarse slightly but his tone lighthearted nonetheless, “you should probably get a refund from Dr Friedlander.”
Michael laughs at that, and it’s this genuine laugh that lights up his whole face, “don’t I know it, T.”
They smile at each other now, small warm smiles of two fucked up middle-aged men, who don’t belong in the world but fight to survive in it anyway. The pain isn’t over, they’re not stupid enough to believe it is, and their lifetime of misery hasn’t suddenly been forgotten. But they have each other now, and in the moment, it’s good enough.
They can heal, they can grow old, grow older, together, and maybe one day they could be something worthwhile together.
Their love, for the moment, drowns out all the pain.
They might just be okay.