Michael de Santa was not a man who you could say was exactly "in-tune" with his emotions, save possibly for those of anger and self-loathing. Interpreting his own moods did not come easily to him, and emotional displays that did not involve throwing and/or striking things/people with chairs, were even more foreign still.

This fact had not troubled him for the majority of his life, until recent events, including the fact that his family had left him for some period of time and his children generally hated him, forced him into realizing that his emotional constipation was indeed a problem.

Admittedly, things had significantly improved from how they had been before- but they were far from perfect and, he had no doubt, would never be perfect. He supposed he had still ought to be grateful for this- after all, he had come far closer than he liked to permanently screwing up one of the few things that might be good about his life.

And relieved though he was that this was the case, that somehow, some way, mostly through awkward bumbling and well-timed screaming, he had managed to save it, these very same, seemingly happy thoughts were what currently had him in a rather sour, brooding mood. He had salvaged the situation, sure, but one thought kept playing over and over again in his mind, preventing him from enjoying what should have been well-earned relaxation. Or at least, that's what he thought it should be. Had he not put up with enough bullshit over the space of the past few months -coming out of retirement, making new friends, new enemies, almost dying more times than he cared to count, taking the biggest score ever- to deserve some mental down time?

His brain, apparently, didn't agree.

I can't let it happen again, it said. I can't mess this up. I can't ignore it until it goes away.

I can't let a good thing slip away from me like that ever again.

And then, because his brain decided that this amount of soul-searching and mental eloquence was strange and uncomfortable, it added: Fuck.

One thing was for sure- he had to go about this carefully. He had half a mind to think he couldn't possibly do it by himself. Odds are, if he just went charging ahead figuring on winging it, he'd get frustrated, then get angry, and screw himself six ways from Tuesday. No, he needed to talk to someone about this... yeah. Someone reliable- which meant no therapists this time. Someone with whom he could take his time, get his thoughts straight, work through spilling his guts, and then look forward to some solid, and well thought-out advice. Someone who could help him...

... Help him figure out how the hell he was going to confess feelings of non-parental affection and perverse sexual lust towards a strapping young man by the name of Franklin Clinton.

"Mike wants to know what love iiiiiiiiiiiisssssss!"

"T, shut up."

And this was not that someone.

"Mike wants Frank to shooooooow him!"

"Trevor, I will kick your ass."

"Mike wants to feel what love iiiiiiiiiisssssss!"

Maybe, just maybe, one of these days he'd figure out why he always made such terrible decisions. Compared to this, he'd have been better off signing up for a premium account on Psychic Shoutout- at the very least then nobody would be singing at him, or so he told himself as he took another sip of his beer and tried to pretend he didn't hear Trevor singing something that sounded suspiciously like "It feels like Frank's peniiiiiiiiis." under his breath.

"Love... is a tad too strong a word." He mumbled. The fact that he was not already actively kicking Trevor's ass was a clear indicator of his level of misery at the moment- either that, or his level of intoxication. It didn't feel like he was that drunk, but all things considered, what with the company he was currently keeping, perhaps for his own sake he should have been. Where was the bartender, anyway?

"No, no no no no no, that's your problem right there." Trevor slurred, slingly a hand loosely around his shoulder. "You see, Mikey, your problem is, you gotta open up your heart, no, your SOUL, you gotta open your soul."

"My soul." He echoed flatly.

"Right, exactly, you gotta open your soul. Where was I? Oh yeah. Because, if you don't open your soul, and look deep, deep down inside it, you'll just be bottling it all up, running away, yet again, from the swirling torment of the, of the pain, and misery, and apathy, and lethargy, an-and erectile dysfunction that permeates through to the very depth of your being."

"How many drugs are you on right now?"

"Only the good ones. Now, the point is, Mikey, that only after you have faced, and come to terms with that horrible, empty abyss full of failure and hatred-..."

"An empty abyss can't be full of anything."

"-... and anger and suffering, then-! Only then shall you be truly ready to embrace, with open arms, the feelings you have for that stupendous, dark angel of ebony sexitude whose touch you so passionately crave."

Michael contemplated taking another drink from the glass in his hand. Then he contemplated smashing it over Trevor's skull.

"T, you make Scientologists look sane."

"You know, I have always thought that perhaps I missed a calling as a religious leader." He took a large gulp of his drink- some of it landed on his shirt.

"It's easier than ever to become ordained in this day and age, I hear- zombie-themed weddings, whaddaya think? Plus, I'd be willing to look the other way on certain issues, like, say, if the bride and groom are brother and sister, or-..."

"You're sick."

"-... or an old, bitter, rich white man, who's technically already married, and a healthy, muscular young black man..."

"I don't know why I talk to you." He said, finally settling on downing the rest of the beverage and getting it over with. He rose slowly from his seat.

"I really don't. Come on, let's blow this joint."

"And by 'this joint' you mean 'my future boyfriend Franklin'..."

"Hurry it up, or I'm leaving without you."

The night air of Los Santos was warm, but not uncomfortably so. A pleasant breeze wafted through the air, carrying with it the scent of the big city and big excitement (which is a nice way of saying car exhaust and hookers- or at the very least, the hookers' perfume. From the smell of things, the popular choice of this evening was Destroyed Dreams No.5)

At least the evening sun hadn't heated up the car too much. Things were silent for a moment as Michael focused on backing out of the parking lot. Trevor, surprisingly, just sat in his seat politely for this.

Not that he could keep it up, though. His blabbering promptly resumed as soon as they pulled onto the road.

"Soooo, what does the wife have to say about this?"

His eyebrow twitched, almost imperceptibly.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Well, I for one, think this will be good for the kids. Once you hook up with Frank, they'll finally have a stable father figure in their lives."

"I asked you to come out here with me tonight in the -vain and futile, I can see that now- hope that it might help me figure some things out. If I had known I was going to kill you and bury you in the woods, I would've brought my shovel with me. Just have to swing by the hardware store and buy one, I guess. This'll just take a second."

"Aw, come on, Mikey. You know I didn't mean it. Except for the fact that I totally did. Besides, you know good and well I would never abandon a friend in need. I'm gonna help you with this."

"Really." Mike scoffed. "And dare I ask how you plan to do that?"

"Isn't it obvious? First order of business is to pay a little visit to my pal Frank."

Michael jerked so hard in surprise that he turned harder than was necessary and almost hit a youth on a bicycle.

"I will beat you to death."

"With what? The only thing you're going to be beating is-..."

"I will beat you to death with Frank's dick."

"Okay, but as my last wish, I demand to be there when you explain to him what you need it for."

"Deal." Mike grumbled.

"Seriously. You say anything to him, you're dead. And no hair-brained schemes. No sending fake messages to each of us saying the other one wants to meet in the park. No setting him up to be kidnapped so I can dash in and rescue him. No roofies in the soda-..."

"Okay, okay, sheesh." He made a show of throwing his hands in the air, and due to being tipsy almost smacked himself the face in doing so.

"This is what I get for trying to help out an old pal. Geez, Mike, what do you take me for?"

"Oh come off it."

"You know what your problem is, it's-... Oh, hey, there's my stop. Lemme out here."

He brought the car to a somewhat abrupt stop, in as much a relatively safe manner as he was willing to muster.

"This ain't where I usually let you out." He said, eying the somewhat unfamiliar cluster of buildings on the sidewalk.

"Got some shoppin' to do." T replied easily, in unsatisfactory explanation.

He decided against pointing out that the area they were currently in did not seem to be offering much in the way of standard merchandise, and so shrugged instead.

"Catch ya later, T."

"See ya."

He kept his eyes straight ahead as he once again drove back onto the main road. In retrospect, he really should have expected this. He didn't know what was worse- the fact that he had actually gone to Trevor seeking advice, or that fact that, in the end, he didn't really have anyone else to turn to.

In the end, he supposed he was no worse off than he'd been before this encounter, albeit slightly more irritated. Still, he was certainly no better off, either, and even the alcohol had done little to improve his mood. His dilemma lay still before him, big as ever- what should he do?

He decided the answer, for now, was "Go home and hate myself there.". It was a solid strategy that had worked many times in the past. Something halfway sensible could wait until tomorrow.

Trevor couldn't be right. It couldn't possibly be...

Love?

Shit, what was he thinking? This wasn't high school! Lord knows he was far too old and bitter and filled with hate to possibly feel love.

... He really needed to stop talking to Trevor.

Trevor watched as the car faded away into a black speck in the distance. He gave a happy little wave that most likely went unnoticed. When it finally faded from view completely, he pulled out his cellphone.

"Hey, Frank! Buddy! You home? Great, listen, I'm heading over."