AN: This piece's title comes from the song "The Promise" by When in Rome, which I was listening to when I started writing it.
Guilt has a funny way of manifesting itself. No matter how many years have passed, or how much alcohol you drown it in, it still comes poking its ugly head through the door like a spoiled dog begging for a second dinner. Admittedly, before recent events, Michael had thought he'd become an expert at suppressing it. Or, at least he deserves a gold star for trying. Dr. Friedlander might attempt to take credit, but Michael's found that his favorite vices prove a more effective remedy than spilling his guts to a guy who doesn't listen. And when vices turned cold, a slew of marital and familial issues had provided convenient distraction. Failing that, the checks Michael writes regularly to a certain Dave Norton had been enough to quell the nightmares of a vengeful Trevor Philips showing up on his doorstep, until the day said nightmares came true.
Over the years, Michael has debated his choice so often that it's not worth contemplating anymore. At the time, it had seemed life or death. He couldn't keep putting his ass on the line for a couple of trigger-happy lunatics, not when he'd had a wife and kids waiting at home. Never mind that the wife seemed to hate him half the time, and the kids were indifferent. It was better for his children to grow up entitled little brats, Los Santos style, than for them to never grow up at all.
However, when Michael wakes up several days after wrapping up his affairs for good, he finds that a horribly familiar feeling has set in overnight. It's a hollowness, as if his chest has been carved and his entrails evaporated. It's smothering, crowding his throat and lungs like smoke from the cigarettes he's pointedly thrown away. And it nags at him incessantly, until it's all he can focus on. Frustrated, Michael slips out of bed, not wanting to be around when Amanda wakes up. He pads over to the adjacent bathroom and closes the door, checking the locks twice for good measure. Only then does he lean over the sink and breathe a long sigh.
Really? NOW? By all rights Michael ought to be happy, now that he's swimming in cash and no longer a slave to the whims of powerful FIB men. What could his conscience possibly have to tell him? He doesn't regret ending that prick Weston's life, or taking care of Stretch for Franklin, or overseeing any of the other killings that had gone on earlier in the week. He's seen too much in life to worry about punishment for his sins. So what's going on? What did he miss?
In a rush, the answer tumbles over Michael, unwarranted but genuinely welcome.
I should have killed him.
He should have, and he would have, too. Over the excavated grave that bore his name up in Ludendorff. After the big one, in the heat of the argument that broke out the moment they'd reached their rendezvous point. Even when Lester had called him to the foundry, he'd found his fingers itching to pull the trigger, if only for a split second. It seems he can't set foot in a room with Trevor without whipping out his gun.
It's not that he wouldn't be justified. Steve Haines, for all his asshole behaviors, was right to have singled out Trevor as the loose cannon. But for some ungodly reason, Michael wants to keep Trevor around.
It doesn't make sense. Given half the chance, Trevor would have popped Michael the instant he'd discovered what went down in North Yankton. There's no reason to claim loyalty, not now.
But Trevor was given more than half a chance, and here Michael is, still breathing.
Exhaling slowly through his teeth, Michael dares to glance up at the mirror. The roiling seas of his mind are not visible on his face. Thank god. He looks away again, staring glassily at a nearby stack of folded towels and trying desperately to sort the matter out.
There's no doubt about it- something is still missing from his life. Something that a reunited family, a shiny new production studio, and $26 million in gold can't placate. He'd thought it was the lifestyle he missed, but the last few weeks have proven otherwise, shattering his nostalgia. He'd thought he missed his family, but now that they're back, they've retreated into their old habits. Nothing has changed, except this time Michael's expected to be okay with it.
So what do you want?
He wants closure. He wants forgiveness. He wants…
All this, and Trevor, too.
The frustration swells inside Michael, to the point where he's not sure he can keep it bottled up. Why? Goddammit, why? Trevor's a fucking psycho killer who ruins the lives of others for fun. Associating with him is what had spurred Michael to leave North Yankton far behind him. There's no guarantee it won't go up in flames between them all over again.
So why does he still feel guilty?
"Aw, Jesus. Fuck." Michael shields his face with his hands and mutters the truth he's been denying for too long. "I am a fucking snake."
A week or so passes before Michael thinks of contacting his partners in crime. He needs time for things to settle, for it to sink in that this is the way it's going to be- his wife and kids under the same roof, his income sourced from a legitimate business, his wallet overflowing. Franklin texts a few times, but Michael refuses to make any plans to see him. Not until he's spoken to Trevor first. Eventually he stops delaying the inevitable and calls Trevor up. Part of him is surprised that Trevor accepts, but hey, he's not complaining. They need a night to themselves, if only to attempt to clear the air.
"Well, T," Michael begins when they hit the first red light. Trevor's not looking at him, and Michael's not looking at Trevor, but all the same, his presence in the car is overwhelming.
"Well what, sugar tits?"
"Well, we got there," Michael says. "In the end, I mean. I mean, we've moved on." He hopes that saying the words will increase their likelihood of coming true.
"Have we?" Trevor's got that dangerous nonchalance in his voice, suggesting that he's not really convinced and would like Michael to elaborate. Guy's an open book. Always has been, always will be.
"I hope so." The light changes, and Michael absently taps the gas pedal. "Haven't we?"
The nonchalance remains in Trevor's voice. "Mmm… I guess." Though Michael keeps his eyes on the road, he feels a sudden lash of annoyance that Trevor isn't even looking at him. This is as close as he'll ever come to bearing his soul, and Trevor seemingly couldn't care less.
"I mean… I fucked you over." Michael takes a deep, calming breath. "And that's why I want to apologize. And I also want to give you my share of the money we boosted in this last score."
Now there's a touch of interest in Trevor's voice- just a touch, but it's enough. "You do?"
"Sure." Michael turns a corner, more focused on maneuvering the car than the words that are coming from his mouth. "I don't really need it. I want you to be happy."
"Wow." The word comes out in a low mutter as Trevor instantly sobers. "I don't- I don't need it either, and I don't want it. It was never about the money, Michael."
"I know it wasn't." Damn that guilt, washing around Michael like the crash of ocean waves. Though his voice remains steady, he wants to cringe at its onset, shrinking into the memories of North Yankton and never returning. "It was… I was in a tough situation. And I fucked up, and I apologize." It's all he can say- all he can do. There's no other way he can make up for his transgressions.
Michael doesn't expect Trevor to react right away, but his response is rapt, much to Michael's surprise. "Hm, okay." The slight discomfort in his voice indicates just how much he's struggling to remain civil, to not retreat into the low blows that sustain him so frequently when talking with Michael. It's rare that Trevor makes such an effort, and Michael knows better than to take it for granted. "I accept your apology."
Michael slowly exhales. "Thank you." Of course, he doesn't fully believe it. He won't believe it until Trevor drops the subject of his betrayal once and for all- as if that will ever happen. But, Trevor made the effort, so it's a start. Maybe, just maybe, they can repair whatever twisted relationship they once had- just no sex this time- and the regrets that keep Michael up will finally leave him alone.
They sit in silence for the next few minutes, the radio filling up the space between them. Michael's never heard the song that's playing, which is strange, because usually he can sing along to everything he's heard on this station.
I'm sorry, but I'm just thinking of the right words to say
I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be
But if you stick around a while, I'll make you fall for me
I promise you
I promise you, I will
Even stranger is that Trevor's not fiddling with the dial, turning it onto some punk station that rips through Michael's eardrums. He's heard plenty of that when they were out in Sandy Shores, forcing him to shout conversations whenever Trevor was driving. Maybe Trevor likes this music too- after all, it's the stuff they grew up on, blaring from every car and club they'd visited back in the old days. Either that, or he respects Michael enough not to change it, though the latter seems doubtful.
Come to think of it, it feels like the old days, listening to the radio with Trevor on the way to hit up a bar. Michael discovers that he's quite content to remain this way. Music destroys the concept of an awkward silence, and the drinks in their future will hopefully destroy any shred of negativity as if it never existed. For the time being, they're just two friends who've decided to hang out.
Could this be what Michael's missing?
Following their initial get-together, Michael ends up spending a lot more time with Trevor. He's not sure if it's the lingering sense of guilt that keeps drawing him back, or if he truly misses having Trevor around. One thing's for sure- he and Trevor are at an impasse. Every night they go out, bitch and bicker on the way to whatever bar they've set their sights on, drink a few steps closer to impending liver failure, then forget everything that happened on the ride back. Wake up, rinse, repeat ad nauseum. After a couple weeks of this, Michael is starting to wonder where it's all going to lead, or if they'll be stuck in this routine forever.
He knows that things can't go back to the way they were before. (Before what? Before moving to Los Santos? Before knocking Amanda up? Before watching Trevor kill one person too many, before Brad's macho boasting had started sounding more like personal attacks than jokes?) But deep down, Michael knows that it's all Trevor wants from him. And deep down, he's afraid of how compelling it is to give in. Set aside the last few years as if they'd never mattered, as if Michael's not stuck with a family he never asked for and ten years' worth of simmering resentment and regret.
It's just not possible. They're not kids anymore. Michael's not the inexperienced youngster whose overconfidence masked a deep-seated fear that someday, someone he didn't want to cross was going to see straight through him. And Trevor's become something else, transforming from an impulsive roughneck to an entity that Michael wouldn't wish on his enemies. Even back then, he had felt and seen the change, as Trevor pushed him onwards toward certain destruction.
They're definitely not the same reckless twentysomethings who would sometimes fuck each other when they couldn't fuck strippers. Michael doesn't remember feeling like there had been strings attached, not even when Trevor had refused to show up at his wedding, or when he'd glued himself to Brad's side in a pathetically transparent attempt to make Michael jealous. Sure, maybe Michael's arm had slipped around Trevor's waist a few times when they were trudging through North Yankton's perpetual snowfall, and maybe in a late-night drunken haze he'd confessed things to Trevor that he had never meant to say. But looking back on it, it doesn't seem that serious. Had it been?
Michael wonders if that's what's missing- the fucking, the arms-around-the-waist, even the jealousy. It's as good a guess as any. But when waking up next to Amanda after a night out with Trevor, Michael is caught in a sense of betrayal. He's the one who tried to keep this family together. And now he wants to sacrifice all that hard work for what, exactly? Another personal nostalgia trip?
One of them has got to make a move, or Michael might lose his mind.
They're on their way to see Meltdown when Michael finally, reluctantly, resigns. He's the one who's still trying to decide how he feels. There's no sense in waiting for Trevor to do it for him.
"You wanna know something?"
"What?"
Michael fervently wishes he has a better conversation starter, anything that will make Trevor hate him less. But he's dying to break down the barrier between them, and he can't think of anything to say other than what's on his mind.
"Trevor, I… I would have killed you."
He half-expects Trevor to shrug it off, since it's not the most outrageous thing he's ever admitted, but all Trevor says is "What?" again. Michael doesn't like the sound of that what, but he can't stop now. It's been weighing on him since the day he reached this conclusion, and he's got to get it off his chest.
"Once we finished that business for the FIB… I mean, even while we were working for them… I would have killed you, if it had come down to that. I-" Michael bites back the I'm sorry, because there's no need. It's not about him, and it certainly isn't going to soften the blow of what he's just confessed. Unfortunately, Trevor reacts before Michael can continue.
"Wow." He turns the word into a long, descending syllable. "Woooooow. That's- that's something. You're really that desperate to convince me you're an even bigger piece of shit than I thought?"
"I would have done it, but I didn't," Michael states firmly, though Trevor's comment boils his blood. Stay focused. Stay focused…
"Oh. You want a fucking medal?" Michael can tell that Trevor's truly pissed now, from his body's rigidity and the snappish way he tosses his words around. A few wrong moves and they'll be at the point of no recovery. "Let me tell you- killing me now is no worse than what you did to me ten years ago."
Much to his own surprise, Michael's the one who breaks first. Ten years ago-?! He's apologized, for Christ's sake, and Trevor has admitted his wrongdoings, but here he is bringing up the same old issue, over and over…
"C'mon, don't start that shit again." Michael's knuckles clench tightly against the steering wheel. "We fucking made up, what more do you want from me?" He knows exactly what Trevor wants from him, but he needs to hear Trevor say it. However, the damage has been done, and Trevor's too enraged to focus on the question. "Made up? How can you say we've 'made up' when you're still trying to hurt me?"
Michael sighs. "Don't you think you're exaggerating a l-"
"I'm not exaggerating!" Trevor shouts. "I had fucking nothing. Nothing! You were the one who brought me into this life, and you left me!"
It's hard to remain levelheaded after Trevor's outburst, but Michael tries his best. This doesn't exactly surprise him. Trevor may have accepted his apology on a professional level, but the emotions that have tortured him for ten years might never be erased. His thoughts turn toward the sorry existence he and Trevor had led in North Yankton, camping out in hotel rooms with stacks of microwave dinners and a few rented VHS's, pulling off score after score until it was too risky to show their faces in town. Throughout that entire time, or at least up until Michael had started sleeping with Amanda, Trevor had always been there. He never called up family members or sought out old friends. Even when he'd brought Brad on board, or interacted with Lester, he hadn't spoken to anyone the way he spoke to Michael. Outside of the money, Michael really was all Trevor had had. He knows that better than anybody.
"Okay," Michael murmurs, narrowing his eyes. Of all the times he could have picked to have this conversation, it had to be when he's driving. He's pretty sure their exit is miles behind them. Well, better late than never. "What do you want me to do, Trevor? I can't change what I've done. It's all behind us."
"Not to me it isn't," Trevor replies rapidly. "A little human decency would be nice, but I guess I shouldn't have raised my expectations."
Michael knows full well that he shouldn't rise to Trevor's accusation if he ever wants to get this conversation back on track, but he hasn't had much practice with brushing off slights, so he bursts out with, "Decency? You're one to talk, T! I mean, I had a shit childhood too, but you don't see me going around eating people to cope!"
"Ohhhh, the truth comes out!" Trevor roars, before Michael has time to regret what he's just said. "You hate me, don't you? You hate what I am. You hate what I do. No wonder you wanted to kill me; you just really fucking hate me!"
"No!" Michael barks. All of a sudden, he finds himself consumed with bizarre, downright improper laughter. How many times have we had this fucking conversation? "I don't hate you, I- I hate myself." Beneath his pointless mirth, a hard stone settles in Michael's chest. Trevor's an idiot if he still doesn't get it. At this point, self-hatred is a constant, unable to be removed by therapy or the pills Friedlander had briefly prescribed. His only hope is to not revert to the way he was before this whole mess started, before he'd woken in the back of his son's car to a noisy radio and an engine thrumming to life. Poor old Michael, locking himself in his bathroom so the kids won't hear him breaking down. Pathetic Michael, drinking himself stupid at 2 AM in front of the TV instead of manning up and taking charge of his goddamn life…
There's no response from Trevor as Michael's wheezing laughter slowly subsides. He doubts his outburst was enough to startle Trevor, but whatever the reason for his silence, it's a welcome reprieve. As soon as he can, Michael takes the nearest exit. He has no idea where they are anymore, but it's easier to talk when he's not hurtling down a highway ten miles over the speed limit.
"Why can't we just put this thing to bed, T?" A deep sigh empties Michael's lungs. "Talk it out like civilized human beings?"
"I think civilized is out of the question, don't you?" Trevor grunts.
"Yeah." Despite his better instincts, Michael chuckles. "I guess it is." There's a red light up ahead, so he slows down, at once noticing how loudly the radio is turned up. Trevor leans forward to stare out the windshield, his elbows on his knees and his hands in the air.
"I just… expected better from someone who…" Trevor's fingers tighten around invisible objects as he fumbles for the words to describe what they had been, exactly. "I mean, c'mon, Mikey, we shared a bed. We shared… everything! I'm not sayin' it's got to mean something, but… to me… it meant something!" He slams his fists into his knees, as if to jar the right words loose.
"I know." Michael inhales deeply as the guilt fills him. God, will it ever go away? All these years he's spent repressing it, and now it's all coming back to bite him. He should have known Trevor felt like this. He saw the strings when I couldn't…
"It shouldn't have gone the way it did, I know. But you know how it was. I had Amanda… the kids…" The light turns green, and Michael steps on the gas. Beside him, Trevor snorts. "Yeah, and now what do you have?"
Gazing sideways at Trevor, Michael responds tentatively. "You? I guess?"
Trevor's brow creases. "Me?"
"Well, look around." Turning his eyes back to the road, Michael gestures to the car's barren backseat. "Do you see anyone with us? I don't see nobody."
Trevor shrugs lightly, but his eyes are fixed on Michael, burning a hole in him. "Nobody but… me."
"Yeah," Michael mutters, spying an empty space on the side of the road up ahead. "Just you." He veers off the road into the space and parks, the radio's music dying away. Maybe if he's physically stable, he'll become emotionally stable, too. Turning to Trevor, he spots bewilderment in his eyes.
"Trevor… there's no one else in the world with a better reason for wanting you dead." Not anymore, Michael silently adds, given that Wei Cheng and Devin Weston are no longer breathing. "But no matter how badly I might have wanted it… I could never do that to you. And I won't do it to you. I'm not going to leave you again."
Michael boldly takes Trevor's hand, before he can talk himself out of it. His palms are leathery and rough, and his fingers strangely cold. Three letters leap out at Michael, letters that he'd inscribed on Trevor's flesh himself- Y-O-U. Trevor stares right back at Michael, frowning, but he makes no move to remove his hand from Michael's grasp.
"I know we can't go back to the way it was before," Michael says. "I'm not asking that. I just want you to know that this time, well… I'm right here if you need-"
He feels himself leaning in, but Trevor's the one who bridges the gap, his mouth colliding with Michael's. His fingers squeeze tightly around Michael's hand, and his eyes screw shut. Michael follows suit, closing his eyes and deepening the kiss, until Trevor pulls away, ripping his hand free in the process.
"You shouldn't have said that." There's no sign of a threat in Trevor's voice- just an unending, bone-deep weariness. He rubs his face and sinks tiredly back into the car seat.
Michael shakes his head. "Lately, I've been thinking a lot about what I really want. Robbing banks… that didn't make me happy. Having a family… that really didn't make me happy. Bein' a movie producer- it's a dream come true, but something's still missing. I think you're what's missing." He taps Trevor's chest. "You absolute fucking psycho- you make me happy."
Michael isn't sure whether Trevor will burst into uncontrollable laughter or uncontrollable tears. He's only slightly relieved when it's the former. Trevor's wicked cackling fills the air, sparking Michael's annoyance, but he holds himself back from complaining.
"Well well well well well," Trevor gasps when the laughter dies down. "Guess there's a first time for everything."
"I'm not joking." Again, Michael takes Trevor's unresisting hand. "This is what I want. I finally know that now."
Trevor waves his free hand in a general outward motion. "Yeah? Thought you were a family man now, Michael. What about Aman-"
"Let's not worry about her right now," Michael intervenes. What about Amanda is too complicated a question to sort out all in one evening. "We'll work it out. I just… wanted to let you know first." He meets Trevor's eyes. "Will you forgive me for wanting to kill you if I forgive you for constantly shoving my mistakes in my face?"
"I dunno," Trevor says. "Maybe you should think about forgiving yourself."
"Oh, god," Michael groans. "You sound like my shrink." Except that sounds like much better advice than one of Dr. Friedlander's pearls of so-called wisdom. There's no way he can possibly pull it off, of course- but then again, he hadn't expected to pull off what's just happened between himself and Trevor, so maybe miracles do exist.
"You're a piece of work, Michael Townley," Trevor says, and for the first time in forever, Michael catches an admiring tone in his voice.
"And you're a piece of shit, Trevor Philips." Before Trevor can take offense, Michael kisses him again, catching him by surprise. It's not as intense as the kiss they shared before, but it's… nice. Something brand new and yet hauntingly familiar.
They sit in momentary silence after breaking apart, until Trevor shatters the silence with, "Weren't we gonna go see that movie of yours?"
Michael shrugs. "What time's the next showing?"
As the months pass, the guilt that's eaten away at Michael for so long slowly becomes the least of his concerns. The fact that he's gone and left his family after struggling so hard to keep them together is tempered by the knowledge that what he and Amanda had was never really worth salvaging to begin with. And he's no longer ashamed that it's Trevor he wants to be with, after all this time… Trevor, the half-crazed, hell-raising, gas-huffing, short-fused, cannibalistic maniac, who not long ago would have likely shot Michael on sight. Looking back, it seems inevitable that the two would return to each other's orbit. I must be a fool to have not realized...
Mainly, the guilt takes a backseat to the effort of relearning what it feels like to be with Trevor. Michael has never had the opportunity or the inclination to date anyone twice- if dating is even the right word for what they've got. Physically, Trevor is pretty much the same as he's ever been, discounting the dotted line on his neck, the significant shoulder piece that Michael has to look away from the moment he first catches sight of it, and the pockmarks on his flesh that remind Michael of the can of worms he'll have to open in the future. If I'm giving up smokes for you, you could try laying off the crystal a bit, for me… He's not sure they've yet reached the level of trust necessary to make such demands. His body reacts to Michael in much the same way that Michael remembers, and enjoys. It's a strange, small comfort that he and Trevor are still so intimately acquainted. But as for Trevor's mind… therein lies a different story. He's always been short-tempered and impulsive, but not to this extent. And Michael doesn't remember him being so insecure, either. He follows Michael around as if he's afraid Michael will disappear if he lets him out of his sight.
That very insecurity causes Michael to start saying it. Waking up beside Trevor after the first night he's spent in Sandy Shores since being forced to hide out there, he lies still, absorbing Trevor's residual warmth, before whispering four important words. "I won't leave you."
Once Michael's started, he quickly finds that he can't stop. Not a day passes when he doesn't feed Trevor some variant of it, over and over. He needs to let Trevor know that what happened in the past should have never happened, and will never happen again.
"I won't leave you," Michael tells Trevor when a sudden rainstorm forces them to hunker down in front of the TV, just as they'd done so frequently all those years ago.
"I'm right here," he says, following the statement with a squeeze of Trevor's hand, as they take Trevor's favorite plane out for an aerial joyride.
And when it's Michael's turn to drive, pedal to the metal and tires stirring up dirt, he tells Trevor "I got you" as he reaches for the radio's dial. He's not sure he really has got Trevor, but he needs to say it, needs to let him know. However long it takes for Trevor to realize that while Michael may regret his past choices, he doesn't regret the choice to be with him.
They're outside on Trevor's porch, sipping beer and making cracks about the rare pedestrians wandering by, when Michael says it one too many times and Trevor finally snaps. The word erupts forth as his grip on his beer bottle grows tight. "WHY?!"
Taken aback, Michael says, "Why what?" and immediately wants to cringe. 'Why what?' That's the best you can come up with?
"Why do you keep saying that?!" Trevor leaps from his seat, his fists in the air, bottle abandoned. Michael recognizes Trevor's stance, his eyes and body seeking out some way to release the overwhelming rage coursing through him. All these years they've known each other, and Michael still isn't sure how deep that well of rage goes, or if he wants to find out. He takes a deep breath.
"Because it's true."
"You can't fucking promise that," Trevor snaps. His arms slowly lower, but he's shaking his head slightly, as if trying not to believe Michael's words. "If I were you, I'd leave me in a second."
One aspect of being with Trevor that Michael's had to relearn is how to argue with him. (Or rather learn, as Michael's not sure he ever got it right the first time.) Instead of shouting aggressively back, it's more effective to speak calmly while still holding his ground. When Trevor's pissed off, he can't see the forest for the trees, and taking the higher ground generally snaps him out of it.
"Do you want me to leave you?" Michael asks.
Trevor exhales noisily. "No, I just… if you wanted to, I'd understand."
That's… interesting. Michael's come to expect such possessiveness from Trevor that for a moment, he doesn't know what to say. It's rather flattering to know that Trevor's growing as a person- that he won't, say, hunt Michael down and constantly shit-talk him to his face if he decides to leave. God. I need higher standards.
"Well, I don't want to," Michael states firmly. "So sit your ass back down, T. I ain't going anywhere, okay?"
"Noooo, it's not okay!" Trevor retorts. He leans close to Michael, gesturing broadly with his hands. "Why are you still here?!"
"Same reason you're still here, I guess." Michael licks his lips, eyes focused on Trevor. He wouldn't dream of looking away now. "Despite all the times we've fucking antagonized each other, jumped down each other's throats, lied and betrayed and Jesus, I don't know what else… You've seen all I have to offer, what little that is, and somehow…" It's hard to speak, but he takes a deep breath and forces the words out. "Somehow, after all that, you still l- love me."
All the air is confined in Michael's throat as he waits for Trevor's response. If Michael's assumption is incorrect, Trevor might fly off the handle, or laugh in his face. But Trevor just stares at Michael like a dumbstruck idiot.
"Yeah." The word is more than a general acknowledgement- it's an affirmation, a total and complete acceptance of Michael's being. "Yeah, I love you. So?"
The simplicity bowls Michael over. Of course he's known. He's always known, all the way back to the day he awoke tangled up in bedsheets with Trevor's arm slung over him, and realized that he was somehow okay with it. He's known for so long, and yet never dared to take it too seriously, or let himself reciprocate, until it would have killed him if he didn't.
"So…" The world seems to shrink. Michael's voice comes out as little more than a rasp in his throat, but he still says the words, because if there's anything Trevor absolutely needs to hear, it's this. "That's the way I feel about you."
Trevor just… stares. No jokes or insults seem forthcoming- just several silent seconds that become an eternity. Emboldened by the uncharacteristic response, Michael rises from his seat.
"I ain't gonna leave you, Trevor. You gotta believe me. Not the way I did ten years ago, and not the way I left Amanda. Not now, not ever- I love you, and I want to be with you."
His heart is pounding fast, not helped when Trevor leans in and grabs Michael by the back of the neck. If he were anyone else, some faceless redneck or government goon, a move like this would mean certain death. But as it is, Michael fears nothing.
Trevor wraps his arms around Michael's shoulders, and despite the death grip, the awful stench of body odor and god knows what else… it feels so fucking good. Michael can't help but melt into the embrace.
"Oh, you little shit," Trevor mutters in an oddly subdued voice, close to Michael's ear. Coming from Trevor, it's probably the kindest term he has to offer. "If this is how you're gonna act, maybe you should betray your best friends and fuck off to sunny Los Santos more often, cupcake."
Michael rolls his eyes, breaking free of Trevor's arms so he can look him in the eye. "Suck my dick."
An awful laugh bursts out of Trevor- another would-be warning sign, were it not directed at Michael. "With pleasure."
Sighing, Michael turns aside. "When are you gonna learn to stop making that joke?"
"I dunno, when are you gonna learn to stop giving me the opportunity?" Trevor strolls across the porch, facing the orange-tinged sky. "I mean, hey, don't make me threaten you with a good time."
"Touché." Michael gazes up at the sky himself, a small bit of unease still niggling at him. He's not sure he's in the mood for a "good time-" not yet, anyway. Not when he's still got more to say.
"Hey… you know I wouldn't have said that if it wasn't from the heart, right? I… I love you, Trevor." Strange how easily it flows the second time. Just needed to make the leap, and now we're home free. As he approaches the porch railing, Michael glances at Trevor out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not trying to make up for what I did, or- or stroking your ego…"
"Sugar, if you keep up this sweet-talk, my ego ain't the only thing you'll end up stroking," Trevor replies.
"Aww, shut up." Michael scoots closer to Trevor, if only to give him a playful shove. "I'm serious."
"So'm I." Trevor reaches out to tighten an arm around Michael and pull him in close. "Maybe if you'd get your head out of your ass and actually let yourself be happy for once, you'd see that."
Michael says nothing, instead leaning his head against Trevor's shoulder. It should be completely wrong- it should be unacceptable- he'd never expected this to work- but by some act of a higher power, he is happy. And when it comes down to happiness versus guilt, he'd choose happiness every single time.