Michael tried as hard as possible not to have any conversation with Trevor whatsoever. The less they talked, the less bruises and cuts Michael would have in the morning.

Fortunately, he was succeeding. Michael watched Trevor's crappy TV whilst drinking a beer and Trevor never looked up from the TV (apparently Fame or Shame was suddenly interesting to the psychopath). The atmosphere was tense and strained, but they managed to make it through a night together.

Sleeping arrangements wouldn't have been too bad, if Trevor had actually gone to sleep. At some point in the night, Michael had made himself comfortable on the couch- as comfortable as he could get on the piece of junk Trevor called a couch- but attempting to sleep had been awkward. Trevor had been leaning against the counter next to his sink all night and, from what Michael could tell from the few times he managed to doze off, Trevor hadn't gone to sleep at all. Every time Michael closed his eyes, Trevor was there, and he was still there every time Michael opened his eyes. It was strange and uncomfortable, but Michael had been too tired to risk fighting with Trevor.

When the sun had finally come up over Sandy Shores, Michael sat up and stretched. He still felt a bit groggy, and his neck was sore from the awkward position he had slept in on the small couch, but he had still managed to sit up. Blinking his eyes, he looked around the trailer, only to find that for the first time all night, Trevor was gone. Michael took a moment to wonder where he was, but was instead greeted by the sudden crash of events from last night. All at once, the thoughts came crashing down on him, and Michael sighed. He sat back and rubbed the back of his neck, not knowing what else to do.

He recapped everything to his tired self. Franklin- who had basically been his son- had tried to kill him, and Trevor- who Michael had assumed hated him- had saved his ass, again. Michael wasn't sure why either of the men had done what they did, but what happened, happened.

Michael sure as hell wasn't going to tell Trevor how thankful he was- the fucker would probably never let it go, and Michael would be hearing it until the day one of them died, but it didn't stop Michael from feeling the way he did. He had been under the impression that Trevor despised him, and that Trevor and Franklin would've thrown a party once Michael died.

Michael wouldn't have blamed Trevor for being glad he was dead, for he knew he deserved as much for all the shitty things he'd done to Trevor. Self-loathing flared up inside of him; the never ending feeling of his hatred of himself making itself known. He almost wished Franklin had dropped him.

Franklin.

Michael closed his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth together. That asshole had tried to kill him, and Michael had never felt so betrayed, not even when he'd caught Amanda in bed with another man. At least Amanda hadn't hung him off of a tower and apologized as she loosened her grip.

Michael's hands clenched into fists. If Franklin insisted on trying to kill him, Michael would kill him first. Hell, if Michael didn't kill Franklin then Trevor probably would.

He wondered where Trevor even was. The one time Michael had fallen completely asleep, Trevor had vanished. Obviously he wouldn't have left a note, but a text message would've been nice, or even a phone call. Michael sighed and shook his head, clearing the stupid worry from his mind. Trevor would be able to handle himself.

Michael walked over to Trevor's small TV, flicking it on. Static emerged, and Michael searched until he found the remote wedged between a couch cushion. He scanned channel after channel, a frown forming on his face when he found out that there were no good movies on. He sighed and changed it to a music channel that played songs from his favorite station, the Los Santos Rock Radio. He nodded approvingly as the quiet sound of 'Radio Ga Ga' filled the small trailer.

No sooner had the chorus hit that the front door was thrown open and Trevor came running in, a shotgun clutched tightly in his hands Michael's eyes widened at the sight of blood on his white shirt, though he knew he had no reason to be surprised. When wasn't there blood on Trevor's clothes?

Blinking the sight away, Michael spoke: "Jesus, there you are. Where were-"

"Do you have a gun on you?" Trevor demanded, staring at Michael with wide eyes.

Michael tensed slightly, seeing how stiffly Trevor held the gun. Michael knew that someone was coming. He could think of quite a few people who would come after them, but…there was only one person who came to mind with this kind of situation.

"No, I dropped it off the tower."

Trevor groaned in frustration and reached into his back pocket, chucking a pistol at Michael. "Looks like that's what you'll be using, Mikey."

Michael weighed the gun in his hand before nodding, then placed the other hand on it and held the pistol up. He wasn't too thrilled about the weapon he would be using, but it was better than no gun at all. He'd used a pistol other times and it had gone perfectly fine (not when you were up on that tower, his mind stupidly reminded him). He only hoped that it would be the same this time.

"Who is it?" Michael asked as him and Trevor made their way towards the door, although he already had a pretty good idea as to who it was.

Trevor paused before opening the door, resting his shotgun on his hip. "Franklin, and a lot of fucking Merryweather."

I am so sorry for how long this took, and how short it is! I had a very busy Christmas week and couldn't find time to write. Thank you my dear beta for reminding me that I had to write this :) I'll try to have chapter seven up quicker than this one!