A wild update appeared!

I'M SO SORRY. This has been dead for far too long. Like Michael Townley though, it wasn't even dead, just pretending to avoid things!

I'm sorry I haven't updated. My computer broke and I didn't want to rewrite this entire chapter over. It finally got fixed though, and I found the inspiration to write this again! Please don't hate me, my beautiful readers! I'm so sorry. Accept this update and promises for more as an apology!

Trevor tried to shoot Franklin, but his attention was divided.

He was more worried about the man bleeding onto the dusty ground behind him.

The recoil of the shotgun sent him pressing harder into Michael than he should've been, and each one of Michael's laboured breaths was felt against his back.

Trevor yelled out in frustration as Franklin ran, getting smaller and smaller as the distance between them got larger.

He hadn't killed the fucker. Trevor had probably missed his chance. It would've been so easy; roll to the side and jump up, charge over with his shotgun and blow the asshole's head off. That would've put an end to his problems. Well, one of his most recent problems.

But he couldn't think of too much besides the thought of Michael bleeding out.

Trevor sure wasn't going to fucking tell him, but he was feeling grateful for Ron. If he hadn't chosen that moment to come out of his trailer and investigate all the noise outside, Franklin could've gotten him. Good thing Ron tended to wait for the noise to calm down before coming out, since gunshots was a usual thing when you lived beside Trevor Phillips.

Stupid. Trevor silently hissed at himself. Stupid to let his guard down. Stupid to turn his back for even a second. But it felt as if he didn't have a choice.

The second the bullet had pierced Michael, terror consumed Trevor. It had almost been like some sort of sick flashback.

The train just nicked the car, and it went flying, spiralling into a tree. Trevor's head pounded and his heart matched it's beating.

"You guys alright?" Michael gasped from the driver's seat, pulling the back of his hand across his forehead.

"Fuck." Trevor shoved open the door, stumbling out into the cold North Yankton snow. It blew around in lazy drifts. "C'mon." He was already walking, swinging his arm to motion to the guys to hurry. "Ditch the car, alright? We can go this way to the chopper."

Michael scrambled out of the vehicle, looking panicked. He was breathing hard, his face flushed. "No. Hey!" He bent over a bit, taking deep breaths as Brad hopped out "We stick to the plan."

"What?" Trevor demanded, his brows furrowed and his stance tense. They had to go, now, or the cops would be on them.

"We stick to the fucking plan." Michael snapped, wiping at a cut on his cheek. He glared a bit at Trevor before his eyes softened, then motioned to him. "Come on."

Brad already started walking. He had never really been one to question Michael's unspoken leadership, and it pissed Trevor off. Brad acted as if he were a master criminal sometimes (one time he even brought up joining up with some others, and Trevor had nearly snapped his neck right then and there) but when it came to following orders, Brad became like a puppy in desperate need of a master.

Michael followed behind Brad, and Trevor sighed and started to follow. He had a sick feeling in his gut, and it kept wrenching around and clawing inside of him. Something was different about how Michael was acting. He'd never been so adamant about following a plan. They had the money, no one cared how they got away as long as they got away.

Michael was practically twitching, his eyes going from left to right like a nervous little rabbit. Trevor thought about asking him what was wrong, or calling him a terrified pussy, but instead he kept his mouth shut and followed Michael towards something he would've never guessed.

Now, it felt almost identical. The FIB had given Franklin a deal (like they had given Michael a deal) and Franklin did it. He hadn't cared who he hurt or screwed over (just like Michael). Then they had been ganged up on, out numbered and Michael had gotten shot.

Trevor always knew Franklin had been hanging out with Michael too much. Seemed as if being a fucking, lying, cowardly snake who betrayed their best friends was contagious.

Trevor wished he had questioned Michael that day so long ago. Maybe things would've turned out differently. Maybe Michael would've admitted everything, and Trevor would've put a bullet in his head. Or they would've left fucking Dave Norton and the FIB behind to run away. They'd talked about it enough times.

But those were old fantasies, too old to worry about. He had a very more recent thing to worry about.

Michael wheezed on the ground, his chest heaving and blood mixing in with the gravel underneath him.

"Watch my back, Ron!" Trevor snapped as he spun around, pressing his bloody fingers back onto Michael's wound. He applied pressure, trying to stop the blood flow. It had already destroyed the suit Michael had been wearing. That was probably going to piss him off, if he lived.

Trevor grinded his teeth together. When Michael lived.

"What happened, Trevor?" Ron called from behind him, and Trevor didn't turn around to answer.

"Uuuuuurrrrgggh, fucking Merryweather, Ron!" Trevor snapped as he reached down to pick Michael up. Fuck, he was heavy. Hopefully blood loss helped shed a few pounds.

As Trevor half carried half dragged Michael to his trailer ("You could be...a little more...gentle." Michael had wheezed out at one point.), he wracked his brain for all the medical training from his brief experience with the military and for all the stuff he had learned with Michael. It wasn't much, but it would do.

He kicked open the door, stomping inside and practically dumping Michael onto the couch.

"Ron!" He roared, opening all his cupboards and searching for some good type of alcohol.

Ron came scrambling in through the door-which had been left open-with his shaking hands still clutching his gun.

"Y-Yeah, T?"

"We need a needle, thread, bandages and, uh...some tweasers! Whatever you can find to patch up a bullet wound!" Trevor grabbed a bottle of vodka.

Ron nodded and ran out of the trailer, and soon Trevor heard the sound of his trailer door swinging open..

Trevor searched around until he found a cloth, then stopped to wait for Ron. Remove the bullet first, clean the wound after.

While he waited, he went and kneeled down beside Michael and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. Michael groaned a bit, but Trevor ignored him and continued to work on his shirt.

When all the buttons were undone, Trevor pulled the jacket off and then peeled Michael's shirt from him. He chucked it behind him, making a mental note to throw that out or something later.

The wound didn't look too bad, but it sure was bloody. Trevor didn't think it pierced anywhere vital (Haha, Franklin and his terrible fucking accuracy), so that was a sort of relief.

Michael's eyes fluttered and landed on Trevor. He raised his eyebrows a bit, his forehead glistening with sweat.

"That fucking hurts." He whispered and Trevor rolled his eyes.

"No shit, Mikey. But it's not like you aren't used to getting shot, huh?"

Michael rolled his eyes a bit. "Fuck you."

"Whatever you want, sugar. But in return you aren't allowed to fucking die on me again like last time." Trevor grinned a bit at him and stood up.

"Last time..." Michael shook his head. "Mistake. Big one."

Trevor looked down at him, silent for a second, then turned away to walk to the door. The sound of Ron jumping over the fence could slightly be heard.

"Yeah, it fucking was." Trevor snapped as Ron came running in, the things Trevor had asked for craddled in his arms.

"Fuck." Michael mumbled from behind them as Trevor grabbed them.

"Ron, hold him down. This might get a little messy." Together, Ron and Trevor advanced towards a scared looking Michael.

***
After they had managed to get the bullet out, clean Michael up, and go outside and 'convince' some people to help them clean up all the bodies and destroyed vehicles, the trailer was plunged into silence. Ron had gone back to his own trailer, and the only sounds were Michael's quiet breathing as he slept, water pouring from the tap that Trevor had turned on to wash his hands, and the TV, the volume just barely turned on.

Trevor turned the tap off and wiped his hands on his pants, mixing water and blood together. He wondered if he should change his pants, then decided that he'd had worse and could live with a bit of blood.

He'd changed his shirt, though. It had been soaked where his back had pressed into Michael as he had thrown himself over to protect the shot man on the ground.

Sighing, he walked out of his tiny bathroom and peeked inside of his bedroom. Michael lay on the bed, sprawled out on his back. One arm was flung out at his side, and the other lay on his chest, on top of the gauze that was wrapped around him. A bit of blood showed on the white bandages, but it had long since dried and stopped bleeding.

Trevor's heart gave an almost painful tug in his chest as he stared at his sleeping friend. He gritted his teeth, remembering his panic only a few hours ago. How every second he was outside cleaning up the mess, he was wondering if Michael was okay. He remembered how terrible it had been to lose Michael the first time, and how he had almost thought it would happen again.

He shuddered a bit. He'd never go through that again, he hoped. He'd kill anyone who tried to take Michael again. He'd kill Franklin before he dared to try again.

His hands clenched into fists. Never again. Michael was never going to be ripped away from him again.

Trevor didn't notice his feet had carried him forward until his shins were brushing the edge of the bed, then the next thing he knew, he was sitting down beside Michael. He stared at the peaceful look on Michael's face, the soft rise and fall of his chest, and turned and leaned towards him. Heart hammering in his chest, Trevor placed a soft kiss to Michael's forehead, then leaped forward and exited the room.