There was little doubt in Michael's mind that blood would spill tonight.

It had taken three long strides to cross the kitchen and hook his fingers around the thin straps of his wife's dress, pulling them taught into his fists. A rage he'd thought buried was twisting his guts, turning them over and over. But under the blinding fury, and his own inner voice urging him to wipe that fucking look off of Trevor's face, Michael was struck by thoughts of Friedlander, of all people. All the pockets he'd emptied, all the sessions he'd attended and poured his heart out. He thought of the progress he had made; he had come far.

But not far enough.

"Honest, huh?" he asked, the words foul on his tongue.

Trevor sneered at him, his face inches away, each scar written upon it swept down into the scowl. When he exhaled, Michael took it in; a kiss shared through the air. He tightened his grip on the dress. If he let go, he might just swing his fist and give Trevor exactly what he wanted.

Not yet, he told himself. Trevor could work for this. There were words that needed to be said, barbs and insults to be exchanged. And then, after fists had been thrown, and they were on the mend, maybe something would fall into place for the both of them.

"You're God damned right I am." snarled Trevor, baring his teeth. "You don't see me doing whatever the fuck it is you're doing, Mikey boy." When he brought his hands up in mock supplication, Michael felt the shift under his grip, the skin course and clammy. His gaze fell to the tattoo around his neck, an invitation written in pain and ink. He couldn't count the times he'd wanted to take the man up on the challenge, now he wasn't so sure. A world without Trevor left him feeling more cold than relieved these days.

He was sober enough by this point to know that he was beyond blaming these feelings on the alcohol. But he'd always been a good liar. Even to himself.

Trevor was still talking. His voice high and whiny as he mocked him. "Ohhhh, boo fucking hoo! I want this, I want that, but oh, I'm too much of a fucking loser to do anything about it. Yap yap yap, that's all you do these days, M."

Michael fought the urge to wrap his hands around Trevor's scrawny neck, and instead pulled the dress straps until he was lifting the man onto the tips of his toes and even closer into his personal space. His stomach turned again, his inner voice called him a coward; he was less than the ghost of his past.

"You hide behind all o' this-this shit, and you fuckin' hate it. But what do you do about it, huh? Nothing." Trevor pushed himself back, staggering drunkenly against the sink and out of grasp. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, his eyes hard as they swept over Michael, daring him to argue.

Michael clutched his fists against the air, staring at the emptiness Trevor had occupied, and wondered how this psychotic fuck knew him better than everyone else.

"And what should I do, T?" he asked, half-hoping that just this once somebody had an answer for him. "You're the big expert tonight. You tell me."

"Just fuckin' do something!"

Michael turned to him, surprised that-beneath the disgust-there was something close to desperation on his face. He was holding onto the counter-top as though it was the only thing grounding him. "You used to be a man, Michael. Now-now I don't know what the fuck to call you. I guess fat, useless prick would be a good start."

"You better watch yourself, T." Michael snarled, "I ain't got the patience for this."

"Really? What are you gonna do? Talk about your feelings some more?" The look of dismay falls from his face completely, and in its place there's a whisper of desperation that becomes louder and louder in the silence. Then, "Stop bitching and just do something!"

So Michael did.

Trevor took the brunt of the fall, landing awkwardly against the opposite counter-top after a swing with too much momentum and far too little aim socks him in the mouth. Michael was right there with him, too angry to stop, and far too tired of Friedlander's bullshit by this point to care about how far back tonight's actions will put him. He's already trying to worm his arm out for another swing, but somewhere in the tumble strong hands had grabbed a hold of him and now refuse to let go. Blood splattered the front of his shirt, it could have been his own from earlier, or it might have belonged to the steady stream running down Trevor's face from the busted lip; another kiss from a fist on the opposite side of the existing scar.

"Get the fuck off o' me, T!" yelled Michael, struggling against the tightening grasp of those hands. He felt himself being drawn in, arms moving to ensnare him, and then his own spine was shrieking as it felt the hard contact of the counter-top whilst Trevor crowded his space, and-

"What the hell are you doing?"

He hadn't noticed, had been far too concerned with putting his own little mark on Trevor's scarred face to pay attention to what the other man was doing with his hips. And now they were grinding against him, trapping him within a steady onslaught of feeling that turned his knees to water and sent rationality running for the hills.

Michael worked an arm free, felt his fist clench and yearn for blood, but he grabbed again at Amanda's dress, and pulled. Trevor let himself follow until they were chest to chest. One heart thumped, the other steadily answered.

"What the hell are you doing, Michael?" Trevor retorted.

Michael wondered how he ever found question in that growl. It was definitely a promise; an offer on the table if he was willing to take it.

God help him, Michael found himself game.

"I don't know, man..." answered Michael after a pause. Words and excuses rushed to his rescue, providing him with some form of justification to cower behind. "I'm drunk, all right?" It sounded feeble, even to himself, but lies were all he had. Lies and his sharp tongue.

"Bullshit you are, Mikey." hissed Trevor, punctuating each word with a jerk of his hips. Michael could feel the hardness beneath the folds of his wife's dress, and was struck by an inexplicable urge to ruck the fabric up and explore the body hidden under it. "But if that's the way you wanna play this, then I'll take it any which way you're giving it."

The implication of Trevor's words was incentive enough for Michael to silence the nagging in the back of his head that was gently whispering how bad of an idea this whole thing was. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had actively wanted him. And yet here was Trevor, nine years on, and still as desperate as ever to lay his hands on whatever he could get. He didn't know whether to feel flattered or horrified that his friend was still clinging on for something so hopeless.

Michael allowed his hands their exploration, dropping them to the hem of the dress. Under, up, and around. He grabbed a handful of Trevor's ass and urged him forward until their cocks were flush against one another. Trevor grunted appreciatively, his eyelids fluttering over eyes blown wide by lust.

"Why now?" asked Michael, his words pillowed against the lips pursed centimeters from his own. Up this close, he could smell the copper of the busted corner of Trevor's mouth.

Trevor glanced at him, his brows shooting up towards his thinning hairline. "I'm trying to get your rocks off, and you're askin' me why now?" he brought their hips together again, worrying his lower lip over a swallowed gasp. For a moment, Michael thought that was all the answer he was going to get-and honestly, he was all too happy to follow his friend's lead and lose himself in the way his cock felt against Trevor's, then "You really want this conversation now? Right now, really?"

Michael's response wilted on his tongue, drowned upon an appreciative groan as Trevor worked a hand beneath the waistband of his briefs and wrapped his fingers around him. His palms were rough, and his grip awkward, but there was no denying it felt good.

"I just..." Michael tried again, his voice unsteady as Trevor found his rhythm, "I'm not blind, T. Never was."

Trevor's grip tightened around him, his eyes downcast, staring determinedly at the motion of his own hand. His other had slipped under the dress to attend to his own needs. Michael watched him work himself, the chamois fabric fluttering with each twist of his wrist.

"You think I didn't notice? All the looks, the jokes—fuck." A particularly rough jerk should have been warning enough that, if he didn't want his dick torn off, he should just button it and enjoy the ride. Nobody had ever accused Michael of making good decisions.

He reached down, sliding his fingers over Trevor's own, and holding them there. Trevor met his gaze, his face flushed, his lips sealed tight over each desperate exhale. Michael took over, guiding his rhythm on himself. The heat of the unfamiliar flesh in their combined grasp sent a spike of arousal straight to Michael's cock, and he found himself wondering if this could go any further.

"Why now?" he asked again, his voice breathless and unsteady as his stomach tingled and swam. He could feel himself tumbling closer to the edge with each close-fisted embrace over the head of his dick. Trevor puffed weakly against his neck, his own cock twitching within their hands.

"Why not back-shit-back then, before-"

"Before what?" snapped Trevor, "Before you revealed yourself to be the slimiest-"

The pressure of Trevor's hand increased sharply, and Michael winced.

"-sneakiest-"

"Just answer the fuckin' question, T!"

Trevor jerked back an inch, his hand unfurling. Michael cursed the chill its absence left along his length. He wanted an answer, but not at the expense of whatever this was. He dropped his head back, weary and tired, and desperate to reach the end-goal. "Just-just get your hand back on my dick." he muttered.

The smirk that curved Trevor's bloodied mouth suggested that he would do no such thing, but Michael was given barely a moment to consider the lonely task of finishing himself off before rough fingers wrapped back around him, a callused thumb sweeping over the crown. Michael's hands flew to Trevor's hips and held tight.

"Maaaaybe I was gonna, you know, make a move. At some point" said Trevor, his eyes fixed again to what his hands were doing. Michael would be tempted to say he looked almost bashful, but that would be ridiculous. "Or never." he added quickly.

Despite all his good sense telling him not to, Michael couldn't hold back the choked laughter that worked its way up from some part of him that still remembered how to have fun. The look on Trevor's face turned murderous, but thankfully, he didn't reach for the sharpest utensil and bury it six inches deep.

"Aw T, you're breaking my heart here. You sayin' you were too shy to try it?"

"Fuck you, Michael."

Michael's grin widened. Maybe it was just the hand still moving on his cock, but he felt good. Better than good, he felt great.

"And what about you, huh?" asked Trevor, the sting still clear in his voice, "You're not exactly turning me down right now."

"Like I said, I'm drunk, man. My senses have all gone to shit."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Trevor reached deeper into his pants, his wrist sinking into the tight confines of the expensive trousers. Michael let his head drop against his chest, exhaling loudly when those fingers slipped past his balls to explore the sensitive patch of skin hidden behind. "Never could be honest with yourself, could you?"

There it was again. The accusal, the bite in his words.

"I want you to take this stupid fucking dress off, and get your ass over on the couch." Michael growled, "How's that for honest?"

Trevor's hand came to a stop. His entire body went rigid. Michael felt his chest tighten under his chin, felt his heart thump.

"Wow. Wa-how. That-that was almost like the old days, Mikey." Trevor whispered against the shell of his ear. "Fuck, how did you ever turn into this pitiful mess!"

Pinching the sharp jut of Trevor's hips hard enough to make him grunt, Michael pushed him back, hard. He stumbled into the kitchen table, a ridiculous look of surprise across his flushed face. The hand he had worked Michael with glimmered under the lights.

"Just stop." said Michael. The rage was back, coiling his intestines into knots. "For five fucking minutes, just stop."

Trevor stared at him, wide-eyed. Amanda's dress was rucked up over the swell of his dick. Everything about him looked absurd, wrong, and yet Michael felt his prick twitch against his stomach all the same.

"Can we just fuck, without the commentary! You'll get what you want, and I'll get, I dunno, something. And then, then we can pretend this whole fucking night never happened and go back to bitching at each other.

"Now, are you gonna get on the fucking couch, or do you want me to bend you over the table and take you like that?"

If he wasn't so focused on the steady tremble of Trevor's parted thighs, Michael might have noticed the way his throat worked once, twice, and a third time before he managed to loosen the words. "... The couch sounds nice..." he said at length.

"Yeah," agreed Michael, "yeah it does."


A/N: I just want to apologize for this chapter, I'm not really experienced with writing 'smut' (it's not even strong enough to be called that yet). It's kind of all over the place too, so I'm sorry.

Also, thanks for all the reviews/faves/follows! Seriously, like, whoa. And to everyone who was supportive over the, ah, butthurt reviewer, thanks! If this gets taken down, it's up elsewhere so yeah XD