I need a space to release my fanfic ideas

[bellaciaao3]

A quiet day with Michael's colleagues, whom Trevor agreed to meet:

“He's so handsome and so... confident. And, damn, he has that dominant look that I love,” the woman spoke as if she were about to collapse right there, and her friend laughed as she nudged her.

Trevor, who was not far from them, remembers the night before, when he decided to try a couples trend with Michael.

“Should I be worried?”, Michael asked, moving his back away from the wall after Trevor had positioned him against it.

“Not yet,” Trevor replied, as if nothing had happened. “Don't ask questions and just do what I say.”

Michael, suspicious, nodded.

“Good. Put your hands together.”

Michael did so, placing his hands as if to pray.

“My prayers will make Gabriel sound the trumpets,” Michael muttered.

Trevor ignored him.

“Okay, close,” the Canadian continued, interlocking his fingers. Michael did so, raising an eyebrow. “And... open,” he finished, opening the fingers of his left hand.

“Trevor, I swear if you squeeze my fingers...”

“Of course not, don't be an idiot.”

Michael growled under his breath and opened the fingers of his right hand. Trevor then interlaced his fingers with Michael's, over the hand that remained closed, and lifted Michael's arms above his head. Michael's back ended up pressed against the wall, as did Trevor's free hand, which ended up cornering Michael.

Trevor gave Michael a defiant look and smiled mockingly, almost challenging him to do something. Looking down for a moment, Trevor noticed that Michael's legs were shaking so much that he ended up a little lower, causing Trevor to barely have to look down.

Michael smiled nervously, because of the closeness and how vulnerable he felt at that moment.

“Aren't you going to do anything?”, Trevor asked, wondering if the trembling in Michael's legs would allow him to knee him.

“Are you going to?”, Michael asked.

Trevor just smiled and kissed him, without letting go of his hands or allowing him to lower his arms. This only caused the tremors in Michael's legs to spread throughout his body.

In the present, Trevor looks at the girls talking about Michael and can barely contain a laugh.

If only they knew more than one thing...

[bellaciaao3]

Trevor: When did you get back in the game? Why didn't I know? Why is Amanda still with you? Couldn't you have called me, you damn idiot? You want to push me aside again? Is that what you want?!

Michael, who just wanted a drink, sighs.

Michael: I'm too old for this.

[bellaciaao3]

Okay, I admit something else: I absolutely love fanfics, fanarts, or headcanons that portray Trevor as Michael's guard dog.

The five men were clearly fed up with each other's presence. Well, Dave's presence was much more tolerable than Steve's, and that was saying a lot, considering that none of the three present could stand anyone associated with authority.

As before, Michael sat across from Steve, a small table being the only separation between them, but that would be useless if they decided to point the guns they were both hiding from each other's view. Dave stayed a short distance away from Steve, possibly making sure that the encounter with those three didn't go too badly. On the other side, Franklin kept a critical eye on the feds, distrusting them because of the few times they had met. Trevor, unsurprisingly, was fed up and eager to get out of there. Just hearing Steve's voice made him want to throw him into the sea full of cuts so the sharks could do the rest of the work.

Michael noticed that his fellow criminals seemed less tense than he felt with Steve's gaze on him. He knew the bastard hated all three of them, but since Michael was the closest, the feeling felt more personal.

“Is anyone going to talk, or are we just going to stare at each other until something happens?”, Franklin interjected, crossing his arms. Michael had never been so grateful that he wasn't the one to break the heavy silence.

“I thought our dear Michael would want to ask something,” Steve replied, looking at him defiantly. “Or comment on me. The first time we met, he seemed to be holding things in,” he sneered cruelly.

From his side, Trevor let out a humorless chuckle, which sounded more like a warning.

Dave sighed, took a cigarette and a lighter out of his pocket, and prepared to smoke while trying to explain the new modesty they had for them. He omitted important details, such as some “generous” pay or some benefit that came with simply collaborating with them so they would leave them alone once and for all.

Michael wasn't listening. All he could hear was Steve's voice penetrating his head without having continued talking. Did he think he would keep his head down in front of him?

“To tell you the truth,” Michael replied calmly, folding his hands on the table, “I feel like we're wasting our time.”

“Excuse me?”, Steve asked, raising an eyebrow. “So now your experience isn't good enough for this job?”.

“On the contrary. I think my experience is overqualified for your little job. I think even you could do one or two of the things Dave mentioned, don't you think?”.

Dave slowly exhaled cigarette smoke and sighed in frustration, knowing how this could end.

Steve clenched his right fist on the table, letting his short temper begin to take over.

Trevor said nothing, which would have surprised Michael if he hadn't noticed him watching Steve out of the corner of his eye. The Canadian's body was rigid and his gaze never left the agent.

"Yeah, because I'm sure you think you're an example of being overqualified. That must be why the guy here,“ Steve nodded toward Franklin, ”has managed to advance faster than you in years. Don't get so cocky, Michael."

“Michael gave me good jobs, I admit,” Franklin muttered, prioritizing that kind of loyalty over the image of a person who loves to brag about having progressed on his own in any aspect.

Steve deliberately ignored him and continued to look at Michael with contempt, waiting for his next words.

“Come on, Steve, you've reached a good position in the FBI. I'm sure a job like that won't be too much of an effort for you,” Michael continued. “It would even help your attempt at a television program become something more dignified and stop being the showbiz of a coward with godlike airs.”

As if he had set off a bomb, Steve stood up abruptly, causing the chair to scrape across the floor with a terrible screech, and lunged his right hand directly at Michael's throat, surely wanting to finish what he couldn't on the first day they met.

But the sound that reached the ears of the others was not Michael gasping for air or Steve's hissing voice threatening him for talking to him like an idiot.

The familiar sound of a safety being removed made everyone turn toward Trevor.

The image in front of them was not of Steve strangling Michael, but of Trevor holding the barrel of a gun against Steve's arm, specifically above his elbow. The agent's hand was a short distance from Michael's neck, but the gun against his bone prevented him from moving further.

Trevor fixed his menacing gaze on Steve, challenging him to move. His finger rested on the trigger, his pulse steady. Beside him, Franklin raised his hands slightly.

“I heard it's loaded,” said the youngest of them all.

“And if I were you,” Trevor said to Steve, still staring at him, barely blinking, “I'd move your arm in the opposite direction of where you were planning to go.”

Although his gaze expressed the humiliation of being threatened without even a hint of hesitation, Steve was smart enough to understand that Trevor wasn't joking and that he would definitely pull the trigger if his hand even accidentally touched Michael.

The agent looked at Michael once more, and his anger increased when he saw him smiling with the arrogance and confidence of someone who has an entire army behind him to protect him. Only this time, it was a single man capable of wiping out an entire army if he wanted to.

“He's not joking, Steve,” Michael said softly. "You should listen to him. Be smart."

“Or prove you can pretend to be,” Trevor sneered. “There's not an inch between my gun and your elbow, and I assure you I'd love nothing more than to pull the trigger. Don't give me that pleasure.”

“And he's warning you, dog. Consider yourself lucky he hasn't shot you before,” Franklin said, smiling sardonically.

Dave, who had been about to reach for his own gun, pulled his hand away when Michael gestured for him not to.

The older agent sighed wearily and said,

“I think it would be best if I sent the details by text.”

“That would be best,” Trevor muttered. “Move your arm and I might consider not smashing your elbow, Haines, how about that?”

With the speed necessary to keep his dignity intact, but the slowness required to prevent Trevor from carrying out his threat, Steve pulled his hand away from Michael, without taking his eyes off Trevor's.

“This isn't over,” he promised, clenching both fists. Without adding anything else, he kicked the chair he had been sitting in and stormed off.

Dave pinched the bridge of his nose. He was too old to put up with this kind of nonsense anymore.

“You get used to it, dog,” Franklin said, as if he had guessed his thoughts just by looking at his face.

Dave turned to Trevor and Michael. The former proudly holstered his gun and then turned to Michael, smiled slightly, and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, touching him with the delicacy of someone receiving something sacred.

For once, Dave was surprised to see the gentleness with which Trevor treated Michael, especially considering that he had just threatened an FBI agent at gunpoint.

[bellaciaao3]

MICHAEL IS BACKKKK 🥹🥹🥹 plesee tell me ur gonna write another trikey fic soon 💔💔

Hello!!

I know, I saw it in the trailer and it's awesome! I'm so excited about it!😄

I've been thinking about some ideas for Tumblr and my AO3 One-Shot Fanfic, so I'll try to have everything ready soon😁.

Greetings!!

[bellaciaao3]

I don't know what you think, but for years I've been thinking there should have been more scenes of Trevor dealing with Michael's death after Option B.

[bellaciaao3]

Yes, I decided to come back after all this time just to present one of my weird ideas.

Listening to the song Rewrite the Stars, I came up with an AU; I'm not a huge fan of AUs, but this would be the idea:

Imagine Trevor and Michael in their senior year of high school. Michael is the typical popular quarterback, the guy all the girls are dying to date and, of course, fitting into what the rest would call “very manly.” On the other hand, Trevor is the typical genius who hides behind a troubled boy and seems to have no real ambitions, but can pass exams without opening a book.

Then, one day when they leave campus, Trevor sees Michael heading in the opposite direction from where he usually goes. Not wanting to return to his excuse for a home, Trevor decides to follow him without him noticing (nothing creepy about that) and ends up discovering that Michael, the quarterback who seems to have no time for anything but training, secretly practices Traveling Rings in a secluded place where none of his teammates could find him.

Instead of making fun of him, Trevor ends up going every day to watch Michael without him noticing, as he can't help but admire how majestic his classmate looks as he moves from ring to ring with such elegance; an elegance that no one would expect from a football player.

When Michael realizes that Trevor has been watching him train for days, he thinks he's going to ruin his reputation at school. However, Trevor asks him to teach him what he does. And as the weeks go by, those training sessions become excuses to get closer to him without being at school, away from the gossip.

So, did I come up with a scene where they both use the rings (Michael moving away from Trevor because he doesn't accept his feelings and Trevor trying to reach him because he doesn't care what others have to say about them) to the rhythm of one of the most romantic songs I've ever heard? Yes, absolutely. And I don't regret it.

[bellaciaao3]

Oh my gosh! I can't believe the first Trikey story I wrote finally reached 100 kudos! 😮

Guys, seriously, thank you so much for the support! It makes me so happy 😄

I love you all!

[bellaciaao3]

Franklin: I don't understand you two men.

Michael: About what, Frank?

Lamar: How is it possible that you are able to threaten each other's lives, call each other a thousand insults and then go out and hang out like it's nothing?

Franklin: And I thought I knew about fucked up relationships.

Michael and Trevor exchange a look and shrug.

Trevor: You've heard the saying 'We can't be with each other, but we can't be without each other'?

Michael: We are one of the best representations. I won't say I'm proud of it.

Trevor: I am.

[bellaciaao3]

Can we agree on how much Trevor must have thought of Michael, that ten years later, he still remembered a particular line he said during a tense moment before he 'died'?

[bellaciaao3]

Headcanons 4.

Pure Trikey:

-Trevor loves sweet things, chocolates, candy and anything with sugar in it. He makes Michael take him to the best bakeries he knows because he wants to try as much as he can, even if he ends up sick or on a sugar high that has him bouncing off the walls. He has developed a sixth sense that warns him if Michael is hiding the sweets for later.

-Michael will withstand any serious injury and can even go toe-to-toe with another guy and deal with what that entails, but he acts like a big baby when it comes to smaller injuries, like slashes from cooking, sticking a thorn or bending a finger a little. Trevor will laugh at him before helping him tend to his ‘war wounds’. Michael complains just for show; deep down, he loves the attention Trevor gives him.

-Trevor is the member of the couple who cannot detach himself from his peer. He follows him continuously as if he has a set path, except when they go to the bathroom. If Michael is a few minutes behind schedule, Trevor sends him lots of messages asking if he's okay.

-Michael is discreet about seeking physical contact; not out of embarrassment, but because he thinks himself can become clingy and suffocating. But if he really wants to, he slowly brings his knee to Trevor's, leans against his shoulder or, on days when he has emotional lows, lies down and lets his head rest in Trevor's lap.

-They're the kind of duo that can be in the middle of a fight and yelling at each other as they walk and insulting each other, but if any stranger dares to say anything bad about either of them, that person is dead.

[bellaciaao3]

I know that in more than half of the posts I do about Trikey, I stress ad nauseam that Trevor would never hurt Michael. So, I thought: “What if he did it accidentally, or what if he did do it in North Yankton (again, by accident), long before the main story?”.

Imagine this:

Two young men in their early twenties who had to hide out in a cheap motel, dealing with their respective demons, which were still all too present in their daily lives. In Trevor's case, it hadn't been long since he'd been kicked out of the Air Force, so his anger was still pretty fresh; it didn't help to listen to the old radio for announcements about new recruits.

One evening, while Michael was at the gas station buying some supplies for the night, Trevor was a little drunk and his darker emotions and thoughts began to manifest themselves in the worst way. It used to happen to him often, but when he drank or did drugs, it was worse, because they went from being simple thoughts, to feeling all too real, as if he was living it all over again in the flesh.

He heard the voices of some of his classmates, telling him that he was never going to make it anyway and that he had just wasted his time extending the inevitable. He heard the voice of the therapist who evaluated him, arguing why he wasn't fit to be in the Air Force. He heard the voice of who he remembered to be his father telling him that it was an expected outcome not to have made it. He heard his mother's voice telling him how useless he was and that he never got anything right.

Sitting on the floor beside the bed, Trevor clutched his head, wishing the damn voices would shut up and stop tormenting him. He kept telling himself that he wasn't worthless, that he was getting money and would soon be able to get away from that place and start over in another. But nothing silenced the insults.

Angrily, he began to punch a nearby wall, managing with four blows of each hand to hurt his knuckles. He felt no physical pain. He heard nothing around him.

Abruptly, he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. His first impulse was to turn around throwing a slap and shouting:

“I'm not useless!”.

The next thing he knew, a groan pierced his ears. Despite being affected by the alcohol, he managed to see Michael bring his hands to the side of his face, gritting his teeth. Trevor blinked a couple of times to clear his vision as he stood up and at the precise instant he took a step towards Michael, his friend recoiled, as if startled to see him about to approach.

Immediately, Trevor understood what he had done and guilt stabbed into his chest like a knife. However, he didn't get to open his mouth as Michael rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door. Hearing the door slam, Trevor walked over and began frantically apologizing.

“Michael! Mikey, I'm sorry! Please, I didn't mean to… I never… Mikey, I'm really sorry!”.

Inside the bathroom, Michael kept his back against the door, hoping he could stop Trevor from entering; perhaps he would have better luck than when he wanted to stop his father from doing so. The left side of his face throbbed and he would surely be left with a dark bruise. His heart pounded violently in his chest, reaching to hear it in his ears, and his body wouldn't stop shaking.

That's how he felt when he was a child and did something, no matter how small, that he knew would end up provoking his father's fury. Except, on this occasion, he didn't understand what he had done to cause Trevor's fury. He hadn't even been at the motel for nearly an hour. He had noticed that Trevor seemed distant and less talkative than usual, but up to that point, he never became hostile or threatening to Michael as he was to anyone who got in his way and tried to draw him out in conversation.

Michael knew that sooner or later he would have to leave the bathroom, but he was in no hurry for it to be soon.

He walked away from the door quietly, still listening to Trevor's apology, and walked over to the mirror. His face didn't look as swollen as he thought it would, but the bruise forming on his cheekbone was visible. He heard his father's voice in his head, taunting him for being so weak and yelling at him in a ragged throat for making him angry. Even managing to get away from him, Michael was still haunted by his fears.

But Trevor wasn't his father, he knew that. His father had never apologized to him for hitting him, quite the opposite. If Michael complained of pain, the blows got harder until the guy got tired.

Michael heard footsteps walking away and then, the spring of one of the beds creaking under Trevor's weight. If he knew his friend, he must be sitting on the bed, clutching his head. He did that when he was drunk or high and did that, by miracles of life, he regretted.

Cautiously and trembling, Michael opened the bathroom door and stepped out with tentative steps, not knowing what to expect. Just as he thought, Trevor was sitting on his bed, clutching his head and sniffling his nose. As soon as he heard him come out of the bathroom, he raised his head and Michael could see his red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. That shocked him as much as the blow he received, since Trevor never cried; at least not in front of other people.

Michael sat on his bed, next to Trevor's, and kept his eyes down at all times. His father hated it when he looked him in the eye, because he took it as a way of challenging his authority. His body tensed as Trevor moved to get out of bed. However, his friend did not stand in front of him or use his physique to intimidate him in any way, but instead squatted down in front of Michael and extended his hand toward his face. By mere instinct, Michael flinched, he closed his eyes and left his cheek exposed, awaiting the arrival of another blow.

Great was his surprise when the touch on his face was not violent, but gentle. Trevor brushed his injured cheekbone with his fingertips, keeping the pain from coursing through Michael.

“Mikey, can you look at me?”, asked Trevor, softly.

Michael opened his eyes, but kept his gaze elsewhere, unsure. Sighing, Trevor slowly moved to sit beside him. He turned Michael's head toward him and noted the damage to his face. Trevor hated himself for doing that to him and his hatred increased as he saw the fear in Michael's eyes. A fear he had caused.

Not knowing how to act, he did the first thing that crossed his mind: he grabbed Michael by the arms and pulled him to himself to hug him. The two of them never hugged, unless it was something short after a well-executed robbery. But beyond that and an occasional pat on the shoulders, they were never very demonstrative with each other.

Michael tensed again as soon as Trevor's arms were around him and his own arms remained raised between their bodies, seeking to feel less helpless. As soon as he realized that Trevor was just holding him and hugging him, that he had no intention of hurting him, Michael relaxed as much as he could his body and his arms moved to wrap around his friend's waist.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry”, Trevor repeated the same words in a voice full of bitterness. “Mikey, you know I would never want to hurt you. I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me”.

Of course Michael knew, but knowing didn't stop his mind from playing against him at the worst times.

[bellaciaao3]

Trevor decides to do something for himself and his relationship with Michael: he begins a drug detox that doesn't include being locked away in a mental institution.

The only problem is that he doesn't want Michael to know yet, or what led him to make the decision to get better.

/////

“Hey, man”, Franklin said kindly when Trevor left the doctor's office without being bathed in blood or, at best-worst case scenario, shattered knuckles. “How did it go?”.

“Fine...I guess", Trevor replied, holding some papers in his right hand. “He prescribed medication that will help me with withdrawal. I'm due back in two weeks”.

“For what?”, asked Franklin, as they both headed toward the exit of the clinic.

“He'll evaluate whether he has to increase or decrease the dosage, depending on how I respond to the treatment for the first fourteen days. Then there's the three- to six-month treatment”. Trevor ran a hand over his face, feeling overwhelmed, “I haven't even started and I already feel like I'm going to collapse”.

“Hey”, Franklin said, patting him on the shoulder. “You're making the right decision, Trev. The drugs were tearing you apart”.

“Don't even mention it...”, Trevor sighed, looking at the paperwork to get the drugs. “Frank, I'd like to ask you a favor”.

Franklin nodded and waited for Trevor to tell him what he needed.

“For now, don't tell Michael. I don't know how I'll handle it and I don't want him to worry”.

“What? But...they're dating. I thought you'd want him to know you're with the treatment”, Franklin said, confused.

“Yeah, he'll know, later”, Trevor clarified. “For the time being, let me handle it, okay? Thanks again for joining me”.

“...You're welcome”, Franklin replied, cautiously. It was clear that he wasn't convinced that the decision to keep it from Michael was the right one, but at the same time, it was Trevor who would be dealing with the withdrawal and what the treatment entailed, therefore, he should handle it in whatever way he felt best. Franklin promised himself that he would only step in if he noticed things were getting complicated.

“Let's go out these days and I'll keep you updated”, Trevor assured him, far too calm for what Franklin was used to. “I already got you into this, I'm not going to leave you guessing”.

“I'll wait for your call”, Franklin advised.

They said their goodbyes and each went to their respective vehicles. Trevor waited until he lost sight of Franklin's car, gripped the steering wheel tightly and leaned his forehead against it, breathing heavily. His surroundings felt different, more distant, and the sounds didn't come to bother him as they had the first few weeks since moving in with Michael. Unlike those days, he told himself that the noises might help him think about things other than the desire to consume and the pain his system would be subjected to by not receiving what he wanted.

Perhaps some of his neurons were damaged, but Trevor understood all that detoxification entailed on a physical and emotional level. He'd been through it before, the days when he wasn't in the mood to consume even a small dose. He remembered sleeping more than ten hours and having trouble concentrating once he managed to get out of bed. Since Sandy Shores was, by all accounts, a 'quiet' place, Trevor's mind managed to focus in a short time due to the lack of stimuli in the surroundings. The worst, however, were the headaches afterwards. Trevor didn't think he had ever suffered such severe pain even when he was at the academy.

Weeks after moving in with Michael, he didn't seriously think about stopping using, but he had the decency not to do it in front of his boyfriend. The last thing he wanted was for them to fight over the issue of using, just as they had once fought over Michael's alcoholism and smoking.

Michael opted to quit smoking and cut down on his drinking if it would stop the fights and told Trevor so. Because of this, Trevor felt he should do the same, both to advance the relationship and for his own health.

At the doctor's office, just hours after being tested, the guy was horrified by Trevor's results and explained, alarmed, that in years of his career they had never received such a severe case of drug use, let alone one where the user was on his feet. Trevor did his best to contain an angry outburst that would cause him to break things and leave the office without prescriptions. Instead of letting himself lose self-control, he allowed his drug-free mind to succumb to an apathetic state of mind where nothing mattered to him, neither his surroundings nor himself. He had been off for a few days, but abstinence had not been kind; what the hell, it never was, but before he decided to go to the doctor's office, it went from bad to worse.

Trevor thought he would be strong enough to deal with his problem alone, but sooner rather than later he realized he couldn't do it. He hated to admit that he needed help, and he hated even more to involve Franklin, even if he knew that if he tried on his own, he wouldn't even get into the office.

Well, there's these next few weeks to deal with, he told himself, starting the van.

Before returning to the mansion, he stopped by the pharmacy and bought the prescribed medication. He put them in a pill box he kept in the glove compartment and put it in his jacket pocket. He threw the receipt and the empty box in the trash.

Arriving at the mansion, he took a deep breath and got out of the van, making sure the pillbox was out of sight. As soon as he got the chance, he would leave it on his bedside table.

He walked in and was greeted by Michael's voice talking to someone in the living room. Since no other voice could be heard, Trevor assumed he was talking on a cell phone.

Relaxing his posture, he went into the living room and, indeed and from what he understood, he was talking to Solomon.

Michael became aware of his presence and sketched a smile.

“Solomon, I have to leave you. I'll talk to you later”.

“Okay, Michael”, the producer replied and from his tone, it was easy to tell he was smiling. “I'll see you later in the week. Stop by the studio more often”.

“Will do. See you”.

As soon as he hung up, Trevor walked over to the couch and leaned down to capture Michael's lips. The black-haired man set the cell phone aside.

“How'd it go at...whatever it was you did?”, asked Michael, when they broke apart.

Trevor smirked. One of the things he'd made clear since they started living together was that when he ran important 'errands', he wouldn't give Michael all the details or let him get involved if it wasn't necessary. Because of this, every time Trevor went out, Michael had to make guesses about what might happen over the next few hours until his partner returned to the mansion.

“Great! Everything went great and the police didn't chase me. That's a good development”, Trevor replied. Michael nudged him.

“Yeah, it'll be for the best”, Michael said, somewhat sternly. By inertia, he moved toward Trevor, so that their arms ended up brushing against each other.

Trevor got the feeling that Michael was trying to find out if he had consumed anything, alcohol, marijuana or other drugs. It wouldn't have seemed strange to him. The first few times Trevor would go away and use, he would come back to the mansion smelling of some of the above mentioned or all together. He knew Michael was used to it, but that didn't stop the reproachful looks from stabbing Trevor like the words of rejection from flight school did so many years ago. He had just kissed him and found that he didn't smell anything strange, so it could simply be that Michael desired the contact.

Trevor was about to wrap his arms around him to end up in a side hug, but abruptly remembered he had the pillbox in his pocket. He couldn't take any chances.

He pulled away from Michael and got up from the couch.

“¿T?”.

“I'm going to...leave my jacket. I'll be right back”.

Trevor climbed the stairs and went to the shared room. He pulled the pillbox out of his pocket and took a pill. He managed to swallow it without water, using habit. He was to take another one after eight hours. For the first one, he didn't want to wait for a specific time; first mistake. Muttering a curse, he checked the time. Two o'clock in the afternoon. Well, the next one was to be at ten o'clock and the third at six o'clock the next morning.

If he set the alarm, he would be forced to explain himself to Michael; and if he didn't, he ran the risk of going over the hour.

He put the pillbox in the drawer of his bedside table, took off his jacket as he felt suffocated by the heat, and sat on the edge of the bed in thought. He had a chance to get better and make his relationship with Michael work. But, at the same time, knowing that he would secretly have to deal with withdrawal and the effects of the medication was not helping his stress to subside. Nor was it a comfort to have to put himself on a schedule to take pills that would help him cope with the pain and anxiety of using. He would have been better off smoking marijuana. However, he was well aware of the issue of trading one addiction for another and doing so would be the same as quitting treatment almost without having started.

Trevor realized he was taking too long to have gone upstairs to drop off his jacket.

He went back downstairs and went straight to Michael. He got back into his previous position and pulled him to himself to hug him.

“Are you sure you're okay?”, asked Michael, concerned.

Trevor kept his body from tensing and nodded against Michael's head.

“Perfectly”, he assured him, hugging him to keep him from looking at him.

He wanted to convince himself that, among so many bad things that had happened to him in life, detox or would be among the worst.

/////

It turned out that falling into drugs and even getting them afterward was easier than recovery itself.

It had only been five days and Trevor felt like he was going to collapse at any moment or he would end up going to Sandy Shores to get his hands on a meth farm and use whatever he could find. He didn't care that it wasn't quality drugs like his was, his body was crying out for a fix.

The medication temporarily relieved the more physically painful symptoms, but much of the psychological ones were still overwhelming. All he could think about when he went to bed and woke up was the desire to use, not for the twisted pleasure or false sense of happiness, but to relieve anxiety and general discomfort.

The third night was the most complicated. Trevor woke up coughing and feeling his face sticky against the pillow. Touching his forehead, he realized he was sweating profusely. The worst came when a violent bout of nausea, much like he had after inhaling gasoline, attacked him. He jumped out of bed and rushed to the bathroom. He didn't even notice that Michael had woken up and was asking him, alarmed, what was wrong. Trevor managed to drop down in front of the toilet just in time. He began to vomit up what he had eaten that day. His stomach twisted violently and the smell that reached his nose made him vomit once again.

After eliminating everything he put up from inside him, he held on to the toilet for a moment, feeling dizzy at the thought of standing up. It used to often happen to him that when he stood up he would get dizzy, but he never got to the point where he felt like the walls would fall on him or that the floor was turning over.

Michael came in with a damp cloth and used it to wipe his lips. Trevor didn't even have the strength to try to take it and do it himself. As soon as he felt relatively better, he asked Michael for help getting back into bed. Of course, his boyfriend asked him what was wrong and Trevor found a quick way out by telling him it must have been something he ate; it wouldn't be the first time.

Trevor waited for Michael to fall asleep so he could take a pill. The medication was making him excessively sleepy, similar to what he suffered from when he stopped using cold turkey. Other than that, the vomiting and hyperhidrosis, Trevor had not experienced any worse adverse effects.

Inwardly, he hoped that things would stay the same. If so, he could control it.

Too bad that on that fifth day, while Michael was out, Trevor felt everything around him falling apart. His head felt like it was being hit from the inside with a hammer and his body glistened with sweat. His muscles felt heavy and stiff.

As best he could, he got out of bed, stripped off his clothes and rushed to the shower. He turned on the hot water faucet and stood under the stream for quite a while, hoping that it would relieve some of the pain he was suffering.

Trevor knew it was to be expected. Years of use weren't going to go away or be easy to treat overnight.

He came out of the bathroom barely feeling relieved. His body felt less sore, but the anxiety was still stuck in his chest, ready to manifest itself as soon as it had the chance and remind him of the agony of coming off drugs.

Feeling he couldn't be alone, he called Franklin and asked, almost begged, to meet. He needed to get out and keep Michael from finding him in such a miserable state. As soon as he cut the call, the weight of guilt made him want to vomit as much as the withdrawal itself. Had he really just told the boy to help him with his problem? Franklin wasn't supposed to carry his burdens. He didn't have to.

Still, Trevor managed to change into clean clothes, put the pillbox in his pocket in case he was out longer than he thought, and get out of the mansion. Driving wasn't as much of a torture as being cooped up was. To tell the truth, seeing the sun and doing something other than lying down helped his mind calm down.

Franklin was waiting for him on the beach near Michael's psychiatrist's office. It was a remote spot, but Trevor needed him urgently. Since Michael had been 'discharged', he didn't frequent that area as much and if he had gone to Solomon's study, the chance of them crossing paths was slim.

Trevor saw the boy sitting on one of the benches with two bottles of soda. When he saw him, Franklin shot him a look laden with sympathy and held out both bottles.

“Sugar can help. It won't be the same as the shit from before, but maybe it'll help you be a little calmer”.

Trevor thanked him and in less time than expected drank one of the two bottles. He felt a little better, really; the kid sure was smart.

“I'll ask a silly question, how are you?”.

“...I don't know”, Trevor replied, stunned. “At times...I feel like my heart is going to stop and I keep telling myself it's my own body fighting the lack of drugs, that helps, briefly. And then, it's like my body isn't mine”.

“Like you're someone else?”, inquired Franklin.

“Yeah. I've never felt so...like that”, Trevor replied, not knowing what word to use. He clenched the empty bottle as his hands began to shake. “I don't know how to go on, besides taking the medication, I don't know what I'm going to do with what I have at Sandy Shores... I don't know how I'm going to tell Michael!”.

“Okay. For starters, you should spend your time doing something else, exercising, going for a walk in the daylight, anything to keep your mind off the desire to put shit in your body”, Franklin pointed out. “Believe me, I have experience with colleagues who have dealt with fucked up addictions”.

Trevor listened to Franklin's recommendations and made a mental list of what he could do in solitude. There were things Michael would notice from minute one and one of them would be that Trevor would stop frequenting Sandy Shores. If Trevor wanted to get better, he had to stay away from anything that included drugs and that included the business with Ron and Chef.

“Frank, I'm sorry I called you about this”, Trevor muttered, running a hand through his short hair. “Fuck, I must look pathetic”, he laughed, without any encouragement.

Franklin tapped him on the arm to get his attention.

“None of that, dog. I'm happy to see you take this step and get away from drugs and I know Michael will be when he finds out. You know that, if at any time you need to talk, I'm here”.

Trevor was relieved to have the boy, but he didn't want to keep burdening him with his problems. So much for asking him in the midst of his desperation to meet. They talked about anything and everything for an hour before they each went their separate ways.

Trevor wandered around the city until he lost count and track of time. He didn't notice Michael's messages asking him if he was still at the mansion or if he had left.

When he arrived at the mansion, he had a terrible headache. He wasn't sure if it was from the withdrawal itself or the medication. He went to the living room, lay down on the couch, put on a random program and covered his eyes with one arm, exhausted.

Michael arrived shortly after Trevor. He found him in the living room, dozing and covering his eyes.

“Trevor, what's wrong, are you okay?”, asked Michael, resting a hand on his arm.

“Migraine", Trevor replied, with a grunt. “Do you have aspirin?”.

“I think so. Wait”.

Trevor heard him walk away and the subsequent sound of drawers being handled. After a minute, Michael returned with a pill and a glass of water. Trevor sat up and took the pill and the glass of water.

“Thank you”, he said quietly.

“You've never been this sick”, Michael pointed out.

“It's nothing”, Trevor said. “Lie down with me”, he requested.

Michael nodded, took off his coat and lay down next to Trevor, clinging to his body. In a casually affectionate gesture, he ran a hand down Trevor's cheek and noticed one thing.

“T, you're burning up!”, exclaimed Michael.

“I didn't notice”, Trevor half-lied. The headache had kept him from noticing the fever. “It's not...”.

“Don't you dare tell me it's nothing,” Michael spat. He got up and went to the kitchen. He returned shortly with a cold cloth and pressed it against Trevor's forehead. “What's happening to you, what are you up to now?”.

If he hadn't felt so weakened, Trevor would have stood up and told him to stop questioning him about it.

The angry thought about Michael's intrusion soon turned to guilt. He was asking because he was worried, not because he wanted to control him, and Trevor knew it.

He wasn't sure how long he would last without knowing.

/////

A few days later, almost two weeks later, Trevor was feeling relatively better. He was no longer throwing up everything he ate or suffering from such violent headaches, but his mind still felt frazzled. In the mornings, it was hard to get out of bed and do anything in his day to keep from thinking bad thoughts, and the rest of the afternoon, he felt pretty groggy. The medication caused him to feel drowsy most of the time and lacked the energy to even think about exercising or any activity that would help him not succumb to miserable moods.

As if that wasn't enough, Michael had begun to get out of the mansion less. Trevor could hear him making excuses with Solomon for not going to the studio and with Franklin for not going out drinking, unless the three of them went out together. Nor was it easy to evade questions about his reasons for not drinking alcohol or smoking anything.

Trevor had the feeling, on a couple of occasions, that Franklin was about to tell Michael the truth, but his promise must have prevented him from saying too much. 

The days had been wearing, but he had made it through. Perhaps it was best if he talked to Michael about it. It was clear that his boyfriend was suspicious and, knowing him, he must think Trevor was going down a new path of total self-destruction.

Trevor decided to ask him to go out for the night in Michael's car. He told him to drive down to the beach. Lately, Trevor found a certain comfort in that place, even if the idea of getting in the water or taking walks along the shore didn't appeal to him.

Michael parked in a secluded spot, away from the few cars there, and turned off the engine.

“Do you want to get out or...?”, asked Michael.

“Not really”, Trevor replied. “I just...didn't want to be cooped up anymore”.

Michael sighed and was the first to start the talk.

“Trevor”, he said, in the same tone he used when a situation, instead of angering or exasperating him, distressed him, ”help me understand what's wrong with you”.

Trevor kept looking straight ahead. His right hand remained in his pocket, where he kept the pill box with his remaining doses until he returned to the doctor's office.

He didn't know how to put it in simple words or what to ask Michael to get him to minimally extend the inevitable, because he knew it wasn't worth trying. 

Resigned and trying not to imagine how it could all end, he pulled the pillbox out of his pocket and held it out to Michael. It was unlabeled, so Michael couldn't tell what the pills were.

“It's not what you're thinking”, Trevor anticipated, noticing Michael's dismayed look. “I'm not addicted to pharmaceuticals. On the contrary, they're for...treating addiction”.

Michael held the pill up, unsure whether to hand it back to Trevor or inspect it as if that would answer one of the thousands of questions he had.

“You...When...How...?”.

In other circumstances, Trevor would have laughed to see Michael struggling to find the right words. 

“I started almost two weeks ago”, Trevor explained, dropping his hands limp in his lap. “Frank is aware, I asked him to come with me because I knew if I went alone...I'd make my own”.

“But...why didn't you tell me?”, asked Michael quietly and Trevor hated to hear the pain in his voice. And he hated being the one who caused it.

“I didn't know how I was going to cope, if I could go on or if I'd end up sending it all to shit again”, Trevor replied. “I didn't want to worry you or make you suffer through my withdrawal”.

Michael clicked his tongue and put down the pillbox.

“And you didn't think if you told me, I could have helped you cope better? Fuck, T, I'm no shrink, but... I don't know, I could have been there or looked for ways to ease your discomfort”.

Trevor exhaled rather harshly and Michael realized that reproaches would get them nowhere.

“Why did you decide to start treatment? You didn't seem to care about using before”.

Trevor bit his lower lip and rubbed his right thigh. It was time.

“A few days before I went to the consultation, I went to Sandy Shores, Ron and Chef needed help with some business stuff and useless Ron was too nervous to talk to potential clients. I remember it was...noon, maybe. I was in the trailer wasting away when Ron walked in. I couldn't even yell at him to shut up and leave me alone because...”.

Trevor exhaled softly, pondering which way he should tell Michael the truth.

“What, Trevor? What happened at Sandy Shores?”, inquired Michael.

“I lost consciousness for a moment. When I recovered, Ron was holding me on my side and was yelling for Chef to help me”.

“You blacked out?”.

“I convulsed, Mike”.

Michael stepped back and his gaze was completely transformed when the impact came. Trevor, for his part, remained very calm; even he had to admit to himself that it was strange to remain impassive.

“What...did you suffer a seizure? Did you even go to the emergency room?!”.

“No, I didn't”, Trevor sighed again. “Chef tried to convince me to seek medical attention”.

“Yes, you should have”, Michael spat, accusingly. “T, you suffered a fucking overdose seizure! What if you'd smashed your head on the floor or suffered a heart attack? Really, you expected me not to worry or think the worst?”.

Michael ran a hand over his face sharply.

“Damn it, Trevor, what if you'd suffered another one when you got home? How could you not tell me your intake got to that point? Why did you keep it from me that you were in treatment?!”.

“Because it's not fucking easy to have to accept it, Michael!”, vociferated Trevor. “You saw how I've been through withdrawal these past two weeks! You think it would be easy to look you in the eye and tell you what happened to me?”.

“So, what, you had to wait for me to see you convulse again or have a heart attack?”.

Jointly, both men realized they were getting too upset. If they ended up fighting, they would get nowhere. Michael took a deep breath and told himself this was not the time for complaints.

“I'm sorry, I'm... God, T”, looking out the window, Michael let out a sarcastic chuckle, which seemed to cover a weak sob. “I didn't realize you were...”.

“Because I didn't want you to know”, Trevor clarified.

“We're dating, Trevor. We're supposed to trust each other”.

“And, believe it or not, I do trust you, Mikey. To some extent, I didn't trust myself to do this”.

Michael turned to him and the regret Trevor saw in the eyes he loved so much broke his heart.

“T, I swear if I had realized...”, Michael started to say.

“Hey”, Trevor interrupted him, resting his hand on Michael's, "don't feel bad about this. It was my decision to hide it until I was sure I could go through with the treatment. Now that you know, we can handle it together”.

Michael gave a sad smile and squeezed Trevor's hand.

"When are you due back for your consultation?”.

“In two days”.

“Okay, I'll go with you”, Michael stated, leaving no room for protest. “I'll tell the doctor to tell me how to help you”.

Trevor smiled, grabbed Michael by the shoulders and pulled him to him to kiss him. It was a gentle gesture, charged with a comforting warmth that made the sorrows forgotten for a moment. Trevor hugged Michael when he was about to pull away and Michael buried his face in his boyfriend's neck. The grip was a little awkward inside the car, but neither cared too much.

It would be a long road, there was no doubt about it, but Trevor was happy to have the support of two of the people he cared about most.

[bellaciaao3]

Random Thought 3:

I don't know why every time I see scenes between Michael and Trevor or when one of them talks about the other, it all gives me the impression that there was something more between them than a strange friendship.

I mean…, from my point of view, Michael seems like the repressed lover who wants to forget that he ever had anything with another man, in this case, his best friend, and that is why he also makes an effort to pretend that he has a typical family and ignores everything related to his past; Trevor, on the other hand, is definitely the guy who doesn't mind openly expressing what he feels (please don't forget that on one of the outings with Franklin, the guy asks him if he's gay and Trevor says he just doesn't like labels) and who would have given anything for his lover, even if he seeks to deny that anything ever existed between them.

Why did I think this? Because I haven't slept much for two days and I needed an excuse to keep thinking about Trikey.

[bellaciaao3]

Headcanons 3

Trevor is the type of person can successfully perform impromptu missions and remember every detail of what he sees in every area he goes to despite his worn out mind, but he will forget that the keys he is looking for are in his hand or that he is wearing the jacket he wants to go out in. Michael will laugh at him all the way if they go out together.

Michael says he doesn't like animals and hates having them in the mansion, but when Franklin visits them with Chop, the dog comes to him first and Michael soon has him behind him like a shadow and the dog lying at his feet when he sits down. He also often leaves bowls of food and water for the outdoor cats at the door.

Franklin and Lamar often go target practice together with bows and arrows, just for fun. Franklin feels it will help Lamar with his aim. Lamar is amused because it reminds him of the normal childhood times he and his friend had.

[bellaciaao3]

Michael notices that Trevor seems unusually clingier than ever.

Trevor tries to hide that he is having anxiety problems related to Michael's death.

/////

For Michael, it wasn't so strange that Trevor acted like a cat at times: wanting to be around people, but not being bothered, touched or talked to. It was the same when they were young and it got worse if he was having a bad day; in that case, he straight up didn't want to be talked to unless it was about something important and spent most of his time practicing shooting at cans or trees.

Michael couldn't say it was any different after ten years of not seeing each other, with the difference being that, at that moment, Trevor wasn't looking to brush up against him, touch him too much, or do something as simple as pat him on the shoulder by way of teasing. Michael hadn't overlooked the fact that Trevor was constantly calling him at all hours, looking for jobs they could do together, and always dismissing him with a phrase like, “See you next time. Make sure you stay alive until then. At first, Michael believed that his still-friend was still tormenting him with the same thing about the fake death and the fact that he was dealing with the discovery in his own way. Michael knew that, had it been someone else, the reunion with Trevor would have ended in a real death. Trevor's emotional stability was not something other people should take lightly, but Michael, who knew him and was absolutely certain that Trevor would never hurt him no matter how angry he was with him, was giving himself certain liberties.

All that was before they formalized the relationship, when they managed to clarify their points and took the time required to understand each other and stop insulting each other at the slightest word. It was not easy, especially with two people as explosive as they were.

As the months went by and after the inevitable fights (the normal ones in a couple, not the ones where they threatened to kill each other), Michael noticed a considerable change in Trevor: he often sought out physical contact, from something as simple as tapping him with his elbow when they joked or sitting next to him if they went out alone or with Franklin and Lester, to draping a leg over Michael's when they were on the couch or holding him by the shoulders at any random moment, practically refusing to let go. If they were sitting in a public place, Trevor would move one of his legs and bring his knee together with Michael's and rub his arm.

No matter what they did, Trevor would relentlessly seek contact with Michael.

Michael had assumed these were casual affectionate moments, which shouldn't be surprising coming from Trevor. It hadn't been so different when Patricia was in the trailer. Michael remembered seeing them holding hands, her gently caressing his face or her gently holding his arm to get his attention. With him, however, it felt different. The touches seemed to go from casual to...needy. It was as if Trevor couldn't wait to put an arm around his shoulders or lean against him.

At night, at bedtime, it was no different. Usually, it was Trevor who hugged Michael's back and all those times, the older one felt that one of Trevor's hands rested on his chest; or, specifically, close to his heart.

If it was Michael hugging him from behind, Trevor refused to let go of his arm and allow Michael to turn around, ending the contact.

Thinking this was a 'new' side of Trevor, Michael didn't question it, although that didn't stop him from thinking about it every chance he got and noticing Trevor's attitudes around him.

Michael also didn't overlook the way Trevor spoke when he announced that he had to leave for one thing or another. The questions came with a certain level of anxiety and Michael was experienced in recognizing it: “Must you go, now? Where to? Why?” or “Is it important? Do you have to go alone? When will you be back?”.

If he didn't know better, Michael would have concluded that Trevor was just jealous and paranoid that he was going to meet someone else for a quick fling. But Michael saw beyond that and soon realized that this was not a misconception. From the way his partner was talking (i.e., no noticeable anger in his voice, but fear and uncertainty), Michael could tell he was anxious and worried.

He tried to talk about it and ask him what was going on, but each time, Trevor told him that he was imagining things and that nothing was wrong.Michael knew that wasn't true, but pressuring Trevor to talk would end up in an argument that neither wanted to go through.

What was he to do then?

/////

Trevor was arriving at the mansion after having gone to resolve a snag with his business in Sandy Shores. Apparently, Ron had become too overwhelmed to handle the drug and gun business alone and needed Trevor's backup to deal with some dangerous potential buyers. Dangerous people were never a problem for him; come on, he had ripped the ear off a mobster who managed to instill fear in Michael and threatened to do the same to his remaining one if he found out he was mistreating Patricia.

He had told Michael where he would be and Michael told him he was going to the store for a couple of things. Trevor asked him if he would be back before him and Michael replied “Probably. Unless there's a line sticking out of the store and your truck turns into a rocket, yes, I'll be here before you." Michael was the one who was almost always in charge of doing the shopping, as the last time Trevor did it, he got into an argument with another guy over the latest meat deal and then knocked over a couple's shopping cart in a fit of rage because the couple's kids kept hitting him on the hip. They had to go to another store and agreed that Michael would either go on his own or they would go together, for the safety of the other customers.

Trevor parked his truck in the driveway and noticed that Michael's car was not where he left it when he returned.

“I'm home, sugar!”, he announced, closing the door. “Mikey?”.

He checked the living room and didn't find him watching one of those boring old movies he knew by heart from watching it over a thousand times. Trevor went upstairs and checked the shared bedroom and bathroom. Nothing. The absolute silence should have given him an idea that he would be alone. When Michael was in the house, there wasn't a day that went by that Trevor didn't hear the TV with a movie or news channel at a fairly loud volume or Phil Collins music. Trevor didn't mind the sound. Despite years of living in Sandy Shores, practically in the middle of nowhere, too much silence made him feel strangely overwhelmed.

As was currently happening to him.

He must have been late at the store or maybe he went to do something else, Trevor thought, trying to reassure himself. But he would have sent me a message. Maybe he missed something.

He went back into the living room and sat on the couch, not knowing what to do besides wait for Michael to come back.

Because he would, wouldn't he?

Was he supposed to call him and ask if he was okay? Or was he supposed to wait? Was it going to be too invasive of him to ask where he was? What if he asked Lester for help? That sounded just as invasive as the idea of a message to Michael.

Trevor shook his head and berated himself for being so paranoid. Michael was fine, maybe he'd just been running a little late or had left later than he'd said.

But what if something terrible had really happened? What if he had run into remaining enemies who still wanted to hurt or kill him? It had happened before with the Chinese mafia, who had captured him because of him.

'Man, I can't believe Michael didn't break with the Chinese', Franklin had said, one day when they were out, while Michael was in the bathroom. 'I saw the bruises on his face and just imagining the ones on his body makes me shudder'.

It had been a casual chat and something both Franklin and Michael could tell as an anecdote among so many things that happened, but for Trevor, hearing it made him shudder. The Chinese were about to assassinate Michael and he didn't care because he was dealing with the rage of finding out what happened to Brad.

'Michael? Fuck Michael! I hope he's dead'.

Trevor couldn't believe those words had come out of his mouth. For ten years he had mourned Michael, visited his grave as much as he could and stayed there, talking and saying how much he wished he was alive or that Trevor himself wished he was dead so he could find him again. And when he found him, he felt anger, rage, even hatred, but at the same time, he felt relief and a strange sense of happiness; the same happiness that only Michael could offer him and the only happiness that Trevor accepted without question. For years, he regretted not having done more to save him and not having done anything to convince him to run away together before that last heist. When he saw him again, Trevor, as furious as he was at Michael for what had happened, made a promise to himself that, to this day, he never thought of breaking: No matter how angry he was or what happened between them, he would never, ever hurt Michael, for anything in the world. Trevor might have said before that he hated him, that he didn't want to hear from him, or that the very thought of him made that same angry feeling hit his chest like a bullet, but under no circumstances did it ever cross his mind to hurt Michael. The mere thought made his nauseous.

But he ended up doing something just as terrible: he had left him on a silver platter for the enemies. Highly dangerous enemies who would murder anyone who crossed them. That, combined with a person like Michael, unable to keep his mouth shut and swallow his sarcasm, could only end in disaster.

Since Franklin reminded him of that terrible situation, Trevor couldn't think of being away from Michael for long. He was sure that if he wasn't by his side, a tragedy could happen. Many people hated them, but no one would dare come close. But there would always be people crazier than them, so dismissing the idea would be a mistake.

Without realizing it, his right leg began to bounce and he began to pinch the skin on his knuckles. He didn't draw blood, but the pain was no less. He put his hands to his head and rested his elbows on his knees.

Ever since he remembered what happened, Trevor couldn't even sleep peacefully next to Michael, feeling the need to check that his heart was beating or that he could still feel a pulse in his wrist. He would wake up on the hour and hour since the wee hours of the morning and barely get any sleep before waking up and feeling Michael's chest or wrist, looking for signs that he was breathing.

Trevor couldn't think about losing him again. Michael faked his death once, but what if the next time was the final time? What if the next time he fell asleep and didn't wake up?

Trevor shuddered as the image of Michael dying for real came into his mind. His chest felt on call as he wanted to breathe and without realizing it, tears began to fall down his cheeks. The environment felt unstable, the walls seemed about to fall on him and the floor shifted, causing his head to spin.

He let out a hoarse sob, but was unable to hear it over the incessant ringing in his ears.

Could that day have been about what he thought? What would he do if he got a call from Franklin, Lester, the police or the morgue? How was he going to look the others in the face and tell them that Michael had, indeed, departed from the world of the living?

T...

What would he do? Would he fall back into his unhealthy coping methods? Would methamphetamine, alcohol and other drugs get back into his system?

Trevor...

It wouldn't be what Michael would want for him. Michael had made his distaste for drugs clear and made sure that Trevor, at least and even though it wasn't what he wanted, would cut down on his drug use.

“Trevor!”.

Trevor straightened up with a violent jolt. He lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot, and looked around. The room was the same as when he entered, everything was in its place and the only difference was that Michael was beside him on the couch, looking at him with a mixture of concern and dismay.

“Mikey...”, he uttered chokingly. He ran a hand over his face and realized he had broken out in a sweat.

“What happened? The withdrawal again?”.

Trevor almost laughed. It had been weeks since he'd suffered from meth withdrawal. He was managing it better than the anxiety.

The anxiety...

Trevor turned to Michael and didn't give him time to ask him anything when he pulled him to himself and hugged him, very tightly, shaking and panting. He needed to feel him, needed to know that he was real and not a hallucination brought on by his own fears. Immediately, he brought his hand to Michael's chest and felt his heart pounding at an accelerated rate, a product of the worry Trevor felt emanating from him.

He was all right. He was alive and he was by his side.

Trevor felt Michael's arms wrap around him just as tightly and it made him cry again, but this time out of relief. He was real. He was with him, trying to get him to calm down and tell him what had happened.

“Let's not talk about it now”, Trevor asked, his voice weak. It wasn't the best time to relive past fears.

Michael tried to explain to him that he'd been delayed at the store because there were few cashiers and people were late, then because a couple of people obstructed the exit over a dispute about who had priority to leave and driving wasn't any easier. But realizing that Trevor was in no condition to listen, he stopped trying.

Michael continued to hold him and reassure him as much as he could that everything was okay.

"T, I'm right here. I'm with you and I'm not leaving".

Michael knew it was the least he could say after all the suffering he had caused him with his first abandonment and the aftermath.

Many times, Michael thought about the mistake Trevor was making by staying by his side.

[gem-fin]

[bellaciaao3]

My honest reaction: 😳

[bellaciaao3]

In dreams

Michael no longer drinks or smokes or binge eats when he has a depressive episode.

He found another way to evade reality in difficult times.

/////

A new day, the same routine for him: watch a movie, maybe tidy up the house a bit, eat at the respective times, go out for a walk around the city, evaluate whether he would go to see Solomon at the recording studio, come back and go on with his daily life as a lonely middle-aged man with few illusions about life and think about what he could do differently the next day.

What would change the next day, or the day after that or the day after that or any of the days after that?

Michael wasn't sure.

It had been days since his routine had been based on the same thing, not because he had no options, but because his mind was still not a safe place for himself. It never had been, although months ago, he would have dealt with it differently, perhaps not healthily, but he would have dealt with it nonetheless. Before, he would have drunk a whole bottle of whiskey or smoked three cigarettes in a row or gone out and stopped at four different bakeries. Or he would have done all three in one day.

Currently, however, Michael didn't want to relapse into things that had already gotten him into trouble with those close to him. He told himself that was why he spent so much time alone at home and refused every invitation to go out from Franklin, Lester, Solomon and even Trevor. His excuses varied depending on the day and the person. The most commonly used were: "I can't today, I have to go to the recording studio", "I'm sorry, I already have an engagement", or "It's not possible, I have to do something else". 

The only real one he gave less frequently was: "I can't, I don't feel well".

Michael was sure that his colleagues assumed these were physical health issues and he hoped it would stay that way. Deep down, however, he used to hope that one would notice that it wasn't physical, but mental. Getting up in the mornings was complicated, and then doing basic things like showering, washing one's face, eating or just drinking water became real challenges. 

Sessions before leaving him, Friedlander talked to him about depression and offered him the alternative of a medication. Michael hated the possibility that he would end up on medication, as he didn't want to be doped up around the clock or have it limit his day-to-day life. For that reason, he refused the medication and stated that depression was just "something doctors say because they don't take the time to properly evaluate patients". Friedlander mentioned his constant denial about his own health and Michael let out a sarcastic comment and stubbornly refused the card with the number of other specialist.

On second thought and in the absolute silence of his home, Michael wondered if he had made the right decision.

One Wednesday, at two o'clock in the afternoon, Michael arrived home after an unsuccessful attempt to go to Franklin's house. The boy texted him that he could go if he needed to talk or if he simply wanted to get out of the mansion. Michael barely made it two blocks with his car before he turned around and returned to the solitude of his home. He wasn't well and didn't want Franklin to notice and talk about it later with Trevor, Lester or Lamar.

Michael didn't even bother to respond to the message. He got out of his car, went back inside and went straight to his room. There, he changed into light clothes and lay down on the bed, which hadn't been made in days. He covered up to his waist and set an alarm on his cell phone.

I'll sleep for an hour and I'll be fine, he told himself.

He fell asleep in less time than he used to when he drank. He dreamed he was on the beach, on a sunny day like any other, watching the immensity of the sea. The rays of light caressed his face, making him feel relaxed, free from the stress of the busy world behind his back. The sound of the water, undisturbed, without loud music or young people partying, drinking alcohol and throwing their trash, reminded him of the first years he arrived in Los Santos; when he thought he was happy. For once, Michael did not feel the weight of loneliness, quite the opposite.

He took a few steps towards the water and it barely reached his feet in the sand.

He liked the idea of always being like this, calm, without stress or worries. He longed for that genuine tranquility and not the typical escapism of his: sitting on the sun lounger with a glass of whiskey and using his headphones to pretend that the music dulled the noise of problems. That routine had only made his worn-out mind more exhausted. Michael didn't want to fall into it again. He just... wanted to be at peace.

A loud sound made him open his eyes. Automatically, his hand moved to reach for his cell phone and he turned off the alarm, dazed. The darkness of his room made his tiredness grow, all he wanted was to close his eyes.

Michael turned off his cell phone, rolled over to lie on his other side and looked out the balcony door. He could hear the noise of cars, horns and complaints from pedestrians. Not even such a racket could keep him from falling asleep again.

Four o'clock, five o'clock, six o'clock... and until nine o'clock at night, Michael did not wake up. He had slept for seven hours and not even that time lapse could stop him from feeling exhausted.

He turned on his cell phone and found that he had several messages from Lester and Franklin. They read worriedly asking about him. Not wanting to give them reason to go see him, Michael replied that he was fine and wasn't at the mansion.

He didn't even bother to read their answers.

He didn't think he would be able to go back to sleep after doing it all afternoon. And as so often, he was wrong.

He fell asleep after twenty minutes of waking up.

/////

Michael had considered returning to therapy, with a competent specialist who could actually counsel him and not increase his fees each session for the most absurd reasons. However, the times he spent lying around, overthinking, made him end up convincing himself that it was a bad idea. The first idiot had let him down, so why risk the same thing happening again? Besides, what was he going to change? The worst thing was to think that he would have to start from scratch to tell why he decided to go to therapy and the reasons about why his previous therapist 'discharged' him.

His therapist would surely have talked about avoiding taking responsibility and how Michael always found a way to excuse his refusal to try to make changes in his life, starting with his hatred of acknowledging a problem that had to do with him.

Lying in bed or on the couch, he had plenty of time to brood and berate himself. When talking, he could spend the whole day apportioning blame and pointing fingers at people who had little or nothing to do with his miserable state of mind, but in complete solitude, his head would remind him that he was the only one to blame.

When he had an anxiety episode, Michael would spend most of the early morning hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to sleep. Nothing would motivate him to leave his house.

And that's what he did most days. The following depressive episodes were no different. Michael still maintained his personal hygiene and ate relatively well, but he didn't leave his house and if he didn't want to know anything about the real world, he decided to sleep.

Trevor wrote to him several times, asking why the hell he wasn't answering his calls. As with the others, Michael couldn't find the will to respond to his ¿friend? The feeling of ignoring Trevor's messages made Michael feel guilty. He had ignored him for ten years and when they met, he kept lying to him. Ignoring his messages felt just as bad.

Some evenings, he dreamed they were back in North Yankton, but not living the criminal life. They had a...normal life. Trevor was still in the air force and excelling as one of the best, and Michael had a quiet life away from his nefarious parents.

And they lived together. Michael didn't fully remember what kind of cohabitation they had, but he remembered feeling like it was a pleasant dream.

When he woke up, he thought about how much he wanted to stay in those dreams forever.

The thought of calling Trevor and telling him about it felt wrong. What right did Michael have to do that after everything that had happened between them? Whether or not Trevor had accepted his apology and their weird, dysfunctional friendship had gone back to the way it was, Michael couldn't think that things would change again because of his depressed state. That state had already alienated him from his family and he was sure it was the same with Frank and Lester. The last thing Michael wanted was for Trevor to walk away too.

And what the hell am I doing ignoring his messages, Michael wondered, lying on the bed and massaging his forehead. His cell phone was off. He hadn't wanted to receive calls and have to explain why he hadn't left his house in days.

Dreams were more pleasant, so Michael rolled over and closed his eyes, waiting for the gentle arrival in a utopian world where he was okay.

/////

Trevor cut off the twelfth call to Michael and tossed his cell phone in the passenger seat. His truck was parked in front of Michael's house and all along the drive, he had been calling him to ask if he was okay and why the hell he hadn't been answering his or Franklin and Lester's messages.

Those two spoke to him and asked him if he knew anything about Michael, claiming that, as his best friend, he should have a sense of what Michael was doing.

Trevor replied that 'best friend' was not synonymous with 'faithful dog'. He didn't tell them that he was going to the mansion to see him, as he wanted to spare them the teasing and the rest of the questions.

To himself, Trevor would not deny being worried about Michael. It could be normal for Michael to not keep in touch by text so often, but for him not to answer calls or take the trouble to be less curt with his messages was a red flag that Trevor learned in short order.

Anxiety flared in Trevor as a bunch of unpleasant ideas came to mind and began to bother him. What was he going to find when he entered the mansion?, he wondered, as he made his way to a half-open window; he didn't want to pick the lock and then deal with Michael's grumpiness about it. Would Michael be lying on the floor, choking on his own vomit? Would he be in the living room, with three bottles of whiskey nearby and clutching his belly from feeling his stomach burn? Or would he have been so drunk that, by smoking, he ended up burning himself? What if it was an accumulation of things that led to...?

Trevor shook his head and went through a window in the living room. He shouldn't get any ideas so soon.

"Michael?", he called to him, entering the kitchen. "Michael, you better not be dead, you selfish bastard!".

Nothing-no sarcastic or angry retort to his intrusion. Trevor noticed that the kitchen wasn't in shambles like that time he showed up, after Amanda and the kids had left with that crazy yoga instructor. Everything was more or less clean, maybe some leftover food, but there were no fast food boxes or used glasses left in the sink. 

Trevor opened Michael's fridge to poke around. There wasn't too much: bottles of water, half a dozen eggs, some untouched fruit, and a can of energy drink. He closed the door and checked the shelf where Michael kept the alcoholic beverages. All the bottles were intact.

Trevor walked through the house and found no traces to indicate that Michael had done... anything wrong.

He was left to check his room.

With each step, Trevor felt his anxiety levels rise. He didn't know what he might find when he opened the door and the uncertainty was suffocating.

When he forced himself to open the door and face what he should, all he got was Michael sleeping soundly. His back was to the door, covered up to his waist and holding part of the blankets like a child holds a stuffed animal to sleep.

Trevor quietly entered the room and approached the bed. Michael was breathing slowly and evenly and Trevor never thought he would see his face so relaxed. He wondered what he was dreaming about and concluded that it must be a nice place, away from all the things that bothered Michael, where he could have the peace and quiet he so desired.

Sighing, Trevor decided to leave the room, leaving the door open. He went to the second floor and decided to wait in the living room for Michael to wake up. It was two o'clock in the afternoon. He couldn't take that long to wake up.

To Trevor's bewilderment, Michael woke up around five-thirty in the afternoon. During those hours, Trevor rearranged items in the kitchen a bit, watched TV for a while, and continued to wander around a few rooms, all without making too much noise. He was almost shocked by the hours Michael slept, not realizing anyone else was in his house.

Trevor heard Michael heavily coming down the stairs and going to the kitchen. He didn't hear him looking for something in the fridge or cupboards. Had he even been eating?

"God...", Michael gasped slowly as he walked into the living room and saw Trevor sitting quietly on his couch. "I didn't know you were coming".

Honestly, that wasn't the reaction Trevor had expected. He was ready to hear reproaches, threats or insults for walking in like it was his house. But Michael's look was very much in keeping with the way his words came out. Trevor was more than used to seeing him wearing a smart suit inside the mansion and looking perfectly groomed. Seeing him in sweatpants and a baggy black short-sleeved T-shirt made Trevor arch his eyebrows a little.

What caught his attention the most was Michael's face: he looked completely defeated, exhausted from everything, he had dark circles under his eyes and his eyes lacked the sparkle he used to keep before.

"You didn't answer our messages", Trevor replied, unable to avoid the reproachful tone in his voice. "You had us worried, you know".

"I'm sorry", Michael sighed. "I haven't been feeling well".

"Physically or mentally?", inquired Trevor.

Michael let out a sarcastic chuckle and returned to the kitchen. Trevor clicked his tongue and went after him.

"What's going on?", asked Trevor.

"Nothing. Why should anything be going on?", mumbled Michael, pouring himself a glass of water. "I was just sleeping".

"How many hours did you sleep?", insisted Trevor, crossing his arms.

Michael didn't even bother to answer him. He set the half-empty glass down abruptly on the counter and walked out of the kitchen. Trevor heard him coming up the stairs and knew he had returned to the bedroom.

How hard it was to deal with a closed person like Michael, especially if they had to talk about emotional issues.

Trevor could have left and let Michael sink into his pity party. He had already checked that he was alive and clearly didn't want to talk. He had no extra reason to stay at the mansion.

But he couldn't do it. He couldn't find a way to leave the way he came and leave Michael alone.

Snorting, Trevor climbed the stairs and walked back into the room. Michael had gone back to bed. It would have been easy to tell him he was being silly and that he wouldn't get anything out of lying around. Trevor was good at that.

"Aren't you going to talk?", snapped Trevor.

"No", Michael replied, listlessly.

"Fine. I'll stay with you until you want to", Trevor declared. He rounded the bed and lay down on the other side.

Michael must not have felt like arguing, because all he did was grunt under his breath and turn his back on him.

For an hour and a half, they didn't make a sound. Trevor looked at Michael the whole time and Michael tried to go back to sleep, hoping that Trevor would be gone by then. But as he felt the Canadian's eyes boring holes in his head, the idea was discarded.

Surrendering to Trevor's silent insistence, Michael rolled over and sat up in bed. Trevor did the same.

"Well?", asked Trevor. "What's the matter with you?".

Michael looked away for a moment and Trevor heard him sniffle lightly. When the older man turned back to him, Trevor saw the same dull expression, but his eyes crystallized and filled with sadness.

"I don't know", Michael admitted. "I didn't feel like doing anything but sleeping".

"You haven't been out in the last few days?".

"I tried, but... I can't", Michael repeated, staring straight ahead.

Trevor wasn't sure what to say. He was the worst person when it came to trying to offer words of comfort. Anything he said could be misinterpreted and he was sure that, if it happened, Michael's condition would get worse. So, he opted not to speak and to act. He moved a little towards Michael and pulled him to himself. 

Michael didn't put up any kind of resistance, but instead let himself fall against Trevor's shoulder. He couldn't remember when was the last time he had a shred of human contact.

They didn't continue to talk. Michael didn't tell him in depth what was wrong with him and Trevor didn't force him to talk about it.

Although they were silent as Trevor held him and when Michael settled down so he could fit snugly into the Trevor's arms, the companionship felt pleasant.

"Thank you for... coming," was all Michael said.

"You'll need to do more than disappear for a few days to get rid of me, sugar".