Trevor glares at the bleeding man before him. Michael doesn’t move, not counting a slight sway from the punches Trevor had thrown, his shoulders remaining slumped and head low.
“It’s not fucking funny, Michael.” Trevor repeats, his voice nothing but a rocky growl. “Knock it off. Now. Before you really piss me off.”
Michael doesn’t speak. Only tilts his head to spit blood from his mouth. It narrowly misses his shoe. After a minute, he licks his split lips and finally lifts his head enough to meet Trevor’s eyes. It gave him that kicked puppy face Trevor grew to loathe.
“M’not lying, Trevor.” he says weakly.
It’s quiet.
Michael can see the gears turning in Trevor’s head and Trevor’s this close to having a goddamn meltdown. This wasn’t a joke to him. Not a funny ha ha gotchya! type of thing. This was his life. A life he was willing to change, if it meant he got to have his best friend back. Now suddenly that same best friend comes sauntering up, saying he “can’t live a lie” anymore, and wants to be on the run with him again like when they were kids? Bullfuckingshit.
Michael had lowered his head again. He didn’t see Trevor stomping towards him, pulling his gun out of the back of his jeans until it was aimed at him, right between his eyes. Trevor’s hand shook, Michael stayed still.
“Prove it.” Trevor spits into the silence, “Prove you won’t just backstab me again.”
Michael holds that helpless look on his face. “How?”
Trevor flexes his fingers around the gun’s handle as he tries to think on his toes. The sound of his own harsh breathing mixed with blood pounding behind his ears is making it difficult to concentrate. It’s the first thing he can think of.
Michael nearly flinches when Trevor moves his hand, half expecting a gunshot and his world to go black while the sand turned red from his brains. Something cold pressed against his lips, and when he blinks he realizes it’s the gun.
“Open.”
Wordlessly, Michael slowly opens his mouth; Trevor slides the pistol between his lips and over his tongue, until his knuckles met Michael’s chin. His other hand grabs a handful of Michael’s hair and pulls his head back enough to whisper in his ear.
“I’m giving you one last chance, Sugar.” Trevor’s breath is hot and sour, “You playing a fuckin’ joke on me?”
Michael struggles to breathe around the gun in his mouth. He opts to gently shake his head no, adding a weak hum to it. Spit starts dribbling down his chin.
“Alright.”
Michael watches Trevor click the gun’s safety off, he can feel the metal moving in his mouth and his heart pound even harder as Trevor’s finger wraps around the trigger. One pull, and he’s dead.
“You gotta promise me a few things then, Mikey.” Trevor says with a rough yank of his hair, just in case Michael wasn’t paying attention. “If you can do that, then I’ll really believe you.”
Michael doesn’t move. He can’t without gagging himself. He locks eyes with Trevor and hopes he can read what their saying. Trevor stares at him for a moment, then the gun is being pulled from his mouth. Michael coughs when fresh air hits his dry throat.
“One,” Trevor starts with another pull of Michael’s hair. “You’re ride or die with me, and you fucking mean it this time. No going back to Mandy. No playing dead and selling me out. Got it?”
Michael clears his throat and answers with a weak, “Yes.”
“Two, I’m in charge this time around.” Trevor lists, “You listen to me. I plan the scores, you just look pretty and follow my rules.”
A slight nod. “Okay.”
“Three…” Trevor’s voice is a pitch less intimidating. Michael feels his hand leave his hair and latch on to his jaw instead; the man pulls Michael’s gaze to his own once more. Trevor’s smiling, leaning in closer, his nose brushing against Michael’s; Michael closes his eyes and shivers when Trevor speaks against his lips.
“You gotta kiss me, cowboy.”
Michael doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have too. He reaches with his neck to find Trevor’s lips and kisses him like the world was ending. Trevor’s tugs his hair, Michael moans into his mouth and gets gagged by a tongue; it’s wet and sloppy but neither care. It’s been too long.
When they break apart, Trevor has a wicked smile on his face, while Michael looks mind-broken. It’s a beautiful sight, his eyes so glossy and lost in trance with flushing cheeks and bitten lips. Trevor runs his hand through Michael’s hair with a more loving touch this time, sliding his hand down until it cradled the man’s neck.
Michael hums when Trevor’s thumb brushes over his scruff, his eyes seemingly getting heavier the longer Trevor touched him, like his gliding thumb is sucking up all his energy. Then suddenly the gun is back at his lips; he doesn’t wait to be told this time, and opens his mouth willingly.
Trevor smiles as he slides the gun back into Michael’s mouth, but not nearly as far as last time. He just wanted to see Michael’s tongue dance around the metal again. “One last thing, Mikey.” he adds quietly.
Michael looks to him, eyes wide and vulnerable.
“What’s your name?” Trevor voice melts in Michael’s ears as he pulls the gun to Michael’s lips, just enough so that he could speak. Michael swallows hard, but his voice still comes out scratchy like sandpaper. There’s two answers here, but only one is correct. He sucks in a lightly wheezed breath.
“Michael Townley.”
The gun is being pushed back into his mouth, but this time only goes as far as the tip of the barrel. Michael understood what Trevor wanted without having to be told; he sticks his tongue out, and obeys when Trevor tells him to lick the weapon like it’s my dick, Sugar. His mouth tastes like metal and grease, it coats his throat and numbs him from the inside; he’s putty in Trevor’s hands, and they both know it.
Trevor pulls the gun to rest on the tip of Michael’s tongue, his hand cradling Michael’s neck again. His thumb lands by the corner of Michael’s mouth and pulls the skin upward, giving him a clownish sideways smile.
“That’s my good boy.”
*****
… I told Hugo to draw me a mystery mikey (they had full control over the drawing), and they showed me and just… yeah. (Read end tags xo)
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