A glass of expensive scotch in his hand, a cigarette between his lips, and his feet up on the table. That was the way Michael de Santa preferred to spend his days. No whining, no fighting, no screaming or begging for money. And usually, this would have been one of those days Michael cherished. Except now, the reason for the empty house was that Amanda and the kids had left with a fruity fucking yoga instructor. To add to his nice little supply of problems, Trevor fucking Philips had managed to find him and was either planning to murder him slowly and painfully, or looking to join forces again. No, Michael de Santa was not feeling peachy keen. Far from it.

Stubbing out his cigarette, Michael leaned back, slowly swirling his glass of scotch in his hand. His fifth glass this evening, and he wasn't planning to stop anytime soon. At least he could always find comfort in expensive alcohol and feeling sorry for himself. With some mind-numbing reality TV show blaring on in the background, Michael downed his drink, shuddered, and closed his eyes.

"Why the long face, pork chop?" And there it was. Speak of the devil. He could have known there was no way he could have an evening drinking himself into a coma in peace. Fate didn't work that way.

"Go away, T." Michael groaned, eyes squeezed shut, praying the disturbance was just an auditory hallucination caused by delirium tremens.

Trevor looked around, commenting on the state of the house, "Shit, what happened here? You going all frat boy on me, Mikey?"

Michael was aware of Trevor's presence now standing in front of him. He opened his eyes, raising his eyebrows. There he was: Tevor, dirt-caked nails and the smell of cheap alcohol, greasy shirts and insults. "You're one to speak. At least I don't live in a fucking meth lab."

"Oooh, did hit a nerve there?"

"Can you, for once, not rub salt in the fucking wound, or is that such an integral part of your psychopathic nature that you just can't help it?"

Trevor smirked, and sat down on the coffee table, in front of Michael, and as always, uncomfortably close. "Boo-fucking-hoo. Quit crying, cupcake. I brought beer, and seeing as you already have the tits, how about some good old-fashioned bonding time?"

"How about you go fuck yourself?" Michael countered, not really putting in the effort to sound sincere.

"I tried that already. Wouldn't recommend it, unless you enjoy burst erectile tissue." There was a pause, which Trevor used to crack open two bottles of cheap beer on the coffee table. "So. Where's the remaining three quarters of dysfunctional family De Santa?"

Michael shrugged, reaching out for the beer Trevor offered. He might as well tell him. "Well, for one, that fake fucking yogi molested my wife in front of me, I got mad, then she got mad at me for being mad. Second, my shitstain of a son poisoned me with PCP on the way home from his mothly trip to the outside world, and now they're gone to figure things out, whatever the fuck that means."

Trevor took a swig of his beer, scratching the back of his neck. "Look on the bright side. Now you've got aaaaall this free time to wallow in self-pity, drink until you shit yourself, and reminisce with your old friend. Ain't that fan-fucking-tastic?"

"Yeah. Sure. Just great."

"For some reason, you don't sound as enthusiastic as you should be. Chin up, cupcake! There's money to be made here! People to be shot! Banks to be robbed!" Trevor lifted his bottle, grinning.

"You have no concept of reality whatsoever, T." Michael sighed, raising his bottle, clinking the neck against Trevor's.


Around 3 am, the crate of beer Trevor brought as well as Michael's bottle of scotch were gone, and Michael's opinion on Trevor's presence had gone from 'insufferable' to 'tolerable'. But Michael had to admit, Trevor was good company when he wanted to feel relatively more sane. Besides, misery loves company.

But there was something else, too. He couldn't really put his finger on it. Maybe it was the meth fumes he imagined had soaked in Trevor's clothes. Maybe he was just drunk. He sure as fuck was losing his mind, because sober Michael wouldn't even think of bringing up the memories he'd buried in the back of his mind all those years ago.

"'Member when it was just me 'n you, T? Way back?" Michael asked, slurring.

"Fuck, don't go all sentimental on me, Mikey. 'M not sure I can handle the crying," Trevor replied, drunkenly scouring the cabinets for more alcohol. "Makes me think of prison. Fellow inmates always seemed to cry after I ever so gently facefucked 'em."

"I'm not going to cry, you asshole. 'M talking 'bout.. what, our third heist? When we had to sleep in that crackhouse motel?"

Trevor stopped rummaging and stood up straight, looking over his shoulder. "Oooh, I remember, alright. Y'know, before that evening, I never knew 'cuddling for warmth' actually meant 'let Trevor Philips fuck me in the ass'. Thank you again for enlightening me, princess."

"For fuck's sake T, you could have brought it a bit more tastefully!" Michael snapped, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. "You know what, forget it. I don't even know why the fuck I brought it up."

"What? We both know you loved it, you dirty fuck." Trevor chuckled, stumbling over to the couch, taking a seat on the armrest. "Besides, M… Since you brought it up, we're gonna talk about it. In detail."

"I said forget it." Michael hissed, between clenched teeth.

"Looking to relive old memories now the wife is gone, Mikey? You're lucky I like my men with some meat on their bones."

Michael groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers to stave off the headache of regret that was starting to throb in his head. "You'd fuck anything with a pulse, T."

"Noooo, Mikey. Pulse not required. Now, let's talk about it. You can pretend I'm your shrink, if that floats your middle-aged boat. What happened that faithful night at the motel?"

Michael was a bit disturbed by how much Trevor seemed to enjoy this. Gloating bastard. And while some rational part of his mind was screaming abuse at him, the drunken, bigger part of his mind decided to go along with it. Because fuck it, why not? He'd hit rock bottom already, he could not possibly sink any lower than this.

"It was.. up in the north. We had to run from the cops with a backpack full of money. Hadn't slept in.. what, two days? Fucked up on speed and who know what else,"

"Meth," Trevor interpolated, wagging his finger in Michael's face.

"Thank you. So, we decided to sleep in a crackden of a motel. No blankets on the fucking bed so I stupidly suggested we should sleep in one bed for warmth,"

"No, you suggested we," Trevor formed quotation marks with his fingers. "Cuddle."

"Cuddle." Michael repeated, covering his face with his hands. "We cuddled, you poked my ass with your inappropriate hard on, and then we fucked. Because I'm a moron."

"Aaaand..?" Trevor scooted closer, until he was next to Michael, and judging by his grin he was as giddy as he could be without torturing some poor soul.

"And I kept coming back because of my twisted, fucked up, poor sense of judgment." Michael answered, slumping back, defeated.

"And because you loved it." Trevor wrapped an arm around Michaels shoulders. "And you still love it, you kinky little shit."

Trevor pushed Michael back into the couch, climbing on top of him, straddling his thighs and pinning his wrists to the armrest of the couch. Michael could have known that this would happen. Because obviously, talking to Trevor Philips about sex, lead to having sex with Trevor Philips. Michael horrified himself by, at least at this moment, being oddly okay with that.

"Come on, Mikey, at least put some fucking heart in it!" Trevor thrust his hips forward, grinding his crotch against Michael's. He paused, flashing one of his massive - and honestly terrifying - grins, "Scratch that. Pitching a tent already, cupcake?"

Michael groaned, involuntarily jerking his hips up, desperate for more friction. Because as humiliating as it was to admit, there was something about Trevor that just wound him up sand turned him the fuck on. He wrung his wrists free from Trevor's grip and hooked his fingers into the belt loops of Trevor's waistband to pull him closer, undoing the button and zipper on the other man's camos. There was a brief flurry of limbs and clothes, before both men were naked. Trevor cast an approving look down.

"A liiiiittle more padding than the last time, but I can work with that."

"Shut the fuck up." Michael snarled, grabbing Trevor by the hips, his fingers digging needily in his flesh, pulling the other man forward until his crotch was at face level, the tip of his cock brushing against his lips.

"Fuuuuck." Trevor hissed as soon as Michael's lips wrapped around his cock, his fingers tightening their grip on the other man's hair. His hips thrust forward, until he was buried almost fully into Michael's mouth. Michael made a sound of protest somewhere in the back of his throat. "What? Want me to go in dry?"

Michael rolled his eyes. Yeah, he got the hint. Suck or be fucked dry. While Trevor would have no problem with the latter, he'd rather not shit blood for a week. He set to work, his head bobbing up and down Trevor's cock, all the while lamenting on how much of a clusterfuck of shit his life had become. Trevor's hips rolled in time with his own movements, forcing his dick further into his throat, and Michael gagged, his eyes watering. Trevor, living up to his reputation as a sadistic asshole, seemed to take pleasure in the fact that Michael was choking on his dick. Not like Michael had expected sympathy and sweet nothings or mutual jerking off. Trevor held him there for a few seconds, pushing Michael's face into his crotch, before finally letting go, taking his cock from Michael's mouth with a wet pop, loosening his painful grip on Michael's hair.

"Turn around, pork chop. I wanna go for a ride." Trevor yanked Michael up by his upper arms and turned him around, rough enough to create bruises. Michael let himself be positioned by Trevor like a ragdoll, on hands and knees, one of Trevor's hands on the back of his head forcing his face down onto the armrest of the couch, his other hand squeezing his hip, pulling his ass backwards against Trevor's groin.

"You're such a fucking charmer T, you know that?" Michael muttered.

"Funny how you still let me fuck you in every," Trevor positioned his cock, the tip pressing against Michael's ass, "..possible," He pushed in, the slickness of Michael's saliva not helping by much, "..hole even with your sarcasm, M."

Michael was unable to think of something insulting to say as Trevor slid into him, slowly, inch by inch. Michael's hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms, and his jaw set in a grimace that was a cross between pain and pleasure. Because fuck if he wasn't enjoying this. His cock throbbed between his legs, almost painfully aroused. He was vaguely aware of Trevor leaning in, his stomach brushing against his back. There was a sharp nip to his neck, hard enough to draw blood, Trevor's breath ghosting past his red-flecked skin.

"Damn, Mikey. Tight as fuck." Trevor hissed into his ear, making the hair on the back of Michael's neck stand up. Trevor straightened up and drew his hips back, sliding back out almost all the way, before slamming back into Michael. His thrusts came slow at first, almost excruciatingly gentle, before picking up speed, the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh soon filling the house. And that was it: Michael felt alive, for the first time in fucking years. Funny how only being drunk to the point of seeing double and getting fucked up the ass by a fucking psychopath made him feel alive. He groaned, incapable of saying much more when one of Trevor's hands left his hips and reached around, his fingers wrapping tightly around Michael's neglected cock. It was weirdly considerate for someone who usually only thought about his own enjoyment. Michael's breath hitched when Trevor began jacking him off, drawing a long, breathy 'fuck, T' out of him.

Trevor's thrusts grew frantic, his breathing becoming ragged. His tight grip on Michael's hips had formed half-moon imprints in his skin, leaving raised welts. That was Trevor as Michael knew him: rough and careless. He liked leaving his mark on his victims in some kind of fucked up sense of possessiveness. Trevor's thrusts went deeper, faster, hitting the right angle with every plunge, and Michael could hear himself moan like some fucking schoolgirl while Trevor jerked him off, driving him to the edge. It didn't take him long to come, hips bucking, spilling his load on Trevor's hand.

"Goddamnit Mikey, you could've warned me. Fuck!" Trevor chuckled, pausing to wipe his hand on the fabric of his pants. With both hands free, he grabbed both Michael's hips, thrusting feverishly, drilling into him like a jackhammer, until he too came with a groan, slapping Michael's ass hard enough to leave an angry, red, hand shaped mark. He slipped out of Michael with a satisfied sigh. Michael stiffly slumped back into the couch, rubbing the back of his neck.

"For fuck's sake, T. Remind me to get tested tomorrow. Who knows what kind of ass-rot I could get."

"Hey, I'll have you know my dick is a clean as a whistle, thank you very much."

"God, I hope so." Michael muttered, lighting a cigarette.


A throbbing headache was what woke Michael up the next morning. Groaning, he pulled the covers over his head, trying to filter out the bright sun that peeked inside from the bedroom window. That's when he felt tugging on the sheets, and the regret set in when he heard that familiar voice. Oh, shit.

"Morning, cupcake! Gonna let me have some blankets too, or are you so rightfully insecure about your fat body that you need them to cover it?"

Michael opened his bloodshot eyes, staring at the other man tainting his marital bed with his presence. "Did we.. uh.."

"Yeeeeup." Trevor said. Michael wanted to punch that smug fucking smirk off his face. "Twice."

"Fuck." Michael sighed, falling back into his pillow, rubbing his dry eyes with his knuckles.

"Hey, don't blame me, blame your fucking fat self. I wasn't the one bringing up memories like a little bitch." Trevor pushed back the covers, and slid out of bed, not making any effort to dress himself. Not that Michael expected him to, Trevor was completely comfortable with being naked and creeping people out. He was pretty sure it came second on his list of fucked up hobbies, right after his number one, torture.

"Fuck off, T."

Trevor flipped him the bird while collecting his clothes, making his way to the stairs. "Yeah, don't worry, I will, after I raid your fridge. See ya at the factory, pork chop. We've got a heist to plan."

Michael groaned, pushing his fingers to his temples. This was not going to be a particularly good day. In fact, this day was fucked.