Hey guys. This is just something quick and to help calm my Grand theft auto obsession.

I got the idea from this head cannon I spotted a couple of times on tumblr. If you want to find me on tumblr; it's the same name as my FanFiction account. This is something quick to help me, because my god I am in love with this game SO MUCH! I wasn't into the grand theft auto series that much. But my god, THIS GAME! I'll try to get back into dying waves soon, just need to get GTA V out of my system.

I don't own anything and sorry if this upsets anybody.

The snow crunched under his boots as he slowly climbed out of his car. It had been 9 years since they ran down this street. 9 years before everything went dull for him. 9 years since their last job. 9 years since he made one bad choice. He was back in Ludendorff, North Yankton and he already hated being there. He slammed the door of his car and shoved his hands into his pocket; he looked around to take in the view. It was heavily snowing as usual, like every other time he visited. The clouds hung above him, building a fitting mood with curves of grey. The church stood tall behind him, almost hidden behind the mist.

Finally, he moved towards the boot and opened it. Grabbing a fold up chair and pulled it out, along with two beers. Nobody knew he was here, however this visit has turned into a yearly thing which lead to them into just accepting it. He slammed the boot shut while holding the chair in one hand. Then he headed into the graveyard, chair being dragged behind him. His mind flashed with every second of that dark day, when it happened; it went too fast for him to react but now. It's always on his mind around this time of year. At the time, he thought it was the best thing to do but it never accoutered to him the after mass and more importantly; what he lost.

He stopped at the right grave; it was simple. He wouldn't want it any other way. He unfolded the chair and dumped it onto the ground; he sat himself onto the chair and placed the beer onto the grave. He paid for his gravestone. It was today of his passing, this was why he came. He felt like coming here, just so he could talk to him. He paid for his grave as one of the many ways he could try to make up to him. What made it even worse; he knew he was down there. He wondered what would have happened if everything went to hell, who would be in the ground? He unscrewed the top of his beer while looking at the grave.

"So, how have you been, T?" Michael asked the grave. "I bet you're still pissed at what happen. I brought you your beer." Michael ran his finger around the top of his beer bottle, looking at the engraved name of Trevor Philips. At the top of his grave was an engraved bird, Michael had requested it for Trevor's love of flying. The bird looked like something he would tattooed later on in life. Michael traced it after he was buried; the image was then marked onto a metal key ring that hangs with the key to his front door.

"You have every right to mad." Michael nodded, before he took sip of his beer. "I didn't know they were going to kill you on the spot, T, I thought they were going to take you away. But here we are." Michael took another sip of his beer. His fingers tapped on the side of beer, looking around as the guilt started to run through.

"Everyone is ok, just so you know." Michael added, "As you know, we are still the 'De Santas' and we are still going strong, well, I say strong. I'm in therapy and still fighting with Amanda." His voice sounded like his throat went dry. He had a very small smile on his face, half enjoying this chat. Maybe it was because here, he didn't need to lie to Trevor. So he could get everything and anything off his chest. However, Michael would have preferred it if they did just lock him in a ceil like Brad; who believes that both him and Trevor were gone. If they had put Trevor away, maybe he would have gotten an answer to his questions. It would have to been brilliant to hear him call him 'Mikey' just one more time.

"Jimmy just sits in his room, so nothing new there. He fucked up big time the other day; I ended up meeting this great guy. His name is Franklin; I think you would have liked him." Michael smirked as his eye watered slightly. "But Tracey is doing well, she has applied for college. I hope she gets in, sure we crash heads a lot but she's still a good kid. Remember when she was small? It was sweet how she thought the world of you, I think she still does. She asked to come, but I said no. I don't know how she would react to you, she doesn't know. I couldn't break her heart so I said you got away, a large part of me still wishes you did or something got in the way." Michael stared at the grave, like he was expecting it to reply. Michael shook his head before he heavily drank more of his beer. The one he placed on the headstone had snowflakes sticking onto it. With the cold temperate, Michael wondered if it would ice over if I was left there long enough.

"Fuck it, I would be fucking happier if Brad walked in front of you and took the bullet. At least, there would be a chance." He sighed, looking at the name. Like he was pleading for his soul, waiting for something to happen. "Fuck, what would happen if that did happen? You'd probably be digging up my shitty grave to see who was there, while fucking yelling at me." He added, mournfully.

"You know, some people say that the dead never truly leave us." Michael muttered. "That they follow us through our lives and we get reunited and all that other bullshit. I know you wouldn't stay put in the afterlife, if you did then there must be free drugs and a lot of women. Anyway, if it is true that you are here. Just give me a sign, I don't care what kind. I just want to know." Michael once more stared at the grave; he listened to the wind blowing around. Waiting for anything.

A few minutes passed; nothing. Michael shook his head, feeling like a fool for wondering if Trevor was nearby. He held his beer in one hand and downed the last of the liquid. It stayed in his hand as he didn't want to use his grave as a bin. He tapped in fingers on the glass once more, just trying to collect his thoughts. But while he was here, his only thought was Trevor's death; the bullet clashed through the side of his skull. Trevor closed his eyes as he fell to the ground, his gun landed next to him once his knees touched ground. Brad running in the wrong direction and would eventually meeting the police. Trevor landed face forward to the ground; Michael was the one who turned him over, he didn't know what to do but stare at his lost partner. Dave pulled Michael away from the body before the police found them.

"Yeah, I guess it is bullshit." Michael sighed before starting up. "Or you still a stubborn prick who doesn't want to talk to me." Michael climbed back to feet.

"I wouldn't want to talk to me either." Michael muttered to himself, as he folded the chair and shoved it under his arm. He still had the bottle in his hand; his back was to the grave now. Michael wiped his eyes as they were still watering, he mumbled 'Jesus Christ' under his breath. Everything was getting to him; old memories and what ifs, but the one thing he didn't get was that he couldn't hear Trevor's voice in any of them. He slowly turned back to the grave and sighed at the sight of it.

"The world may have called you psycho, maniac. But I will always call you friend." He sighed; finally a tear ran down his face. Trevor would have taken the piss if he could him now, mimicking him in a whiny voice and repeatedly saying boohoo behind every other word.

"Well, I have to head off. If I kick the bucket and we meet in the afterlife…" He started, but he couldn't look at the grave anymore. He grunted to himself, closing his eyes tightly. This is one of things he talked to the doc about, he never replies to it. Michael slowly breathed through his mouth and in his head, he counted to ten. Once he was care, he turned back to the grave and opened his eyes.

"Fuck it, do what you want." He grunted at the grave. "You have the fucking right to; I'm the one who GOT YOU FUCKING KILLED!" Michael screamed the grave, throwing the chair to the ground. "I tried to protect my family and this is the thanks I get from the universe, I'm left fucking alone and screaming at your grave. I can scream all I want and YOU PROBABLY CAN'T EVEN LISTEN! WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT! I WANT A DO OVER! I WOULD PREFER IT IF I WAS THE ONE WAS DEAD! I'M A FUCKING NOBODY BEFORE AND AFTER ALL THIS SHIT! THEN MAYBE I KNOW THAT PEOPLE WOULD TRULY GIVE A FLYING FUCK ABOUT ME! IF IT WAS ME LAYING THERE! THEN … then… it would be you, yelling at my grave." Michael placed both hands in front of his face, once more counting to ten. Once he had finished, he looked at the grave one final time.

"I'm fucked up, T." He muttered. "Even if you are here or not, listening to me saying the same shit as every other year. Please remember, I regret everything I ever did to you. And. And I miss you, T." Michael nodded at the grave.

He picked up the chair slowly; the cold was getting to him and made his body feel heavy and tight. Once he was up, he waved at the grave. "I'll see you soon, Trev." Michael muttered, before he went back to his car. He left a trail of foot prints behind him. Once at the gate, he looked back at the grave for second then returned to his car.

After the engine at started and left, the lonely grave stood still with a cold beer bottle standing there. It still collected snowflakes on the brown glass holding the liquid. Nothing touched the letters embedded onto the dark stone nor the bird forever flying. Behind the grave, there were two footprints in the snow, different from the ones Michael left. They were facing away from the grave like someone had been leaning against the grave; they did not fade nor get deeper. They remained there for the rest of the day, by the next morning they were gone; along with the beer.