Chapter Text
Michael took a drag of his cigarette and tried to pretend the scenery wasn't that interesting. But he couldn't help it: he was a movie guy, and it really looked like someone should film a movie here. He had been mesmerized by the view even during the flight, staring out while Trevor piloted in silence — but in a good silence, unusual peace radiating from both of them. Well, Michael hadn't known him for that long, but long enough to understand that the man was completely different in the air.
Michael hadn't hesitated at all when Trevor suggested Michael to join him on the job. There was something about the man, maybe his uninhibitedness, that just made him compelling.
He already liked Trevor more than he ever liked any of the guys he went to school with for years. That should have been weird, maybe, but it didn't feel weird at all.
"So, are you from anywhere near here?" Michael asked Trevor, who was sitting on the hood of the car they had picked up from Trevor's contact.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I am an American," Trevor answered forcefully.
"It's funny how you say that but get so mad when I shit-talk Canada," Michael grinned and Trevor flipped him off.
Michael threw away the cigarette butt.
"... I got a camera in my bag," Michael said, deciding that he would just push Trevor off the cliff if he started mouthing off at him.
Trevor raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh?"
"Bring it to me," Michael asked, and Trevor stared at him for the longest time, but then he jumped down from the car and opened the backdoor to dig around Michael's bag until he found the Polaroid camera.
He brought it to Michael, but didn't let go immediately. Their eyes met, and Michael forced himself to not look away in embarrassment.
"You know, I'm right from the border. It's basically America, okay? It's... it's more like American border region of Canada, you dick," Trevor said after a pause.
"Uh-huh," Michael huffed out a laugh, and Trevor let go of the camera. Michael turned around, took a picture of the lake and the mountain, and shook it with a smile on his face. He would never admit it out loud — the amount of shit he had given Trevor about Canada really was impressive, it was a miracle Trevor hadn't punched him already — but the Midwest got nothing on this.
He saw Trevor looking at him with a mischievous smirk.
"Shut up," Michael grunted.
Trevor put up his hands: "I wasn't saying anything."
"But you're thinking it," Michael rolled his eyes.
"Nah, me? I don't judge, Mikey. I don't judge a-ny-thing. Just didn't think you'd be into photography," Trevor explained. The smirk almost made Michael blush.
"I'm not. I just... stole this and thought that I might as well use it," Michael tried, but couldn't quite make it convincing.
"Might as well use it and not... sell it, for example, huh?" Trevor smiled widely.
Well, shit. Clearly lying to him wasn't any use.
"Shut up." Michael turned to look at the lake again.
Trevor laughed, walked to the ledge and opened his zip. "You shut up about Canada and I'll shut up about your... artistic tendencies," Trevor teased him, not looking at him, but Michael could still hear the grin in his voice.
"Dickhead," Michael chuckled and — surprising himself as much as Trevor — took another picture. Of Trevor. Pissing.
Trevor turned to look at him after the click, and when he saw the camera pointing at him, his mouth hung open for a while.
"Did... did you just take a fucking picture of me, Mikey?!" He cackled wildly.
"Don't know what you're talking about," Michael feigned innocence, shaking the picture.
"And people say I'm the weird one! Jesus!"
Michael laughed heartily and looked at the first picture of Trevor he ever took.