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Michael wasn't sure when falling asleep started to get difficult. Maybe it has always been like that. Maybe he had been born with insomnia. Cursed to lie awake in the night or forcefully ripped out of sleep by a nightmare.
But one thing he was certain of was that it had only gotten worse over the years and since Amanda and the kids had left him it had spiraled down further and now, in the middle of fucking Sandy Shores, in the middle of fucking sandy nowhere he had hit rock bottom.
The heat, the brightness, the sickening restlessness of the entire landscape and the presence of Trevor let him straight to his personal sleepless hellfire. Sometimes Michael didn't sleep for two or three days and his body desperately tried to shut itself down to rest a few precious minutes. It reminded him of the awful pills Dr. Friedlander had subscribed him for a couple of weeks.
Michael had already taken sleeping pills back in Los Santos. He had occasionally swallowed them in the past 9 years since the Ludendorff job but since his family left he had swallowed them everyday and it had only helped a little bit. Now, out of Los Santos, far away from civilized civilization, he only had cheap sleeping pills, which he had bought at a dubious drugstore around the sandy corner and they were shit. Didn't help him to fall asleep at all and on top of that caused more nightmares. But maybe the sleeping pills had never really helped in the first place but now out of his usual environment it was more obvious?
Well whatever, the point was he couldn't sleep in Sandy Shores. Instead he drove around in his car, sitting on the hood and smoking one cigarette after another while staring up in the night sky. He appreciated the nighttime in Sandy Shores a lot more than he did the daytime. The nights in Sandy Shore were cool and quiet, the sky was littered with many stars and his eyes and brain didn't hurt from the bright sunlight.
He liked the nights in Sandy Shores but on the downside, the violence and homicidal tendencies skyrocketed during the night in the desert. It was actually very dangerous to cross the roads or let alone the countryside of this charming piece of landshitfuck by night. Carrying a gun was highly recommended, sure Michael did that anyway at any given time but he wasn't in the mood for a shooting or other activities that involved getting rid of a body. So he only drove around in the night if he absolutely fucking couldn't handle the cramped space.
Living with Patrica Madrazo was fine, she was a friendly housewife with Stockholm syndrome and even deep cleaned the entire trailer and mopped every surface every day in meticulous accuracy while taking care of the pathetic excuse of a garden in front of the trailer. Michael didn't understand the appeal to do gardening in a fucking desert but hey, who was he to judge anyway? It could be worse.
Living with Trevor on the other hand was exhausting, annoying, icky and a constant reminder how bad Michael had fucked up, how much of a fuck up he truly was. Trevor loved to insulate him and get under his skin. He tried to rile Michael up and push his anger and aggression on the surface.
And yeah, Trevor was good at that. Good at pushing Michael's right buttons to make him angry, so they argued a lot, getting at each other's throats constantly. It reminded him of Amanda and himself through the years of their marriage but with Trevor it was even worse. Trevor had always been able to touch something raw in Michael Amanda had never been able to. Michael lashed out way harder at Trevor than he had at every other person. When they were younger they often had physical fights with each other. Had beaten one another until both were heavy breathing and all anger had worn off, fizzled out between their fists.
Then they would quietly clean their wounds and curle into each other. Breathing at the other’s skin, soaking in the feeling of being touched, being held, being cared for, not being alone.
Sometimes Michael missed those times. Missed the feeling of being held, missed the feeling of protection and understanding.
Amanda had never been able to give Michael those feelings.
Michael had slept better and more peacefully when curled into Trevor than he ever had in his life. Amanda couldn't give him this calm, peaceful and protective feeling Trevor had given him while sleeping tangled into each other.
And after years of fighting and screaming at each other she didn't even want to touch him anymore at all. No light touch at his cheek when a nightmare startled him awake, no embrace to calm his wound up nerves. She didn't even let him hold her during the night, a tactic that had given him at least a snippet of the peaceful feeling he craved so much and the worst thing was… it was all Michael's fault. Even when he tried to convince himself that Amanda was just a little bitch who wanted to annoy him by denying him the one thing Michael craved the most (closeness and touch).
But no. It was Michael's fault he went down this path. Deep down he knew that, even when he tried to push it down as deep as possible in the pits of his flawed soul.
Out in the nights of Sandy Shores Michael spiraled down in this train of thoughts consisting of guilt and self-hatred but also the craving of understanding and closeness.
Sometimes he wished he and Trevor had stayed kids forever. Maybe then Michael hadn't fucked up his life and made one bad decision after another.
But well that was only stupid dreaming and what fucking ifs. The only thing Michael had left was regret and the will to be better, finally making the right calls in his life even when he wasn't sure how to live an honest life.
He looked up at the night sky, dragging on his gleaming cigarette. He couldn't sleep (what a surprise) even when he was tired and exhausted as fuck. His thoughts just wouldn't slow down, wouldn't let him achieve a state of certain calmness he needed to fall asleep.
So instead of sleeping he sat on a wobbly plastic chair in front of Trevor's trailer and smoked one cigarette after another. Tried to calm his nerves and his spiral of thoughts but it was not really successful.
He had smoked almost the whole packet.
“What the fuck are you doing there?”, Trevor asked behind him and Michael flinched so hard cigarette ash fell on his shorts, burning up in the fall.
“Sweet fucked up jesus”, Michael cursed and pinched the bright of his nose, cigarette still between his fingers.
“So sensitive Mikey”, Trevor said mockingly and let himself plops into the ugly red illegitimate twin of Michael's plastic chair. He stretched out his legs and let his arms hang over the back, head tilting back.
“Shut up”, Michael said and flicked his cigarette onto the sandy ground, crushing it with his slipper.
Trevor wasn't Michael's favorite company these days but well who exactly was Michael's favorite company these days? But at least Trevor's company had pulled him out of his thoughts.
“Not driving around like a depressed movie bitch?”, Trevor asked while kicking sand up with his right boot. It flew up in a little grainy cloud only lit by the stars and the road lightning nearby.
Michael felt instantly annoyed and Trevor hadn't even been here for a minute.
“Didn't you hear me the first fucking time?”, Michael asked, anger slowly creeping into his voice and body, “Shut the fuck up.” He already felt the urge for another cigarette.
“You're no fucking fun anymore Michael, jesus”, Trevor said and Michael could practically hear the eye roll, “Lost your fun and turned into a fat snake with a knife”, Trevor clicked with his tounge, “Improvement.”
Something in Michael snapped, “I just want to smoke my damn fucking cigarettes in fucking peace and not being harassed by a maniac psychopath.”
He breathed heavily out of his nose, trying to will the building anger down, “Just leave me fucking
be.” He reached for his packet of cigarettes in his breast pocket and already wanted to pull another smoke out as an icy rough hand curled around his own, pressing it together, crumbling the packet.
Suddenly Trevor's mouth was right next to his ear, breathing hot against his auricle, “I’ll never leave you fucking be Townley. You're the man who left his friends, fucking back stabbed them. Left his best fucking friend in the world”, Trevor audible inhaled, “You fucking left me.”
Michael didn't move, his eyelids lowered at the stars, “I had a young family back then Trevor, I -”
“I was your fucking family”, Trevor hissed and this time he sounded truly hurt. It felt like a Déjà vu, they had this conversation once before, many years ago.
“Before you met that stupid bitch and knocked her up, we were family”, Trevor said forcefully and his hand tightened around Michael's. Michael could feel the heat radiating from Trevor's body and his breath sweeping against his ear and neck. They were way too close, they hadn't been this close in years.
“We were family”, Trevor repeated, quieter this time.
It was like they were talking in circles, nearly every conversation they had besides of a job was a constant reminder to Michael how bad he fucked up. Trevor made sure he didn't forget.
So Michael said the only thing that always came into his mind and he felt like he had said a hundred of times already, “I’m sorry.”
Trevor huffed and let go of Michael's hand, leaning back in his chair, “It’s not fucking enough and you know that. You left me, Mike. Fucking left me even when you knew I didn't have someone else.”
Something heavy settled into his soul and Michael suddenly felt way more tired than he had a few seconds ago. He didn't know what to answer, this decision he had made over 9 years ago would haunt him the rest of his life, be it in thoughts or in the form of Trevor Philipps.
He desperately wanted to sleep.
-
Don't let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner.
Michael had seen the movie more times than he could count, he could voice certain lines by heart and still every time the movie touched something in him. It was kinda ironic that he liked the movie that much. Trevor had always made fun of him for that.
But Trevor made fun of nearly everything regarding Michael. Didn't matter if it had been his attitude, his appearance, his taste in media, didn't fucking matter.
“Jesus, you're still into that movie crap, Mikey?”
Michael sighed, instantly annoyed he couldn't even watch a movie in peace at 2am. What did Trevor do here anyway? Michael thought he and Mrs. Madrazo were asleep in Trevor's disgusting (after the deep cleaning semi disgusting) bedroom. He had once seen how they slept together, Trevor's body curled around the older woman and her back pressed against his chest, nose in her curly orange hair.
Michael's stomach had uncomfortably twisted. He didn't want to think about it.
“What do you think?”, Michael answered, not looking at Trevor. He didn't want to give Trevor a snippet of his attention, just wanted to watch the damn movie in peace and forget the nightmare that had ripped him out of his sleep only a few minutes ago.
To calm his racing heart, he had decided to watch whatever movie was on TV and he had been lucky.
Trevor clicked with his tongue and sat on the filthy couch behind Michael. They watched the movie in silence for a few minutes and Michael almost forgot Trevor was still with him until…
“You didn't change that much”, Trevor said. It was a neutral sentence, no anger or sadness in it. More like a detection, “You still like the entire movie shit and you still love stories and you still watch TV in the middle of the fucking night because you had a nightmare.”
Michael huffed, something stinging into his heart, “I guess.”
“Yeah, you fucking guess, Traitor.”, Trevor said, voice slightly raised but Michael could hear no real anger in Trevor's voice. Always trying to push Michael's button, why does it always have to be like that?
Michael pinched the bright of his nose, he just wanted to watch the fucking movie or sleep, but sleep wouldn't come that night again.
“Fuck you”, Michael said without any heat behind it, he was too tired for that shit. Energy slowly draining out of him further and further.
Actually he just wanted to go home.
He missed his home. But where was home? His empty house in Los Santos? His family who hated him? Or back in time curled around Trevor's bony body in a gross motel room?
Where was home?
Trevor snickered and suddenly a pair of arms wrapped loosely around Michael's chest, wounded tattooed hands dangling right in front of his heart.
Michael flinched but didn't pull away. The heat that radiated from Trevor's body and the closeness was strangely nice.
He had definitely been too long in this fucking desert and too fucking sleepless.
“Just messing with you Mikey”, Trevor said, putting his chin on top of Michael's head. Michael could feel the vibration when Trevor spoke, “you’ve changed, but not as much as you like and to fucking much for me.”
Michael hummed.
Trevor inhaled, “You know”, he toyed with the seam of Michael's shirt, “I miss you.”
He could feel how Trevor turned his head and pressed his cheek in Michael's black hair, “I miss you so fucking much Mikey.”
Michael closed his eyes, a hollow feeling clawed its way into his chest.
He missed his home.
-
Michael had hit rock bottom. This time for sure. His brain was slowly cooking itself, exhausted from the heat and the constant tiredness and his body started to refuse the service to his brain. He tripped more these days, bumped into furniture or simply jolted awake from a microsleep he didn't remember falling in.
Michael hadn't slept for nearly three days. Only here and there he had slipped into an unrestful shutdown because his body didn't know what else to do to fight the exhaustion.
It felt like he was unable to fall asleep anymore. Unable to feel calmness or rest. Their next job he was forced to do for the FIB would be tomorrow and even he knew he was in no condition to participate in the job. Movements too sluggish and thinking too slow. He would be a liability if he didn't sleep soon.
Michael needed to fucking sleep if he wanted to survive tomorrow god damnit.
But the couch didn't do him favors and the heat and the brightness made falling asleep a real fucking challenge. A challenge he threatened to lose.
So he just laid there. Eyes closed but mind forcefully awake. He listened to his surroundings, always alert of every noise and thoughts racing around like a mouse in a trap.
He listened to Mrs. Madrazo gardening and Trevor's never ending stream of compliments and assurances how much he loved her. He just didn't stop talking. His crush on a nearly 60-year old housewife slowly drove Michael insane.
He didn't even know for sure why it bothered him that much and he didn't really want it to know honesty.
Michael laid an arm over his eyes and huffed frustrated. He started to get really annoyed and pissed.
He just wanted to sleep.
Suddenly the door of the trailer flew open and someone bolted through it. Michael's eyes flew immediately open and his heart made a little jump. He was way too jumpy at the moment too.
Michael pushed his arm up and blinked at Trevor who was standing in the door, one arm hooked around his latest victim. Patricia Madrazo.
“Get the fuck up, porky”, Trevor commanded, pointing at the couch, “Patricia wants to watch some TV.”
Great, so Michael wouldn't sleep at all before the job. Great, just fucking great.
Michael dragged himself in an upright position and stood up, going around the couple and leaning at the entry of the bedroom. He didn't have the energy to fight with Trevor. He was just bone deep exhausted without any sleep in sight.
Michael watched how Trevor guided the older woman to the couch, saying something to her, probably something disgustingly sweet. Jesus, why did it annoy him so much? Why the fuck did annoy him Trevor's behaviour around the 60-something-housewife? Michael gaze wandered to Trevor's hands, how he carefully tugged a light blankets over Mrs. Madrazo’s shoulders even when he felt like melting in his shirt and shorts. Trevor’s hands slided up in her hair, petting it awkwardly.
His hands looked dry with dirt under his nails and several little open wounds, scars and tattoos littering them. Trevor’s hands were rougher and had more scares but they still looked so familiar to Michael.
Probably his touch would too?
Michael rubbed his eyes, jesus, where did his thoughts take him? He was tired. Too damn tired and fucking exhausted. Maybe he would die tomorrow because he hadn't seen the fucking bullet that would put a hole through his head coming or he would fell asleep while taking cover and then get a bullet through his brain, but hey, it would take him out of this fucking insomnia misery.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Michael literally jumped. Heart leaping into his throat. His head snapped to Trevor, anger already simmering. He was so fucking on edge.
“Shut the fuck up”, Michael said, voice clearly aggressive, but only half hearted. He didn't have much energy left.
Trevor narrowed his eyes and then a finger shot forward and pulled his left eyelid up. It was no gentle gesture and it even hurt a bit and still, Michael's skin prickled under Trevor's touch. Unconsciously yearning for more.
“You still have this fucked up sleeping problems, hm?”, Trevor said, eyeing Michael's eyeball as it jumped uneasy from one side to another.
Michael didn't say anything, just leaning more heavily into the wannabe doorframe of the bedroom. Trevor crooked his head and let off of Michael's eye, now just looking at him.
“You look like shit”, Trevor said quietly. Michael huffed. That's about right, he also felt like fucking shit. More than usual anyway.
“Says the addict who lives in a dumpster”, Michael shot back and made a little waving gesture.
“At least the fucking addict in the fucking dumbster can survive on his fucking own”, Trevor snapped, anger flaring at the edge of his voice, he poked a finger in Michael's chest, “You on the other hand my lying insomnia friend are gonna fucking die if you keep up this lifestyle.”
Michael would definitely hit him if he wasn't so fucking exhausted.
“So”, Trevor said, staring straight into Michael's eyes, “you haven't changed that much after all.”
Michael sighed, “Maybe.”
They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, only the TV was audible in the background.
Then Trevor said: “How many days?”
Michael frowned, couldn't keep up with Trevor, “What do you mean?”
“How many fucking days you didn't sleep you fat fuck?”, he snapped as answer.
“Oh”, Michael said, his brain definitely worked slower at the moment, “Three. Three days.”
Trevor's eyes went wide, then his facial expressions turned into anger, “Are you fucking kidding me Michael? You didn't sleep for three fucking days?”
Michael shrugged, “Yeah, just can't.” Even shrugging felt like something heavy sat on his fucking shoulders.
“What do you mean you can't?”, Trevor asked, gripping Michael collar of the shirt, “You’ll be fucking dead if you don't sleep, you stupid fuck.”
Michael hummed, brain sloshing around in his head, he couldn't think straight. It felt like the world was falling apart around him. He hated insomnia.
Unconsciously his head fell forward on Trevor's shoulder. A warm and bony shoulder. Familiar.
“Can't. Thoughts are too loud”, Michael said quietly, leaning more into Trevor. The familiar body, the familiar scent of addiction, dirt and something unmistakable Trevor.
“Like always?”, Trevor said, mouth next to Michael's ear, breath wandering over his auricle.
Michael hummed. His thoughts slowing, brain filling with calmness.
“Okay”, Trevor said and Michael felt an arm around his shoulders. Pushing him. Guiding him.
Guiding him like they always had done back in the days with nasty motel rooms and too many wounds when the other one had lost his path. Back when it had only been them. Clean and simple.
Why did they have to grow up? They should’ve stayed kids forever.
He opened his eyes when he bumped into something hard and soft. Oh.
The bed. He dumbly stared at it.
“Lay down, stupid”, Trevor said, pushing Michael forcefully onto the covers. The bed was hard and uncomfortable, the covers had a strange scent but… it also just smelled like…
His eyelids felt so fucking heavy.
“Sleep”, Trevor commanded, he roughly tried to pull a blanket over Michael's body and Michael immediately struggled. “Too hot”, he muffled against the sheets, eyes closed again. When did he close his eyes?
Maybe he could finally sleep. Finally finding the calmness he was yearning for. Finally finding his home he missed so fucking much.
Trevor huffed and Michael heard the scratching of boots and -
“Don't”, he said, voice strained and eyes wide open again. He looked up at Trevor. At his best friend with the stupidly dirty shirt and pants, the many scars, burns, wounds, tattoos. The walking cliché of a psychopath and crazy addict.
“Can you…”, Michael gestured awkwardly to the bed. He wanted to feel home again. Desperately. The lack of sleep was really getting to him. Giving Trevor perfect blackmail material. But well, fuck it, he just wanted to sleep.
Trevor looked at him, seeming to think, observing Michael. When they had been kids there had been no hesitation in curling up in bed together. But they had been kids, only them. A lot has changed.
“You haven't changed, Mikey”, Trevor said, he sounded distantly sad and happy at once, “Not really.”
He sat beside him, the bed dipped under his weight.
Michael felt how his eyes slipped shut again, feeling Trevor's presents and attention on him, did something to him.
Calmness.
He felt how bony muscular arms wrapped around him, legs awkwardly tangled with his and a chin tugged over his head.
Silence.
Michael felt how his thoughts slowed to a stop and heaviness filled his limbs.
Rest.
Michael breathed in, the familiar scent of a distant past.
“It's okay Mikey”, Trevor whispered, “I’ve got you.”
Home.