Work Text:
After Trevor and Michael finished drinking,they were both a little drunk and tipsy. Trevor suggested they find a spot by the river and sit down, then drink a few more bottles. Michael said, "I feel like I’m starting to hate myself. Clearly, I’ve had a bit too much tonight." But despite his words, his body was honest, and he grabbed more beer from the convenience store and climbed into Trevor's pickup truck.
On a summer night, even though it was the tail end of summer, crickets were still hiding in the grass, enjoying their last moments of life while rubbing their wings together, making the loud chirping that disturbed any passersby. Meanwhile, Trevor, being the rebellious drunk driver he was, drove the truck off the road into the fields, even though that wasn’t the plan. He kept driving towards the river, a direction he remembered from his past. This reckless driving made the already irritated drunk driver even more agitated, and finally, unable to take it anymore, he jumped out of the truck, stumbling through waist-high grass, looking for the source of the noise.
“T! Get back here!” Michael shouted from the passenger seat, trying to get the half-escaped driver to stop. "Are we still going to the river or what?"
“I’m gonna find you! I’m gonna smash you! You noisy little rascal! I’ll find you, Uncle Trevor will find you! Shut the hell up!” Trevor was still bent over in the grass, searching for those crickets, his steps unsteady. It seemed like he was about to fall asleep right there in the field.
“T? Trevor?” Michael called out as he slid out of the truck’s door that Trevor had just opened. He had forgotten there was another door on his side of the truck—let's just not remind this drunk about that. Anyway, he ended up on the ground and started crawling through the grass, but instead of searching for crickets like Trevor, he was looking for Trevor. After some struggle, he finally found his old friend. He pulled Trevor back to the truck—struggling to shove them both back inside. He told the incompetent driver, “We’re going to the river! Let’s go! Drive!”
“We’re not going to the river. We’re going to, hic… sleep right here.”
“No! No, we’re going to the river! We’ve got beer!”
The mention of beer was too convincing, so Trevor obediently started the engine of "Woodberry Jam"—he must have forgotten the name of this truck, since “Woodberry Jam” was clearly the name of the truck’s front logo. The truck started shaking and swaying as they headed towards the river. Or at least, they thought they were heading towards the river. Michael, shaking his dizzy head, vowed to stay awake until he had some beer. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trevor had already slumped over the steering wheel.
“Trevor!” Michael shook him awake. Fortunately, the truck had just started moving and wasn’t going fast. Plus, this junky, anti-mainstream truck of Trevor’s never went fast. Michael finally woke him up before they crashed. The two of them realized it wasn’t safe to continue this way. If tomorrow's headline read, “Famous criminal, wanted for multiple robberies, found dead in a car crash at XX Avenue early this morning,” they'd be the laughing stock of the criminal world… no, they’d be eternal stars, laughed at for centuries. So they decided to find something to sober up. Fortunately, they found a garden hose nearby. They both stood by it, each splashing water in their faces. While Michael was washing his face, his ring scraped against his eyelid, making him yell out in pain. When Trevor found out, he laughed at the small story of Michael’s injury—because it was from family-related issues. It was something that “seemed familiar.”
Michael and Trevor sat on the side of the road. The quiet of Los Santos in the middle of the night was a bit different from usual, but there were still some cars speeding by, leaving red streaks like meteors across their vision. In a short time, a group of street racers whizzed by, their cars zooming past the two drunk men. Michael cursed loudly, but the street racers ignored the strange, drunken middle-aged man sitting on the ground. At that moment, he looked no different from a homeless man on the corner of Los Santos, except his clothes were a little too well-fitted. After swearing at the inconsiderate “little punks,” Michael felt his head clear up a bit. At least now he wasn’t stuttering in his speech. His once-frozen thoughts flowed again.
“No way. I’ve hit my limit for the night. I’m done, no more drinking.”
“Michael~ Michael, what’s wrong with you? Huh? Should I go get Amanda to give you a hand, huh?” Trevor patted Michael’s face. “When the going gets tough, you go with the flow. Right now, we only have beer—beer and good times with friends.”
“I just don’t want to end up being a pawn for those corrupt officials, boy. They’ll put our mug shots in the papers, and we won’t make it to trial. I promise you that.”
“That was just one bottle of beer. Why are you so scared of everything?”
“Maybe it’s because I’m not mentally unstable yet. So why aren’t you scared of anything?”
The two of them stood up, still feeling heavy-headed. They staggered back to Trevor’s truck—Woodberry Jam. Honestly, naming a truck after its front logo wasn’t the worst idea, right? Like a ship named “Liberty” with the Statue of Liberty carved on its bow. Ah, never mind. Forget the truck name debate. They climbed into the truck, and though they didn’t speak about it, it was clear they both intended to keep driving towards the river. Of course, they were both planners—when they made a plan, they stuck to it. It was the virtue of the previous generation. Even though sometimes their plans were a little unfriendly to banks, the government, and national security, that’s a different story.
“Because I don’t do fake things. I’m so damn real, and real people don’t fear anyone or anything.”
“No way, I don’t believe you have no fears. Ha, I’ll find out, little Trevor’s secrets. One day, I’ll find out what you’re afraid of.”
“You’re looking for something that doesn’t exist, sweetheart. Nice try, but don’t waste your time.”
“Back to the beer,” Michael remembered what they had talked about earlier. He was facing a reality check. “I’m serious. We can’t drink anymore tonight. And neither can you.”
“Nope, I am drinking. I /am/ go\ing/ to\ drink~. Otherwise it’s too damn hard to face the heartbreak of sobriety. Whiskey river, take my mind~” Trevor actually started singing, clearly still far from sober—trying to sober up but not even close to it. “Or are you planning to offer your miserable, friendship-craving pal some comfort?”
“I mean it. No more drinks.” Michael paused for a second. “I’ll dump your drunk ass at the FIB’s front door and tape your file to your chest. You know I’ve got a real sketchy track record with that sort of thing.”
“You sure do.” Trevor pulled the truck to a stop. They’d reached the river. The full moon had just risen, resting on the rooftops of distant skyscrapers. It was truly deep into the night.
In the day, the riverside would still have tourists—idle rich folks riding jet skis over from the harbor, thinking only about entertaining themselves, hopping parties with pretty girls. A few drug dealers meeting in the quiet to do backdoor trades. Street racers chilling on the bridge supports. But they’d all gone home. Now, it was just Michael and Trevor by the riverbank, and the occasional freight train clattering by on the tracks above. The river smelled like a mix of fishy water and industrial waste. Somewhere in the distance, crickets were still chirping—zi zi zi zi—Trevor, of course, hadn’t found them.
“We could sit here and talk for a while. Forget the beer,” Michael said. It really seemed like he wanted nothing more to do with alcohol tonight.
“Or,” Trevor replied, “since we’re not drinking, how about a little game? Let’s shoot at beer bottles. Just like I always see Ron do.”
“Shooting? You wanna go up against me in a shooting contest?” Michael looked smug. “Me? Shooting against me? Buddy, you’re definitely forgetting a few important things.”
“Yeah, you. Why the hell do you already look like you’ve won, huh? You’re retired now. This is Mr. Phillips’ showtime.” Trevor waved him over. “Come on, we gotta duel like cowboys—with these betrayed beers. You’ve definitely gone soft. You missed three shots in North Yankton.”
Michael shrugged at the mention of North Yankton. “If you say so.” There was more to that story, but he didn’t feel like explaining. Beating his friend with actions instead of words would be way more satisfying anyway. In five minutes Trevor would know exactly who was right. And then Michael would get to mock the hell out of him—taste that sweet, sweet victory. That’s what competition was all about. Survival.
…Childish, Michael thought to himself.
Meanwhile, the other contestant had already crawled into the truck and grabbed the beer. They tore the pack open, each carrying three bottles toward the bridge supports.
“So… how’ve things been lately?” Trevor asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Your family. The one you only pretend to care about when you speak. Amanda, Tracey, Jimmy—you know.”
“They’re good… Tracey’s doing especially well. She didn’t fail a single class this year. Can you believe that? I thought… I thought it might not go so well, but she really pulled through.” Michael lined up the bottles, their caps glinting cold under the moonlight. He tilted his head, looking over at Trevor.
“Good girl. Maybe she’ll actually become a true Vinewood local someday. And Jimmy?”
“He… he’s alright. Still glued to his games and occasionally stealing my credit card, but at least he’s not getting into real trouble. That’s the best news I could ask for. And thank God I haven’t bought another yacht lately.” Michael chuckled.
“Amanda hasn’t picked out a new yoga instructor, has she?”
“Well… she has. But I don’t think there’s anything going on. No, nothing like that. We’ve been doing weekly therapy sessions. We’re finally at a place where we can actually be honest with each other.”
Trevor let out a huge huff of disapproval—it was hard to tell if it was aimed at the idea of family therapy or his lingering distrust of Amanda. But he didn’t follow up. Instead, he said, “Sounds like things are… looking up.”
They kept walking, heading farther down the riverbank. By agreement, the shooting contest would begin at about fifty paces. Michael asked, “What about you?”
“Oh! Ron hooked us up with a new operation. We’re bypassing the Triads and selling straight to Chinese buyers. Trevor Philips Enterprises is thriving,” Trevor said, pulling a gun from who-knows-where and handing it to Michael. “Just like you imagined. Just like everyone expected.”
“Hey, I didn’t expect anything,” Michael said as he glanced down at the pistol—just a glance, and something was already off. “Wait a minute. This thing’s got no suppressor. Are you carrying an unsuppressed gun in the city?”
“Ooooh, Mikey’s scared~ It’s just a pistol! A pistol, for Christ’s sake! Jesus, I don’t want the cops showing up either, okay? It’s just a gun. It doesn’t bite. Out here, this late, this remote? A few shots ring out, cops’ll just think it’s some gangland beef. Maybe—maybe—they’ll check in the morning to see if anyone left a body. Why are you being such a pussy?”
“Doesn’t bite, huh? Uh-huh. It better not.” Michael gave Trevor a look. “Most guns don’t bite. But the ones you pull out? Always feel like they’re about to swallow my fingers whole.”
“So much sarcasm… Can we start already?” Life was hard. Trevor sighed. Even when Michael agreed to something, he still had to complain. Complain, Mikey, Mikey, complain—someday Trevor would die from being unable to complain, or someone else would die from hearing it too much. Whatever. Right now, he just wanted to have a good time with an old friend. This game wasn’t even that anti-social, right?
Michael went first. Weaver stance, textbook control, perfect recoil management. Bull’s-eye. Even with his hands shaking from the booze… what could Trevor say? Some people are just born with it. The bottle shattered—beer spraying everywhere, foamy bubbles pooling at the base. Michael tossed the gun back to Trevor with a smug grin. “Your turn.”
Trevor shot next. His form was smooth, flawless. A man didn’t live this long in their line of work without knowing how to shoot. Another perfect hit. Damn. These two might’ve been from different worlds, but they were both legacy talents—the kind you didn’t mess with.
“Ah, a tie.” Michael sighed, half-disappointed. They agreed to step back another twenty paces. This time Trevor would go first. As he checked the gun, he suddenly asked Michael, “You think we’re being dicks, ditching Franklin like this?”
“Maybe a little. But let him be, for now. His ex just divorced some doctor, and now he’s got a major life decision to make.”
“Oh—hold on, ex-girlfriend?”
“Yep, ex,” Michael said, just as Trevor fired. Michael paused mid-thought. They were standing maybe fifty meters from the bottles now, and drunk—it was a hard shot. Trevor missed one. Annoyed, he slapped the gun into Michael’s hand.
“Ex-girlfriend,” Michael echoed, sighing, eyes lost somewhere far away. “He clearly still loves her. And now he’s about to start a family. He’s really growing up, huh? Maybe he’ll be luckier than I was.”
“He gonna have kids? Like Jimmy and Tracey?”
The two of them stared at the far-off beer bottles in silence. The full moon spread its glow across the river. A quiet fell over the scene. In the distance, a freight train rumbled by, heavy wheels clanking along the tracks. The night insects chirped on, restless in the warm summer dark. After a while, Trevor asked, “You think he’ll be a better father than you?”
“I don’t think he could be much worse,” Michael raised his eyebrows, lifted the gun, and—bang—another direct hit. “Hey, actually, I’m pretty happy with where I’m at. I’m working in the field I love. I’ve really done something, y’know? If you’re up for it, I could even make a movie with you as the lead.”
“And show it to a bunch of fake faces and faker smiles? No thanks,” Trevor grumbled. Still mad about the missed shot, he picked up a rock and whipped it hard—knocking over a bottle. “If you want a leading man, how about Franklin? Ex-girlfriend divorced, broken heart, seizing the moment… classic setup.”
“You know what? You’re right. Black hero saving the day—it’s got that ‘80s action movie flavor with a perfect touch of modern politics. You, my friend, are a genius. Also, that was cheating,” Michael pointed to the one bottle lying unbroken on the ground. “Nice throw, but still cheating.”
“Wow, wow, so many rules. Can we rewrite them? I regret this. New rule: we throw rocks at each other. C’mon, let’s settle it like men—fist to fist!”
“Like I said, you’re asking for a beatdown. Who said I was some washed-up retiree?”
They kept knocking over bottles as they bantered, walking back to the beer stash. But when Trevor got to the box, he realized something horrifying: this pack of Rockford Hills beer had only nine bottles. Nine. Not twelve. That meant just two more rounds, plus one leftover. Not only had the amount been cut short—it wasn’t even a multiple of two. Trevor’s brain twitched.
The dizziness crept back. His head started to throb. He clutched it, muttering, “No. No no no no no. This isn’t right. It’s all wrong. No. No.”
“Trevor? T? Hey—T! What’s going on?”
“I just realized… Industrialization. Corrupt government. Guys like Devin Weston. America. It’s all a scam,” Trevor said, arms raised toward the sky. “They make ordinary people’s effort worthless. They turn everything we love into a joke. And worst of all… they make things asymmetrical.”
“Fucking Americans!”
“What is happening right now?”
“Those liars. Those scumbags. There are only nine bottles! Just nine! We’ve got one too many! One extra fucking beer. They don’t understand how important symmetry is to the average man. What, do they have one testicle or three? It’s all a lie. A goddamn lie—AHHH—liars!!”
“…Then I guess we’ll just have to accept reality,” Michael said, steadying the box. He still stumbled a bit—hard to believe either of them had hit those targets at all. He grabbed the remaining bottles. “We go two more rounds. Best of three. Then we split the last bottle. Perfect ending. No one gets hurt.”
“We can drink some more?”
“Absolutely,” Michael said.
Trevor finally calmed down. Seemed like he accepted the solution. It had always been this way—when Trevor lost it, Michael was the one who had to steady him, help him finish the job without anything spiraling too far out of control. They’d been on opposite sides for too long, and Trevor’s “stabilizer” had been out of order for years. Still, tonight, it was nice to see that even expired medicine could still work sometimes.
Michael smirked at himself. Might as well stay and split that last bottle with him. He’d once helped Trevor hijack a Merryweather freighter and a train—surely drinking and driving didn’t top that on the danger scale.
“Since we’re talking about family,” Michael said, “you ever think about settling down, T?”
Trevor raised the gun again. “Hahahaha—me? Settle down?” he muttered the words to himself, “settle down,” over and over, half-laughing, half-mumbling. Looked like the chill that had sobered him earlier was wearing off, and the buzz was flooding back—but even drunk, his hands were steady. Another perfect shot. Military training didn’t fade easy.
Michael said, “Yeah, settle down. Quit the amphetamines. Build a life with someone.”
“I—I don’t need a family,” Trevor fired back. “I don’t need some big house and bills. I love the trailer park. I don’t wanna be some legal tax-paying citizen. I was born to make government institutions earn their keep. Stir things up for the bureaucrats. Leave headlines that make people wonder. Help the people who need it—arms dealers, local gangs, foreign junkies, etcetera. I’m Trevor. I’m not like you two who need some neatly-wrapped lifestyle from a brochure. I’m…” he paused, then said it proudly, “a drifting wave.”
“You mean going with the flow?” Michael chuckled.
And then Trevor added, “Anyway... nobody wants to settle down with me. I’m a free man.”
Maybe to Trevor, being around people—living, talking, connecting—was just another game he didn’t know the rules to. He could understand crime, he could understand numbers. Hell, he could even understand Michael. But not life. Not people. Not living with people. He’d always existed inside some fog of chaos, so of course he could say with confidence that everyone he loved had left him. He lived on, unchanged, unapologetic, and... yeah, probably some kind of messed-up mother complex.
Then again, Michael thought, I haven’t really changed either. Still here with Trevor, after all.
“Hah. You’re jealous,” Trevor suddenly said.
“Nope, slick. No one’s jealous of your flashy fake-free life,” Michael grinned. “I’ve got mine. I’ve even got my own airport. Speaking of jealousy…” Trevor pointed a finger at him like he’d just remembered something. “Damsel in distress? That sounds more like a Franklin and Lamar Davis kinda plot—not even his girlfriend.”
“Oh~ international appeal!” Michael chimed. “New leads! Two best friends, one’s married with kids, but for some reason everyone thinks they’re a couple.”
“Just so—perfect,” Trevor rolled his eyes and spread his arms. “Golden story. Absolute crap film.”
Michael popped open the last beer, took a few swigs, then passed it to Trevor.
He showed off his signature sharpshooting style again, just for fun. By morning, someone might stumble across this place—smashed bottles, trampled grass, a mess of beer foam and shell casings—and maybe they’d guess that two drunk idiots had spent the night here playing childish games. Shooting. Drinking. Arguing.
They clashed constantly—same short fuse, same stubborn streak—but they’d still make plans to hang out next time. That was a problem for daylight.
For now, the cool late-night breeze of Los Santos passed over them. The city, in all its fake warmth, passive tolerance, and indifferent chaos, wrapped its arms around these two misfits like it always did.
This is Los Santos.