The Time's Come

Chapter 1: Torned and Frayed

Michael swallows thickly and leads his group forward, a gun head steadily in his hands despite the fact that in a few moments, Trevor is going to be put down. This is it, this is the way out that he needs so Michael can return to his family and live in Los Santos. The kids will never remember Trevor; they'll go on and have a nice, normal family. No one will question the obscene amount of money in his bank account and Michael will never go back into the game. Normal. He catches a glimpse of Dave up ahead and flicks his gaze over to Trevor, their eyes locking briefly, a small smile plastered onto his face.

A shot rings out nearby.

Despite its familiar, booming cry he's gotten all-too used to hearing, Michael flinches all the same. He can't look anywhere but the ground crunching underneath his trembling feet. Trevor gives out one small, pathetic noise and falls backgrounds onto the snowy ground. Something tightens in his chest, and his stomach becomes slippery. Michael can't breath- he feels like he's about to be sick.

A second bullet rips through the air and slams into Michael's vest, but he barely feels it; his eyes are stuck back on T when he too falls down. There's then Brad's inevitable shock as he rushes over and starts frantically trying in vain to save his fallen mentors. The roar of police cars in the near distance startles him, and at once he rushes away to find cover.

Michael has hurt, lied, stole, killed, and ruined the lives of many, many people, but looking at Trevor, he just breaks; tears streaming down both their faces. He stretches out a shaking hand and brushes their fingers together for the last time. Trevor's labored breathing is something more of a cry now; his eyes slip closed. Once, twice. Through the yelling and the gunfire and the cop's sirens, Michael hears his best friend's final words.

"I love you, Mikey." he whispers gently.

Michael's breath hitches and he struggles to keep his dwindling composure. There are so many things he wants to tell Trevor. He wants to tell him that he's incomparable, that he means so much more to him than just a running buddy; that he's someone that Michael wants to tell stories about to anyone who will listen. There will never, ever, be someone as irreplaceable and important to Michael as Trevor Philips is. He takes a breath and barely has the chance to think about his next words.

"I-I love you too, Trevor." Michael says honestly, his throat as dry as sandpaper.

Trevor smiles one last, beautiful smile, and his cloudy eyes close. They don't open again.

Michael wants to scream. He wants to get up from this shit and let the police arrest him- kill him. Something other than the torture he feels of losing his best fucking friend, his partner. His hand rests on Trevor's blank face, cradling his cold jaw. Michael's supposed to play dead, play the role of a person who isn't about to shoot himself with his own gun so he can be with his dead friend. He wants to be dead, each and every single part of him screaming out.

It's not until Brad's been arrested and the howling of police sirens start to dissipate is when Michael realizes that he's full out sobbing into the frozen ground. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing. He is breathing; he's fucking alive and sprawled across the ground in a pool of Trevor's own blood, and he wishes to be put into the ground more than ever.

There's just static now, the background noises bleeding out until there's just white noise in their place. Michael is still breathing somehow, but really, he's dead too. It hurts. It hurts so much. All those years of love in the form of dirty motel rooms and dark nights spent twisted together in some bar are gone. All that time spent wasted on his family, on the game; everything other than T. He loves Amanda, but he loves Trevor.

It was always Trevor.