Scorching. That was the only word that Michael's brain could come up with, draped like a wet towel over the ratty couch in Trevor's trailer. Sandy fucking Shores, what a shithole. The heat was unbearable, the dust was everywhere, and the whole population of the town was inbred. He could have been sitting by his pool, drinking a glass of his most expensive scotch and smoking a nice Cuban and he would have been just fine. But no. Because Trevor decided it would be a good idea to kidnap a powerful Mexican mobster's wife in the name of love, if he even did so much as look in the general direction of Los Santos, Martin Madrazo's men would put a bullet in his head. Which, by the way, was an option he was beginning to reconsider. It beat being condemned to a trailer in the middle of fucking nowhere that smelled like something died in it. Come to think of it, it wasn't unreasonable to assume something had died in here.

Michael reached for his lukewarm beer and wiped the sweat off his brow. Even when the sun had set the heat lingered, like a persistent STD you couldn't get rid of. If Trevor didn't drive Michael insane, it would be the dust, the heat, and the boredom. Michael took a swig of his shitty beer, and despite the taste, downed what was left in one go. There was not much else to do but drink and sleep. He'd been here for.. What, two days now, and he was already bored to death. His days consisted out of drinking, doing some assorted jobs, and trying not to catch the crazy from Ron, Wade, or Trevor. Sanity was the only thing he had left by now.

Michael stood up and took another beer out of the refrigerator, which didn't feel much colder than his last one. He stuck his face inside the fridge and looked back on the last two weeks. Sometimes, he wasn't sure if he even lived on planet Earth anymore. Trevor was a nutcase, that was for sure. Ron and Wade weren't much better. And then there was Patricia Madrazo, the worst case of Stockholm Syndrome in human history. Somewhere beneath the layers of grime, sweat, and drug addiction, Trevor had somehow charmed her enough not to kill herself. In fact, Michael was fairly certain kidnapper and hostage were beginning to get feelings towards each other, like some fucked up version of puppy love. He almost hoped for it. At least then Trevor would leave him the fuck alone for a few moments.

Michael slumped back in the couch, beer in hand, absentmindedly kneading a sore spot in his neck. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, vaguely aware of muffled voices outside the trailer. Of course this moment of peaceful solitude did not take long. The door slammed open and Trevor walked in, with his latest victim on his arm.

"Ah, the Boy Wonder. Fuck off, will ya?" Trevor gestured with his thumb, guiding Patricia by her shoulders into the general direction of the couch.

"Hello to you too, T." Michael answered, hoisting himself off the couch, fruitlessly dusting off his suit trousers. The dust stuck.

"Now, Mikey, I know what you're thinking, why do I need to move my fat, lazy ass off the couch?" Trevor had chosen the classic 'take a jab at Michael's weight' insult, knowing that could rile Michael up in seconds, depending on his mood. Trevor disappeared into the bedroom, returning with a blanket that was just as dirty and ratty as the rest of the trailer, a pillow squeezed underneath his arm. "Patricia needs her beauty sleep."

"Really. Her beauty sleep. Really?" He turned to their hostage, shrugging apologetically. "No offence, Mrs. Madrazo."

"None taken." The woman answered, shaking her head and smiling. How she managed to even be able to smile, Michael had no idea.

"Aaaaand she prefers the couch." Trevor continued, ignoring Michael's interruption.

"Yeah, I don't blame you." Michael glanced at Patricia, who simply smiled at him as Trevor carefully placed the pillow behind her head. "So, where do I sleep? You got an extra bed or somethin'?"

Trevor folded out the blanket and placed it over Patricia, looking over his shoulder at Michael. There was something about his smirk that told Michael he wasn't going to like the answer.

"Oh, no no no noooo, sugartits. You're sleeping with me." Trevor finished tucking their captive in. Michael stared at him, wondering if he should just hang himself or slit his wrists, or both. "You can't disturb 'Tricia while she's sleeping by tossing and turning your tubby ass in the same room as her."

"There's no way I'm sleeping next to you, T." Michael protested, though he didn't put much determination into it. It was wasted effort. Trevor wouldn't take no for an answer. Besides, Michael wasn't really looking forward to sleeping on a floor spread with drug paraphernalia, or in a motel where he had to pay for bloodstains on the wall and crusty sheets.

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun! Like a sleepover, except we're grown men, and with booze and porn instead of pillowfights and marshmallows!"

"No booze." Patricia interjected, smacking Trevor on the wrist.

"You, my friend, have a fucked up idea of fun." Michael answered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, pot calling the kettle black, Mikey."

"Alright. Fine. Beats a motel, I guess. At least here I know the source of the filth and stains."

"Shhh! For fuck's sake, let the woman sleep." Trevor hissed, taking a crate of beer from the fridge, before hooking his fingers into the collar of Michael's wife beater and pulling him into the bedroom. On his tiptoes, of course, because Trevor Philips was a gentleman.

This was going to be a long, sleepless night.

Michael was on his fifth beer, propped against the wall of the tiny bedroom, trying to ignore Trevor eyeing him up from the opposite end of the bed. His plan was to get so drunk he passed out. That was the only way he was going to get some sleep, because there was no way in hell he was going to sleep all cozied up to a homicidal psychopath while sober, even if said homicidal psychopath was his friend. He glanced over at Trevor, who was still watching him like the creepy fuck he was.

"Would you fucking stop watching me, T? Shit is getting weird." Michael snapped, drunkenly pointing the neck of his bottle of beer at him.

"Please, you should be honored someone is looking at you." Trevor snorted, taking a swig of his beer.

Michael groaned. He could live with having to live in a trailer like white trash if it meant not being killed, but being cooped up with him in a tiny bedroom with Trevor, a man who had no concept of personal space nor of how to act like a normal human being, was a whole other story. Arguments like these were only fuel for the hate part of their love-hate relationship.

They were quiet for a while, both cracking open another beer. Just as Michael thought the silence would last longer than a few seconds, which would be a very welcome change from Trevor purposely trying to enrage him with his clichéd insults, it was broken.

"Sooooo, Mikey. We got the booze part down. Wanna watch some porn?"

"Given the choice between you and me watching porn together and me gouging my eyeballs out with a rusty screwdriver, I would choose the last option."

"That's a no then. Jesus, I was just joking. Lighten the fuck up."

"Yeah, that's the thing, T: I never know when you're joking and when you're serious, because you are fucking insane."

"Ah, but you love me for it!" Trevor chuckled, jumping off the bed and turning on the TV. "Besides, I'm just mildly chemically imbalanced. A lot of people are. You too, Mikey."

"Thanks for the diagnosis, doc." Michael emptied his beer, tossing the bottle in the corner into a pile of clothes long due for a wash, collapsing on the bed. "I'm going to sleep. Do not fucking touch me, you creep."

"Didn't remember you saying that last time, M." Trevor taunted, bringing up memories Michael wasn't particularly proud of. "Goooood night, cupcake."

"Fuck off."

Trevor had the audacity to fucking laugh, sitting back down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. Michael could hear the static of the channel being changed, and then the sound of one of those late night talk shows, but at least Trevor had the decency to shut up. Maybe, just maybe, he could have a couple of hours of sleep. Think positive. Yeah, dr. Friedlander could stick that one up his ass.

Michael awoke a few hours later to the sensation of calloused fingers squeezing his hip. For a moment, still half asleep and still very, very drunk, he thought he was back home. But Amanda's fingers weren't as rough and besides, she never touched him anymore. Realization dawned when he opened his eyes and saw, despite his alcohol induced double vision, that he was still in Trevor's bedroom. Fuck. It was Trevor pulling his ass into his crotch. Just because Mrs. Madrazo was his newest victim, didn't mean he didn't like to revisit his regular victims.

"Really, Trevor? Which part of do not touch me don't you understand?" Michael took Trevor's hand off his hip, angrily pushing it aside.

"Y'know, Mikey, we both know that whenever you say something, like 'no, Trevor, don't touch me' or 'please don't put your penis inside of me', you mean the complete opposite of that." Trevor answered, giving him another squeeze in his hip. "Besides, meth makes me fucking horny."

"Leave. Me. Alone." Michael hissed, emphasizing each word with an angry pause. "Before I fucking strangle you."

"Jesus, Mikey, strangle me? Whatever floats your boat man. 'm Not judging." Trevor pulled him back in almost effortlessly, pressing his groin against Michael's ass, and just maybe Michael let it happen on purpose. Trevor was a persevering fucker and resistance would only make things worse for himself. Michael accepted that this was one of those days where he just couldn't win. Maybe he didn't want to win. While he could convince himself he didn't want this, he knew that Trevor could see right through him. Besides, Trevor always took what he wanted, whether it was a mobster's wife or Michael.

Michael jabbed his elbow backwards, hitting Trevor in the sternum in an attempt to create some distance between them. He only succeeded in making Trevor thrust his hips forward in response, making it very clear he wasn't about to give up.

"Jesus, Trevor, why do I have to be the victim of your unwanted advances?"

"Ah, and heeeeere's where you're wrong, Mikey: they're not really unwanted, are they?" Trevor emphasized the word unwanted by cupping Michael's crotch through the fabric of his suit pants. Michael felt betrayed by his own body when he realized he pushed into Trevor's hand, desperate for more friction. He wasn't surprised he was already half hard. This was the part where Michael had to admit he'd lost, because somewhere in their fucked up hate-love affair, in some disturbing way, he loved the way Trevor fucked him. Of all times his body could have chosen to actually get it up for once, it chose this moment. He knew he was setting himself up for more emotional blackmail. Trevor was definitely going to use this against whenever he felt the need to humiliate him.

"Fine. Just tell me what the fuck you want and get it over with." Michael muttered, hearing Trevor chuckle somewhere near his ear, sending goose bumps down Michael's spine. Arrogant fuck.

"I think," Trevor squeezed, and Michael cursed under his breath when he felt his dick harden. "You know what I want, cupcake."

"Yeah, fuck you, T." Michael muttered, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Yeah, you'd love that, wouldn't you? Me being the bitch instead of you for once?" Trevor retorted, fondling him through the fabric of his pants. When Michael angrily freed himself from Trevor's grasp by smacking his hand away from his crotch and turning around to face him, Trevor knew that he had successfully riled him up.

It seemed like they both had forgotten all about Patricia Madrazo and her beauty sleep.

"For fuck's sake, can you stop being an asshole and shut up for just one minute?"

Both stared at each other for an instant. Even though he wanted to strangle Trevor, Michael was the first to avert his eyes, releasing an exasperated sigh. Trevor knew exactly how to push his buttons and get him seeing red, and the sooner Michael acknowledged that, the sooner this ridiculous little 'assert-your-dominance' game Trevor liked to play would be over.

But of course he was wrong. This game would only be over when Trevor was certain he'd won, Michael realized when Trevor grabbed him by the shoulders and rolled him over onto his back, straddling his hips and pinning his wrists to the mattress.

"I suppose I could, you know, shut up for just one minute, Mikey," Trevor feigned thinking about it, painfully tightening his grip on Michael's wrists when he started struggling, "But I thiiiiink I won't. I like seeing you angry. Makes it all the more satisfying, y'know?"

"I bet it does." Michael hissed between clenched teeth, ceasing his struggle. He was way too drunk for this.

"Oh, you're fucking right it does. Fuck, c'mon sugartits, let's do this, I'm getting blue balls over here." Trevor let go of Michael's wrists, sliding down lower on his thighs, undoing the fly on Michael's pants. Michael rubbed his sore wrists, lips pursed in a tight line that was a telltale sign he was fuming.

Trevor yanked Michael's pants down to his ankles, along with his underwear, jerking his head in the general direction of Michael's wife beater. "Off."

Michael did as he was told, kicking his pants off and lifting his shirt over his head, while Trevor undressed himself, tossing all the clothes unceremoniously on a heap on the floor.

"And now, princess," Trevor resumed, back to straddling Michael's hips. "You're going to fucking beg for it."

With one hand around Michael's throat, squeezing hard enough to create bruises, Trevor spit in the palm of his free hand, grabbing both their dicks, wedging them together. When he started stroking, Michael let out a hoarse groan, his hips jolting against his will.

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would fucking help, biting the inside of his cheeks in order to have something else to think of other than Trevor's rough hand, slick with saliva and precum, sliding up and down his throbbing dick. He tried to think of things that would turn him off, like Lester naked, but his thoughts kept returning to Trevor fucking him. And when Trevor upped the pace and squeezed his throat hard enough to choke him, he couldn't help but make his hips meet every stroke. Somewhere in the course of their dysfunctional friendship it had become a primal need to have Trevor fuck him. Funny how Trevor's derogatory nicknames and insults always did that to him.

"Getting a bit excited there, princess?" Trevor mocked, stopping abruptly. Instead, he teasingly ran his thumb over the head of Michael's dick. Michael writhed helplessly, wrapping his hands around Trevor's wrist, trying to pull his hand away from his throat. "Beg for it. You know I'll keep this up until you do."

"Fine, you sadistic fuck!" Michael snapped, "Jesus! Fuck me already!"

Apparently, that was all Trevor needed to hear. "Thought so. Get off your fat ass and turn around, cupcake." He released Michael, reaching for the bedside drawer while Michael turned around, on hands and knees, pushing his face into the pillow, seething with anger and horny as fuck at the same time.

He could feel Trevor's hand on his ass, one finger, slick with what he sure as fuck hoped was lube, brushing over his asshole. He pushed in, not exactly gentle, too eager. Michael bit down on the pillow, arching his back. Fuck, he looked like a fucking girl at her defloration. A second finger joined the other one, and then a third, a bit too roughly, but Michael was just glad there was at least more foreplay than last time he was in this position.

"Shit." Michael groaned into the pillow when Trevor pumped his fingers in and out of him, slowly accustoming to the all too familiar feeling.

Trevor removed his fingers, positioning the head of his cock against Michael's asshole. He eased in, slowly and inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt in Michael's ass. He grabbed Michael's hips, pulling him backwards into his crotch, letting out a satisfied grunt when he saw Michael's fingers dig into the mattress.

"Ready, cowboy?" Trevor taunted, drawing back out, equally slowly, and continued before Michael had the chance to answer. "I don't give a shit either way."

"You fucking asshole." Michael muttered.

Trevor slammed back in again. He was lucky there was a pillow to muffle his groan in, because he didn't want to let Trevor have the satisfaction of knowing what it did to him.

But Trevor knew. Michael could tell from the way he paused, yanking the pillow from underneath Michaels face. He grabbed the back of Michael's skull, turning his face sideways and pushing his cheek into the mattress. "No cheating, you sneaky shit."

Michael grunted, balling his hands into white knuckled fists. Good old humiliation and fear. The two things that got Trevor off the quickest.

Trevor grabbed Michael's hips, pulling him back into his groin. He drew back out, only the tip of his cock buried in Michael's ass, before slamming back in again, and again, the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh soon filling the tiny bedroom. Michael's breath hitched somewhere in his throat, his mouth opening in a silent moan. His cock twitched, neglected and painfully hard, but Michael didn't even care, as long as Trevor just kept doing what he was doing.

"Shit," Michael hissed, deprived of the ability to come up with something other than expletives, his jaw clenching in a grimace that was a cross between pain and pleasure.

Trevor didn't say anything, the sounds of his ragged breathing audible over the static of the TV as he bent over Michael, his sweaty stomach brushing against Michael's back. He wrapped his hand around Michael's achingly hard cock, his breath ghosting against his neck. The headboard of the bed banged against the wall as Trevor hammered into Michael, stroking his dick in time with his thrusts.

This was Michael's fucked up idea of ecstasy: getting fucked by his psychopathic meth head ex-best friend turned business partner. Maybe he should talk to his shrink about that little problem.

Nothing coherent left his mouth, obscenities and pleas strung together in a stream of gibberish. Trevor's hand tightened around his cock, roughly jerking him off, still pounding into him at an ungodly pace while the mattress squeaked.

Michael squeezed his eyes tightly shut, clutching handfuls of the mattress. His muscles were taut and his thigh was shaking. He was close. A few more strokes, and Michael released a long, gravelly groan, releasing his load over Trevor's hand, his hips twitching with the waves of his climax.

Fuck. He'd never felt this satisfied.

Trevor wiped his hand on the edge of the sheets, before both hands landed on Michael's hips again. Michael could tell from his labored breathing he was close too. He feverishly dug his nails into Michael's skin, leaving marks that would remind them both of this night. His thrusts became more frantic, his balls slapping against Michael's ass.

"Fuck!" It was more a guttural grunt than anything else. Trevor thrust into Michael one last time, before taking his cock out, stroking once and spilling his load over Michael's lower back, his stubby nails leaving red marks on Michael's skin as they trailed down his thighs.

Michael turned stiffly, letting himself drop to the mattress on his back, laying one arm over his forehead. Jesus. Why the fuck did he allow Trevor to do this to him? Better yet, why did he want Trevor to do this to him?

Trevor stood by the edge of the bed, slipping his god-awful tighty-whiteys over his hips. Michael made a mental note to get him some boxers some time. Trevor bent down, fishing Michael's underwear from the pile of clothes on the floor, throwing it at his stomach. Michael listlessly put on his boxers, reaching next to the bed for his pack of Redwood cigarettes, taking one out and placing the filter between his lips.

"Really? Smoking after coitus? You're such a fucking woman, Mikey." Trevor sat down on the edge of the bed, smirking over his shoulder at Michael. Asshole. He could have known the insults would resume.

"Don't talk to me." Michael lit his cigarette, resisting the urge to squeeze the life out of the other man. Anger Management 101 had taught him to count to ten and think of a nice place. Michael thought of a desert island somewhere in the Maldives.

"Don't talk to me," Trevor mocked, rolling his eyes. "Yyyyeah, that only confirms it, bud. Have yourself a good fucking night. I'm going to sleep."

With that, Trevor flopped down on the bed, hogging all the sheets for himself and leaving Michael seething and unable to sleep for the rest of the night, thinking up a hundred creative new ways to kill a person.

Michael awoke, after an hour or two of fleeting sleep, to an empty bed and a sore body. His muscles ached when he sat up. He rubbed his back, trying to knead the tenderness out. He tried not to think about the cause of the soreness, but everything in the room reminded him of it: the clothes, abandoned in a heap in the corner, the bottle of lube on the bedside drawer, the half-moon marks of Trevor's nails on his hips.

Michael rubbed his temples. A headache to boot. Just fucking great. He looked at the clock, before reminding himself that this was Trevor's house and the thing had probably run out of batteries a long time ago. He stood up, shuffling towards the pile of clothes, fishing out his own garments. Maybe some coffee and breakfast would wake him up. He just hoped he wouldn't find a chopped up body in the fridge instead of eggs and bacon.

Once Michael had gotten dressed, he opened the door to the living room, finding only Trevor on the couch, his boots kicked up on the rickety table in front of the sofa. His eyes were glued to his mobile phone, apparently responding to an e-mail, judging by the agitated movement of his fingers. So he was literate. Michael didn't acknowledge him. He opened the cabinets in the kitchen, finding them empty, one by fucking one, except for some long expired cereal. The fridge was in a similar state. Nothing.

"Hey, you got some fucking coffee or something?" Michael asked, closing the door of the fridge a bit more loudly than he needed to, sounding like a pissed off teenager slamming doors.

"No, Michael, I don't have any fucking coffee." Trevor didn't look up from what he was doing. "I smoke meth if I wanna wake up."

Michael rolled his eyes, mentally returning to his island in the Maldives, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Where's Mrs. Madrazo?"

"Outside. Gardening."

"Gardening," Michael repeated slowly. He couldn't call the dried weeds and the brown patch of grass in front of the trailer a garden. "Sure. Well, I'm gonna get some coffee somewhere in this shithole of a town."

"Yeah, fine. But remember, Mikey," Trevor looked up from his phone, sliding it into his back pocket. He looked at Michael's bruised throat, looking smugly pleased. Michael paused at the door, hand on the handle. "Your ass is mine, and it will be again tonight."

Michael flipped him the bird, slamming the door on the way out, repeating the words 'island in the Maldives' like a mantra under his breath.