love at first sight [a trikey short story]

him

He supposed she fell in love with him, in exactly the same way he had; the way you fall in love with a rock star, eyes so blinded by the lights you stare milky-eyed past the wires and the fact the microphone isn't even on. He was always so sure, so shining, whether he was shouting movie quotes while hanging out the getaway car to police officers, or when he had a stable of strippers around him, talking to them like he was conducting a sermon on the mount, making them all feel so lovely, so special. Michael Townley was white trash, sure. Which is why he spoke lovingly to strippers and his quotes were from movies, not books. But he was so sure he was taller than all of this, it was hard not to believe him.

And Trevor did believe him. To a point, of course. Not that Trevor ever beatified Townley. He was as much middle-of-nowhere trailer-born flesh and blood as Trevor was, as hard as it was to believe. (In the metaphorical sense. Not literal. Literally he was a fat fuck, there was a lot of flesh.)

The first time they met had been under less than ideal circumstances. He had been promised one car, and instead two were peeling down the road at breakneck speed. The sound of a bullet pinging off a fender sent his scrawny body scrambling for cover behind the rickety wing of the cargo plane. Trevor was so green around the gills he looked positively ill. His vicious nature was less tuned, more coyote than wolf, still scrounging around the bottom of the barrel for scraps to feed off of.

(The Trevor of today would look back on moments like this as if he was watching a movie; so far away, so far removed from the younger Trevor, relatively fresh-faced, not yet scarred by needle of any kind, meth or tattoo. There were signs of the future, sure; on rare occasions he would black out, after events with his mother, hockey coach, brother, a step-father-- and come to elbows deep in the belly of a stray dog. Once, a hitch hiker, but at the time he had reasoned from the smell that the man had been dead long before he had started to squeeze the man's kidneys like stress balls.)

The first car screeched to a halt, and out tumbled a stocky man, clean shaven and buzzed on top. Black hair and bright, bright blue eyes.

"Hey! 'ey!! You're the pilot, right? For Carl? This guy has been following me—"

Trevor's yellow eyes peered over the wing. Maybe it was Michael's drawl, or his eyes, or the way he seemed to hunch his shoulders and roll his neck as he trotted with barely contained panic towards him. Another bullet flew, this time burying itself into the body of the plane. Trevor didn't flinch. On his body he had a hunting knife tucked into the waistband of his cargo pants, a flask and a small baggie of cocaine in his jacket, and a flare gun in case the plane went down.

The second car swung around to stop, screeching. Michael was running on his stupid, stubby little legs, eyes wild. The other man stepped out of his car. Simultaneously, they righted their weapons.

The plane took another stray bullet. Trevor's flare hit the mark.

Together, they staggered under the weight of the corpse and the stench of burnt human flesh, just barely rolling his body into a nearby lake. The stench hadn't been as immediately apparent when they threw him in the back amongst the cargo; maybe it was the rush of it all, nostrils flaring, hearts racing. They spent the plane ride sitting in the cockpit morbidly huffing the cardboard pine tree that had been taped to the roof. The adrenaline couldn't keep the admiration out of Michael's voice, despite how casual he kept his word choice; after all, Trevor's quick thinking had saved him, saved the job, saved them both, really. Trevor laughed and grinned and shrugged, almost crushed by the barely-there praises of his very existence, of him just happening to be there. His knuckles were white with the grip on the plane's yoke, as he pulled the plane into an incline, and remembered his training cut short in the Canadian air force. He didn't think about how that was his first real kill.

Love at first sight.

The plane touched down at a nearby marsh, barely a lake, to unload the corpse. The body was the priority, and the cargo doors swung open. Sulfur, and the smell of burnt flesh. Trevor promptly laughed, and mid-laugh vomited half-processed Cluckin' Bell, right then and there, almost getting it on his shirt and in his coat. They tromped inside, carried the body out, and rolled it into the water. He can still remember how Michael looked, doubling over as soon as the body splashed in unceremoniously. He wasn't like Trevor, practically vomiting all over himself without a care in the world, no. He had tried to hold it in. Next to the man he just met, Michael wretched and let it hit the mud so that bile splattered on his boots. Trevor did not remember looking away, or even pretending to; there was no sense of modesty here. He gave Michael's back a friendly slap; the man straightened in response, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, coughing a few more times.

"Jesus... let's drop this shit off, get the fuck out of here. I need a drink."

Love at first sight. Something like that.

Trevor has all the moments Michael has ever looked vulnerable committed to memory, tucked away in the rolodex of his brain. He hates them all. He hates this one a little bit less than the others. He never reminisced over them much; he would rather have remembered Michael as the cross on his arm, as the smooth face with the rough stubble, absolutely shining, shining. (He pulled them out only in earnest after he found himself staring over the city of Los Santos. He NEVER beatified MICHAEL, his mind screamed defensively, throwing the pictures to the floor.)

The other times Michael has been vulnerable, he hates much more than the first time. They almost all have to do with Amanda. The kids, too, but he can't hate them; just like himself, they never asked to be brought into this world. And though he's thought of murdering her plenty, day dreams of striking her down and ripping her open, past the silicone, to see what's inside—Trevor's not sure he really hates her. It's not her fault she fell for the same exact lies.