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The noise of the syringe hitting the carpeted floor with a dull thud is what brings Trevor back to the present. Twenty minutes later when the door of their dinky apartment- "It doesn't need to be nice, just enough to get us to the next heist without any cops figuring out where we are," Trevor recalls Michael saying,- slides open and slams shut, Trevor's eyes don't rise from where they were staring vacantly at the floor. His vision is slow, like swimming through thick molasses.
Beaten and scuffed Doc Martens tap over to him; left and right and left and right until Trevor can see the toes of the boots next to his torn Chuck Taylors. Trevor smiles- Mikey is back.
Sluggishly, Trevor raises his gaze to not-quite-meet Michael's. Michael is speaking but it sounds like he is underwater. Trevor registers a disappointed frown on Mikey's face and it's enough to dampen his own high.
Michael seems to be getting into the thick of his lecture when Trevor heaves over and vomits all over his Chucks. The acrid sting of it brings tears to Trevors eyes and suddenly the band around his arm is too constricting and for that matter so are his clothes, the needle wounds burn, his vision swims and wavers and Trevor can vagely feel himself shaking violently. Someone's crying- hard, and Trevor starts when he realizes it's him.
Everything hurts and he almost doesn't notice when calloused but gentle hands firmly grasp his biceps and lift him up like a doll. Trevor feels boneless, and finally realizes he's having a bad trip when he registers monsters around every corner that Mikey doesn't react to. The shadowy figures have wide, horrified eyes that look into him and make him cry harder. They watch silently as Michael drags his limp body through the house.
They're in the bathroom now. The walls are a sterile white and judge Trevor's disheveled appearance. Michael helps him brush his teeth and he is thankful the harsh taste is gone. The shower starts and Michael is removing Trev's clothes slowly and in any other situation Trevor would be embarrased but he's pretty busy trying to make the tiles stop shifting colors under his feet.
The last to go is the rubber tubing around his left arm, just above the injection site. Cool, rough hands smooth over the shallow mark the band leaves in his bicep. Finally, Michael helps him into the shower and the flilth is rinsed from his skin. He is shaken by small shuddering breaths. Trevor's long now-un-matted hair drips into his eyes and his view of Michael is blocked. Disappointing.
He lifts a trembling hand (he still has the post-trip shakes) to move the sopping hair from his view- because he wants to see Mikey of course. He always wants to see Mikey. Michael's sky-blue eyes meet his and Trevor feels no shame. Michael doesn't look angry, just concerned, then entranced. Michael's hands cup Trevor's face. Trevor stares, the world is alive and moving in psychedelic and beautiful patterns over Michael's skin, Trevor's skin- he's sure his eyes are dialated, he's so high right now and Michael's so close and warm and they're in the shower and Trevor's leaning in-
Michael's hands come up to his shoulders to abruptly but gently push him back.
"You're high. I can't." It sounds like an apology.
Trevor is already slumping his head to Mikey's chest, close to unconsiousness. He's far away.
When he wakes he is dry and warm in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt with three holes near the neck and some questionable stains on the side. Michael's sitting on the bed next to him, facing away towards the TV. Trevor sits up with a wobble and Michael turns around, startled.
"You scared me, you fucker." Michael's voice has grown rougher over the years. Trevor isn't high anymore but flops over with his head in Michael's lap anyways.
"You gotta quit that shit, T, it's gonna kill y-" Trevor's hands frame Mikey's face, pull him close. Their eyes connect. Trevor needs this right now.
"Let me," Trevor pleads, pulls Michael's warmth closer. If there's a word for when two stars meet, Trevor thinks it applies now.
Michael lets him.