If Trevor could've or had to of admitted one thing in his lifetime to the world, he would've been slightly ashamed of what he'd want to tell. It wouldn't be that he was fully aware of his father's abandonment of him even though he'd been clouded previously by the perception that his father actually loved him. It wouldn't be that his saintly mother worked nights not for the money for her two children, but for the thrill and escape from her 'burdens'. It wouldn't be the fact that his brother's death was actually a suicide that he told everyone was an accident because Ryan had asked him to. No, it would be the one thing he was really just down-right ashamed of.
It would be the fact that Trevor Phillips, himself, couldn't fucking live without the thrill of the fucking kill of robbing some helpless soles with Michael fucking Townley.
But he'd be damned if he ever had to admit it.
The lesser known but equally confusing thought he was conflicted with was the new bond he felt for Franklin- the same bond he felt with Jimmy. Like the uncle or maybe even older brother. He had a romanticized version of how valuable his philosophy really was, so in all honesty, Trevor was the uncle or older brother that was best loved and doted over, but not ever taken too seriously on serious topics- never to be the guide or conscience of anyone, really.
That could be Michael's job- even if his wisdom was only slightly less shitty.
Michael was full of realism and thought-out selfish planning whereas Trevor was conscious of those around him, those he loved anyway, and reacted based on emotion and passion- never on raw logic in itself.
Mix the two, and you could find a healthy dose of Franklin.
Trevor thought through that once before and pushed it off as something worth smiling at when he was high one day. But for now, he was focusing on a flapping sail and smacking waves against the sailboat he stole. The fulfillment he felt off stealing the boat outweighed the novelty of buying his own, so he propped his booted feet up on the steering wheel, hands behind his head, and watched the sunset against the clouds.
The music was off, and it was just the sound of the waves and those fucking seagulls he hated but gunfire would break concentration so he drowned them out with the whisper of a wind and the soft breeze that cooled him.
At peace for once, just thinking through his internal thoughts.
Meditation had often been recommended to him by psychiatrists when he'd been a younger Canadian resident. That'd been shortly after his father's attempt at abandonment in the mall and short after death- not by him despite rumor, but by his mother.
It'd been recommended by the newest psychiatrist he'd hired. This time he'd attempted to be serious with it- because there were certain...things he'd been facing that troubled him, along with the thought that his psyche might actually be slipping. He wasn't sure, so a psychiatrist seemed to be the best answer. But imagine a world where psychiatrist actually listened to what you said and didn't prescribe you every pill under the fucking sun and of course never came at you with the question 'do you meditate?'
Fuck Los Santos and their hippy-dippy meditating.
But, beneath a pink sky and in a deep blue ocean on a long white sail boat with nothing for miles- it seemed so appropriate to just reflect and Trevor figured that'd be the closest he'd come to ever meditating.
It felt like all these thoughts were just pushing against his skull until he couldn't take them anymore- he'd panic at first. Start losing his grip on things once he stopped getting any sleep. No sleep meant more drugs- because he felt like he was slipping.
He'd remember that God damned psychiatrist from the Air Force 'Trevor Phillips, one day you're gonna slip and it'll all be down hill from there...you'll be a mentally crippled mess of a man and America and her soldiers will not suffer from your breakdown due to your inability to accept human life as precious.' Blah, blah, blah. Hypocritical words for a military branch in his opinion. Human life precious? Wasn't it their job to protect...through killing? Fucking hypocrites. He was the best man for the job.
He'd panic at remembering her words though, 'Trevor Phillips...one day you're gonna slip...you'll be a mentally crippled mess of a man.'
Panic sent him to drugs. Downers first to try and sleep. Uppers later when he felt like he was going to die- but still couldn't sleep.
Hallucinations came with or without the drugs.
Everything crammed inside of his skull...he couldn't get rid of all the thoughts only half way thought out. Just thinking about thinking through his abandoned thought processes scared him- sent a shiver down his spine. He feared his own answers to his questions floating through his head.
He was at the later stages of all this- barely functioning and sustaining off alcohol, no drugs because he didn't need them. He showered four times a day to try and find sleep easier because he thought once he was warm beneath a shower head and the tension released, he'd relax even just a little. That was just a dream- that he wished he could sleep to have.
Nothing ever eased up, nothing ever got better.
Anger, confusion, bi-polar rages he only half remembered.
He tried everything to normalize himself, hoping his mentality would catch a hint- he got Ron to clean his trailer and he'd kept it clean as a distraction. He wore clean clothes even, just to try and convince his brain everything was okay. The smell of soap eased him for a minute- and that was hopeful.
He wondered if the smell of soap eased him because he loved the way Momma smelled in the morning after she'd taken a shower. She only showered when she was in a good mood. If she was in a bad mood, she never left the bedroom.
The smell of soap reminded him everything was okay.
That was probably it.
Trevor put a hand to his aching head and swallowed.
"I can't fucking take this..."
"...are you in?"
Lester's voice suggested evil and Michael just loved the way it proposed adrenaline...excitement...oh, right, and wealth. Sure, there was that little bonus- but who needed that aspect of it?
He hesitated, but not for long, "Amanda and the kids are out of town for a week."
"...I can work with that..." Lester swallowed, wondering if his social life was really in such peril he'd be curious enough to ask..."...why didn't you go with?"
Lester could hear Michael rub the back of his neck nervously, a habit both Trevor and he carried and he'd begun to see Franklin picking up doing lately whenever he got the chance to see any of the,- he wondered which of the original two, however, did it first.
"She's visiting her mother- and her mother would like to see my face on the news if you know what I mean."
Lester snorted, mostly to himself, but Michael joined in laughing at his own misfortune, "Understandable," Lester replied, "so I suppose I'll get into contact with Franklin and Trevor- we'll meet up at my house tomorrow morning, eight-ish."
"Fucking-A." Michael agreed with a smile, excitement uncontainable as he picked the whiskey glass back up and looked at the time on the clock that read eight PM. Twelve hours- that was all.
And at the click, Michael fell back into the couch and thought of the excuses he could come up with or alibis he'd make up for his wife if she saw the robbery on the news when she came back.