Love is a weird emotion that you wish you didn't have to experience.
For most people, love is something that they slowly fall into. They meet the right person, and colors are brighter or they can smell better or whatever poetic shit you've heard Michael babble on about while watching a black and white romance film on TV. You wouldn't dare to lay a goddamn finger on them, but you'd take on anyone to protect them. You only fall out of love if they do something wrong, or over a long period of time, where you've grown sick of each other. The lucky ones stay faithful forever and grow old together.
But, as Michael and many before him have said, you are part of the heartless minority, and you make everything difficult.
There isn't many things you really love. You made a list in your head once after the two of you screamed your heads off about how crazy and monstrous you are and how stupid and two-faced he is after a job and angrily parted ways, him back to his shitty townhouse he hastily bought after the wedding, you to whatever skeevy motel you called home for the week. So you laid in bed one night and tried to list them all off. Drugs, you loved drugs. They didn't love you back, obviously, but there isn't many things that're better than the nice burn of crystal, or a perfectly sized baggie of coke. Your mother too, you loved that broken woman with all of your heart and you feel ashamed to even be called her son most days. You loved girls, beautiful women that dance in the best ways and have soft breasts and plush lips and wicked senses of humor. But most women have a facade for men like you that pay them for a good time, and you'd bet any money they couldn't be paid enough to be seen with you in broad daylight. So they're stuck in the middle.
Michael's a special case, someone that's stuck in the middle of people you hate with a passion and things you'd do anything for. You've sworn up and down that you've lost all respect for him when he left you and got married and had a kid, something he promised to you hundreds of times that he would never do. You used to respect him, look up to him, even love him, at a stretch. Now you hate him, you say. You hate him so much and yet when he's gone for weeks on end and you're with other crews, you can fucking feel the distinct lack of Townley bossing everyone else around. You've gotten better at it, but when he comes back for the rare week or so, you do anything and everything to get your one-sided relationship back up and running again. You can tell Townley isn't cut out for the married life that much, even though he never shuts up about how great it is. He's crankier, quick to snap at someone that does something even remotely wrong or not to his liking. You usually fight with him every second he's around, mostly because it's so easy to rile that idiot up.
Usually he can curb his little outbursts, but tonight was not his lucky night. The heist put the whole crew through the wringer, and there was barely any hard cash to show for it. He couldn't wait to spilt from the rest of the group, and he almost jumps and runs out of the rental when you pull up to the dingy motel, but you quickly follow suit, silently slipping into his room and taking a seat on the creaky bed.
He gives you a confused but annoyed look. "Didn't we specifically buy two rooms?"
You shrug. "The whole place was booked buddy. Looks like we're gonna have to double up."
He glances out the window. "Bullshit. It says 'vacancy' out there, you stupid piece of shit."
You give him a smirk. "Sign must be broken."
He huffs and cracks open a bottle of warm beer that's probably been sitting in the car since last night, taking a long drink. "'M telling you right now T, I ain't in the mood for your stupid games."
You flop on your back. "Neither am I."
"Then why aren't you in your own room."
You yawn. "Bored. Very, very bored."
"Buy the fucking paper or some shit and do the crossword, go kill some puppies or something. For Christ's sake, T, I'm not your fucking babysitter."
"I'm dumber than a sack of rocks, don't you remember?" You smile. "That's your favorite insult."
He groans angrily and takes another drink. "I know. Has some truth behind it. Now get the fuck out."
You slump off the bed a bit, head draping over the edge. "No, no! We haven't talked in forever, Mikey-boy! I need to catch up, buddy! How's the kid? Wife doin' good?"
You hear the bottle slosh around, and it takes him a bit to answer you. "Tracey's doing good, growing like a goddamn weed, cute and annoying as ever. Amanda's mad at me for leaving, though." He snorts at a joke he hadn't said yet, then takes a drink. "I don't think she fucking gets the whole 'money can be exchanged for goods and services' bit yet."
"How could she," you mumble, "When you've already pumped her fuckin' head with silicone and shit as some sick apology."
He glances down at you. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
He growls and takes another drink. "You're fucking lucky I'm slightly buzzed, you ass."
"Why? We've had fun completely sober."
He shifts his weight to the other leg, and stares at you. "If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting, then I'm going to give it a hearty fuck no."
You scoff. "What, so now you're too fucking good for me now?"
"How am I supposed to know what you've been up to for the past month or so? Usually when you're angry, you fuck your way through a whole town." He successfully tosses the now empty bottle into the small garbage can in the corner. "It's a miracle you haven't died of AIDS or some other sexually transmittable disease yet."
"Hey, what's that saying about glass houses and shit?"
"Uh-uh. I'm not even remotely as bad as you are."
"AIDS my ass, have you fucking seen some of the fucking women you've picked up over the years? Jesus Christ, and I thought I had a shitty taste in women."
He laughs. "You do."
"And so do you."
"Hey, I think I did pretty good this time."
You sigh and sit back up. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Keep telling yourself that."
His eyes narrow. "Look, I get that you hate it when I'm happy for once, but could you fucking humor me? Jesus, T, you're like some clingy ass bitch sometimes."
You smirk up at him. "Clingy ass bitch. Is that the best insult you could come up with?"
"Holy shit, the fuck is up with you? You act like I fucking murdered you in cold blood because I married somebody I loved. Be a normal person for once and maybe the same thing could happen to you."
Now it's your turn to give him a dirty look. "You fucking married her because you were guilty about leaving her with your stupid fucking baby. Not only could you not be bothered to, I don't know, use a fucking condom like any smart person would do, now you're tied down with a giant ass target on you."
"Giant ass target? Where'd you get that from?"
"You know when something goes wrong they're going after them first, right? I'm betting any money you're in the goddamn phonebook, and since you can't stop running your huge ass mouth about how great you have it and how great the married life is, they're gonna pay them a visit."
"So by 'them', you mean yourself, right?"
You stare at him. "How fucking sick and depraved do you fucking think I am? Nevermind that, how stupid do you think I am to even try that?" You stand up and stride over to him, and holy shit, you're actually kind of pissed right now. "How dare you fucking even insinuate that?"
He has the nerve to shrug nonchalantly, like nothing's wrong. "You're making it a little hard for me to think otherwise."
Your skin feels like there's a thousand bugs crawling underneath it after you give him a good slap in the face. You're still trying to be nice to him, even though you hear your voice go up a few notches. "Admit it, you fucking dickbag, if anything, you'd be the one to fucking put me down when you feel like the time's right."
Michael isn't so nice. He breaks your nose in one swift punch, blood now flowing freely down your face and into your mouth and down your shirt front. "Fucking lay a goddamn hand on me and yell again and I'll aim for your fucking eyeballs next, T."
You slam him into the wall, pinning him against it by his neck. "Go ahead you fucking asshole. I'd like to see you fucking take me on, you soft, weak, fuckin' sack of-"
He's able to kick your leg out from under you, making you go backwards, cracking your head on the corner of the bed. You barely have a second to react to that pain though, because he then sits on top of you and sticks his grubby thumb in your eyesocket, making you scream in agony.
"The fuck did I fucking just say, you fucking prick?!" He leans down in your face, now screaming at you in full volume, hot spittle flying on your cheeks. "Fucking try that shit on me again, you fucking dick, and I'll fucking rip your arms off!" He laughs at you through his teeth. "You'd probably get off on that shit though, wouldn't you, you sick fucking animal."
You're able to muster enough energy to toss him off of you, and you quickly climb on top of him, pinning his arms at the top of his head. "You save this shit for me? Huh?" You can hardly see out of one eye, but you're still able to punch him in the gut when he tries to thrash out of your grip, making him grunt and be still for a few seconds. "You save every goddamn bit of anger to fucking let it go on me, huh?" Another punch to his soft stomach. "You've been wanting to fucking deck someone the minute you showed up on the fucking job, haven't you?" You sock him in the chest, and he stops trying to fight back entirely, giving into his fate. "I've been nothing but a fucking punching bag to you for fucking months, and now all of a sudden you're acting like you're too fucking good for the fucking druggie you've had no issues banging for the past five years?"
You grind back into his jeans, and laugh to yourself when you feel his semi hard-on. "Look at you, you're fucking hard right now for god's sake. Michael Townley everyone, the wonderful, faithful husband." You lift up a bit to try and take off his belt, but you give up and quickly and go back to grinding against his bulge again and again, palming yourself through your jeans. "Wouldn't Amanda just love to see this fucking sight, huh, Townley?"
You gave him a big enough of a window when you got up to hover over him, however, because you're completely caught off guard when he practically throws you aside. You're dazed for a few long seconds, and that gives him enough time to get up and grab you by the waist, tossing you on the bed with a growl. You bark out a laugh. "Didja have a nice fucking nap down there or what?"
He slaps you across the face, then quickly shucks off his pants, shirt and coat, tossing them aside and rolling you onto your back, getting to work on yours. "Shut the fuck up."
"There's the Michael I know! All hyped up on his shitty little adrenaline rush and ready to go."
He chuckles darkly as he throws your clothes into the pile, then leans over to search for lube in his coat first, then yours. "God Trevor, you're a goddamn prick, aren't you? No wonder I want to fucking kill you twenty-four seven."
You growl and grip his dick as hard as possible, forcibly guiding it to your ass. "Don't act like a fucking gentleman and get it over with."
He looks at you, and then aims a wad of spit at his dick, smearing some on your hole. "I'd like to not fucking chaff my goddamn dick open, you fucking masochist."
You laugh at his pitiful attempt. "Yeah, 'cause spit is the exact same fucking thing, huh?"
He smirks, then pushes in, making you whine in surprise, which just makes his stupid smile even bigger. "You're the one who wouldn't let me find some actual lube."
You start to grind your teeth together, trying to get used to what feels like a soda can stuffed up your ass. Not like Michael's dick is even remotely in soda can territory, just feels that way because he thinks one spit glob's gonna do the job. "You gonna start moving anytime soon, or are you just gonna bask in your ego for the next hour?"
"I'm fucking getting there! Christ, you're more impatient than a chick." He pins down your waist with one hand, slowly pull out, then slam back in, making you start to edge your way up the bed.
You smile. "You mean your chick, right?" Your shit grin falters a bit after one particular rough thrust that makes your insides feel like they're on fire. "Tell me, does my ass feel better than Amanda's or what?"
He glares at you and picks up the pace. "Don't even fucking say her name right now, you prick."
"You can't fucking tell me what to do, I can fucking say her name any fucking time I want to! Amanda. Amanda Amanda Amanda Amanda Amand-"
His hand flies up to your face, and you brace yourself for a punch, but he instead grips your neck and squeezes, cutting off your words. "Want a fucking sock stuffed down your throat? Keep it up."
You don't look away from the beautiful sight of a raging Michael on top of you, your hands finally wandering to your semi-hard cock, stroking it in time to his harsh thrusts, trying to choke out another insult of some sort. "Fucking...dreamed of...doing this shit....huh?"
Michael stops his thrusts to cock his head at you in confusion. "What?"
You make a small noise of annoyance when he stops. "You...fucking...heard...me." You sweep your thumb over your head, the precome now making your job slightly easier. "F-fucking sick Townley. Fucking...sick."
What you said finally clicks in his head, and he grins, hand leaving your throat to roughly move your legs apart and shove his way back inside. "Compared to yours, I think my secret desires are a little more vanilla. Who hasn't dreamed of shutting you up?"
You throw your head back, hands now gripping into your thighs to keep them apart. "This one of your secret spank bank fantasies?"
He smiles at you, then aims for your prostate for the next few thrusts, making you chew your tongue off in an attempt to make sure you don't start screaming like a goddamn harlot. "If I were to tell you, then it wouldn't be a secret anymore, would it, T?"
You quickly tighten around him in retaliation, and he moans lowly, thrusting in harder and faster, in a machine like fashion. "Fuck T, shit I'm so close, fuck fuck-"
"No you're not, no you're not, not on my fucking watch you aren't, you miserable fucking bastard-" But he groans and quickly pulls out, hot come splattering over your chest.
Your hand flies over your dick, and you come a few seconds after. You pant for a few seconds afterwards, then lean over to grab your shirt to clean up the sticky mess coating you. "The fuck was that?"
Surprisingly enough, Michael 'I ignore Trevor immediately after sex because I feel guilty for not only cheating on my wife, but with a dude no less' Townley actually plants a kiss on your lips that you'll probably cherish for the rest of the month. "I'm drunk. Gimme a break."
"You had one shitty beer."
He sits up and pulls up the thin comforter over the two of you. "Pretend I had three, okay?"
You laugh and give him a playful shove. "Whatever you say, Captain."
He lets out a overly dramatic 'oof', and then gives you a sleepy smile. "I'll remember that next time you try to boss us around on a heist, T."
"Fuck you, M."
He punches you softly in the arm, and then turns off the lamp beside him with a sharp click. "Fuck you too, T."
You sit in the darkness for a few minutes, then turn over to him. "Did you actually mean those things you said? That fucking family killing shit?"
He groans into his pillow. "I had three beers, remember? Give it a rest, T."
You sit up a bit to really look at him."So you do mean it?"
"Well, did you mean that shit about you being my punching bag or whatever?"
You sigh softly. "Kind of."
"I don't try to beat up on you, T. I-" He huffs. "I don't even know what I'm apologizing for and I'm sorry." He sounds defeated when he sighs, and that kills you a bit. "I'm sorry for leaving you in the dark for a while, I guess."
You smile sadly, though he can't see it in the darkness, thank god. "Apology accepted. Just don't do it again." You pause for a long time. "Sorry for being a dick. Not sorry about hitting you though. You kinda deserved it."
"Same to you, T." He rolls over and rests his head into the pillow, making him sound muffled and even sleepier. "Same to you."
You wait for a few minutes, then mumble again to your pillow. "At least you're paying attention to me when you're pissed."
You're answered by a snore. That may or may not have been a good thing. He looks so nice when he sleeps. Peaceful, angelic in a way. You laugh at yourself, because for god sake, you're comparing a man that you essentially hate fucked to a holy deity. You sarcastically congratulate yourself in your head for tripping over your feet for people that wouldn't even give you the time of day. He used to care so much, you remember, and your heart aches for the Townley you used to worship. Or maybe you're making up some fantasy Michael that never existed. You love a man that doesn't exist.
You moan in frustration into your pillow. You need a wake up call of some sort. Or maybe some crystal that you don't have. Perhaps both.