The arguing was not an uncommon occurrence in the De Santa household. It didn’t surprise Trevor; rich pricks always fuckin argued; behind their shiny walls were shitty people, of course. Like a piece of shit coated in gold — it was still just shit. He couldn’t wait to just get through this. He was hoping, honestly, that he was wrong. Some part of him wanted to think his nine years of grief weren’t for nothing.

“Somebody say yoga?” he interrupted dryly, stepping into the kitchen. His eyes trailed around the room slowly as it fell into silence. And there it was. Amanda, with a nice new rack. Jimmy, looking quite older than the kid he’d last known. And….

“…Michael,” he said lowly. He went still, seeming unperturbed by the stiff and thick silence that suddenly filled the room, so stark from the screaming match that came earlier. He knew it. He could hope all he wanted — he knew, deep down, when he’d heard that stupid fuckin line on the TV… he knew it was him.

Now here they were. His own fists clenching and unclenching a few in anticipation. He didn’t want to fight, though; this was his best friend. Well, as far as he was concerned, it had been. He wasn’t so sure now. Best friends didn’t pull shit like this. He was going to need some answers — and he needed them fast.