Chapter Text
Home wasn’t a place.
Home wasn’t some awful flat that smelled of stained carpet. Home wasn’t Swanney’s crackhouse. Home wasn’t the streets that they padded along, minds numb, weak and feeble from the smack and the false joy it gave them. Home was the smack itself, nothing more.
Home was the feeling of much deserved respite, sprawled out upon that aforementioned stained carpet, its unflattering green hues cushioning Mark Renton’s head. His eyes opened and closed in a zombie-like motion, seeing nothing but the bug-filled ceiling lamp above him, and, some few seconds later, the wavering image of Sick Boy, smirking down at him.
“It’s early,” snorted he. “—already cooking up?”
Renton grunted, rolling onto his side, his jaw slack and open wide.
“Don’t take that tone with me.” Sick Boy poked, rummaging around the kitchen. Renton couldn’t even begin to think what he was looking for in there. “Wha’reyedoin’?” called Renton, squinting as Sick Boy flicked on the lights.
“Just been with some lass,” crooned Sick Boy, lighting up a cigarette and puffing at it. “—she was alright, Rents, but she threw me out just now. Came here to see ya, and how’d you greet me? You’re definitely not a host with the most…” Renton interrupted his friend’s snarky crabbing with an irritated groan, raking himself up off the floor and sliding down onto his mattress instead, blue eyes flitting over to the center of the room where he spied a used spoon, probably from the night before. His heart skipped a beat.
“Got any black bun? Mince and tatties? I’m starved!” the white-haired man rambled on, digging through the cupboards. “What do you think?” Renton remarked, sitting upright with some trouble. Sick Boy murmured something under his breath that Renton couldn’t quite decipher. He made his way over to Renton’s mattress, and plopped down beside him. “You alone in here?” Renton nodded, tapping his foot against the carpet.
“Where’s everyone, then?”
Renton’s brain felt like it sputtered and lost all power. He hardly felt up to answering questions, especially not from Sick Boy. “Dunno. Woke up all by myself.” Sick Boy nodded, listening. “Aye? Well, then. What say we do today, eh?” Renton rubbed his thumbs into his eyelids. “I want to sleep, Sickie.” Sick Boy chortled, slinging a harsh arm around the slighter man’s shoulders. “Aw, no, mate! C’mon, let’s go out. Grab Tom and Spud and get smashed.” The plan sounded absolutely horrendous, Renton thought to himself, and leaned his head against Sick Boy’s shoulder, almost in defeat.
“Not feeling too well?” Sick Boy inquired, at which Renton merely grunted once again. “Oh, get up, you great lug. You’ll feel better once we get downtown, warm your bones with some drinks, aye?” Renton felt the mattress shift beneath him as Sick Boy stood and made his way for the door. “See you downstairs, yeah? Don’t take your time.”
As the door shut behind Sick Boy, Mark Renton took all of five minutes to stare lifelessly at the wall in front of him, mouth slightly agape, becoming entirely lost in his own thoughts. So lost, that he hardly realized Sick Boy’s presence, his hot breath on the back of his neck. “Wake up, sunshine. Let’s go.”
The local pub was a shithole Renton frequented far too often.
Sick Boy had collected Spud and Tommy along the way, and Begbie was already waiting for them upon their arrival, seated in the back booth, dressed like a poorly-aging, “still-hip” father from ten years prior, a cigarette perched between his lips. They greeted one another with loud bellows of “oi mate” and “how’s by ya,” and amidst all the racket, Renton silently slid into the booth and lit a cigarette of his own. Sick Boy took his place beside him, his shoulder smacking square into Renton’s, making the older of the two flinch, throwing a nasty side-eye at the blond.
“Wouldja quit being so that way?” Sick Boy chided, nudging Renton once again. Renton swatted at him, glancing up only when Spud returned with drinks for the lot of them. “I tell ya,” Spud began, taking a seat between Begbie and Tommy. “—this is the third interview I’ve bombed.” Begbie shrugged and pointed his cigarette at him. “That’s cos you’re fuck ugly.” Spud hardly seemed wounded by this.
The men chattered on. Renton found himself utterly unamused, as if reality was finally settling around him like rubble after a hurricane. Little outings like these normally brought him happiness, if only for a while, and what made things so much worse was that Sick Boy kept glancing over at him.
“Stop,” Renton scoffed when he caught Sick Boy at it again. “—stop looking at me.”
“You’re too crabby today.” Sick Boy grimaced, gulping down the last of his beer, and tapping the glass on the table. “I am not,” Renton insisted, brow furrowed. “I’m tired, ya fucking numpty.” He felt Sick Boy’s eyes linger on him, which made his lower lip quiver as rage rose in his chest. “Shut ya geggie. I coulda left ya half-alive, lying on the floor.”
Renton shoved him out of the booth, elbowing him hard in the bicep. Sick Boy tumbled to the floor, and glowered up at Renton. “Fuck you, Rents, you’ve it coming.” The elder stood. “Have I?” he spat, striding past Sick Boy and out of the pub.
Sick Boy must’ve made it to his feet rather quickly, because within minutes, he was chasing Renton down the street.