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The thing about being sober is that nothing ever lives up to the exquisite ecstasies of heroin.
Even the rush of adrenaline that runs Renton when he rounds a corner on his way home from work only to come face to face with Sick Boy doesn’t compare to all of the things he’s felt at the beautiful and irresponsible hands of heroin.
Even still, it’s relatively surprising.
He never thought he’d see any of his friends again after his “minor betrayal.” And yet here Sick Boy was, standing before him with an outraged look in his eyes.
Before he can react, Sick Boy has him slammed against the wall.
“Sixteen thousand pounds,” he says, pulsing anger clear in his voice as he curls his fingers into the front of Renton’s shirt. “Sixteen thousand fucking pounds, and you just took it.”
“Sicks, I can explain-”
“Don’t fucking bother.” He replies sharply, lifting Renton by the shirt just to push him back into the wall. “And then you just - you just left.”
He looks. . . aggrieved, beneath all of that hatred. For some reason, Renton gets the feeling that this isn’t just about the money. “Simon. . .”
Suddenly Sick Boy has his lips pressed hard against Renton’s, all anger and teeth and desperation. For some reason Renton finds himself kissing back, lifting his arms after a moment to wrap around Sick Boy, to pull him closer.
Sick Boy’s hands leave the front of his shirt to wrap his arms around Renton’s waist and hold him tightly, tugging him to his chest almost punishingly.
“I fucking missed you,” he murmurs when he pulls away an inch, quickly reclaiming Renton’s mouth violently between his words. “You just picked up, and you left. And you took sixteen thousand pounds with you, and I-”
He leans in again before he can continue, and Renton momentarily thinks that Sick Boy is preventing himself from saying something real.
But then one of Sick Boy’s hands reaches down and grips Renton’s arse, and he resolves to stop thinking altogether.
“Where are you stayin’?” Sick Boy asks breathlessly between more harsh kisses, and they’re so close now Renton’s sure that Sick Boy is trying to squeeze the air from his lungs.
He isn’t sure what prompted Sick Boy to kiss him. Or what prompted him to kiss Sick Boy back, for that matter. Renton decides in seconds that he doesn’t care. “I’ve got a - a flat, a few blocks away.”
“Take me there.”
Sick Boy demands; he doesn’t ask. It’s perhaps the most consistent thing about him.
And the most consistent thing about Renton is that he can’t say no to a mate.
----
Renton supposes it was the adrenaline of seeing one another again, and the desire for a more heroin-like sensation that forced he and Sick Boy to collide as they did.
He also supposes that it doesn’t really matter. Because no matter what caused their collision they did collide, and that led them to where they are now, on Renton’s bed, Sick Boy sleeping soundly with his body curled around Mark’s.
There’s a stickiness between his thighs, and a deep ache in a place he doesn’t want to identify. Nevertheless, it’s not particularly unpleasant. Rather, he feels warm with Sick Boy curled so tightly around him and sated, sleepy. Sleeping usually feels like a chore; now, as the waves of unconsciousness wash over him, he welcomes it.
It’s dangerous thinking, but he could get used to this.
----
When Renton opens his eyes, his flat is still dark and the once-warm space beside him is empty and cold.
He squints through the darkness, sits up and pulls his sheets closer to himself. Through the haze of sleep he can make out Sick Boy’s form, standing feet away from the bed and pulling on his clothes.
“Sicks?” He whispers, voice thick and rough with sleep. “What’re you doin’?”
The man looks up at him and smiles; Renton can make out the white of his teeth in the dark.
“You’re out of cigarettes,” he whispers in reply, sitting on the edge of the bed to look at Renton’s face. They’re close now; Renton can feel the warmth of Sick Boy’s words across his face. “I’m off to get some. Go back to sleep, alright?”
He’s too sleepy to truly protest, and he also doesn’t see a reason to. So he nods softly, and is just about to lay down when Sick Boy grips his chin gently and presses their lips together.
The kiss is long and gentle, and for some reason it fills Renton with some sort of unfounded, unreasonable sadness.
Sick Boy is the first to pull away. “Go back to sleep, Rents.”
Renton nods softly and lays down. He means to watch Sick Boy’s dark silhouette retreat through the door, but his eyes are too heavy to keep open that long.
----
Renton doesn’t open his eyes again until the sun from his window shines directly at his face.
The other side of the bed is still empty, still cold. Renton muses that Sick Boy always was an early riser.
He pulls himself up and reaches for his pants. He stops, though, a deep dread setting in his stomach at the realization that his pockets are empty. He searches the ground, hoping in vain that his wallet had fallen out in his and Sick Boy’s hurry to rid each other of their clothes. Ultimately, though, he knows it isn’t the case.
Sick Boy is nowhere to be found. Renton’s wallet, his cash, his cards, are also entirely absent.
He should’ve known.
Nevertheless, as he pulls himself up and gazes at the thin scarf Sick Boy left behind in his hurry to get a revenge Renton entirely deserved, he feels emptier than he did before.
Something tells him, as he gathers up the scarf and holds it in his shaking hands, the emptiness is more than just the loss of his wallet.