He can't really remember the first time. Because he was off his face, and he probably couldn't have told you what year it was if you asked him. But he can remember lying on Swanney's floor, and suddenly he felt a weight on top of him, and when he opened his eyes he could just about make out Sick boy, straddling him. And then Sick boy's lips pressed against his, and Sick boy's hands running over his body. And he can't really remember much after that, but he remembers waking up with the other man curled around him.
Renton hated himself for it, but he was still awake. He was still awake, and he was sober, and he was standing in Swanney's flat, pacing back and forth across the carpet. If you could even call it a carpet. He should have gone home. No, he should have gone out. He should have left him in the club, and gone somewhere else, and picked someone up. Picked someone up, shagged them in the back seat of a car, and then gone home. But instead, he's in Swanney's flat, pacing back and forth, on his fourteenth straight smoke, and hating himself.
The second time he can remember. He can remember every detail of it. From the feel of Sick boy's lips against his, and the press of his body against his. And Sick boy's hands running over his body, and as he pulled his tee shirt over his head, and slowly bit his way down his torso, until Renton's knees gave way, and he fell to the floor, and then Sick boy was straddling him again. And Renton didn't know where this had come from, but he didn't object either, and as Sick boy slid his hands under his waistband, Renton's back arched, and he concentrated on remembering every detail.
It was three hours before he walked in. It took him three tries to open the door, and he stumbled in, taking barely four steps before he fell to his knees. Fucked off his face. X and vodka, from the look of it, and at this, if possible, Renton felt himself getting angrier. On all fours, Sick boy pulled himself into the room, bumping his head off Rents' knees.
"Alright, Rents?" He pulled himself so he sat on his heels.
For a moment, Renton just stood, looking down at the other man. Debating with himself whether it was worth it. Because just from his eyes he could see the other man was too far gone to even notice what he was saying. He stood there, torn between staying and fighting, and going home and stewing over it overnight. By the time he decided, Sick boy was lying stretched out on the floor, eyes closed, dead to the world. Renton slammed out the door.
And it kept happening like that. Originally just when they were both high, but as time went on, it stopped being just a drug thing. But it wasn't a 'relationship'. Fuck no, nothing like that. Until it became a constant thing. It became so that he expected him to be there, and he expected himself to be there to. But nobody else knew. Or at least he told himself that. Told himself that nobody else noticed how the two of them were shooting up in private now. When really everyone but Spud knew. But Spud wouldn't know what shoes were most of the time. It wasn't until they were all at the flat, and completely sober, and Sick boy leaned, and kissed him in front of everyone that he had to admit something was going on.
That was three months ago.
The next morning, he hammered on the door, keeping it up until Swanney pulled the door over and yanked him inside.
"What the fuck in going on Rents?"
"Is he here?"
"Who? Sick boy? Yeah, he's in back." Swanney jerked a finger in the direction of the bedroom. "Had a bit of a time getting him into the bed though. Where the fuck did you get off to last night? One minute you were there and the next gone. D'ya feel sick or something?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"Well, he's in back. Though from the state of him last night, I'm not sure if it's worth your while going back there for a bit."
"I can wait."
"You want a hit?"
"No. Not yet."
By the time Sick boy woke up, Swanney had absented himself from the flat with a mumble about 'supplies'. He wandered into the living room, blinking sleep from his eyes, and barely noticing Renton on the couch. But Renton had spent the last six hours going over his argument in his head, and barely gave Sick boy time to sit down before he was off.
"What the fuck happened last night?"
He pulled the other man to his feet, but pushed him back down before he was able to answer.
"I mean, it's fine, and I go away for five minutes. No, not even five minutes. Two minutes. And when I come back, you've got your arm around someone."
Sick boy tried to react, but Renton was in full flow.
"I mean, it's not just that I was barely gone. And it's not that you'd already got your arm around them. But fucking Robbie Blair! I mean, for fuck's sake. And it's not just that he's fucked half of bleeding Scotland. But he deals the worst shit in Edinburgh. And I could see the X. And I always thought you had more sense then that. And I almost went up to you, and I would have punched him across the table, but you leaned in and kissed him, and I just couldn't… Fucking hell!"
Renton stopped to take a breath, looked at the man on the couch, hoping he'd jump in, try and explain. But Sick boy just sat there, slightly dazed.
"I mean, don't you even want to try and explain yourself? You were talking about James Bond and he demanded an explanation? He saw the cops and asked if he could hide his stash an your mouth? Nothing?"
Renton kept pacing back and forth, stabbing the air with his cigarette at the end of every sentence. At every turn, he glared at Sick boy, sitting sprawled out on the couch. For a few minutes, they stayed like that, Renton jittery, pacing up and down the room, Sick boy calmer, lying dazed on the couch. Eventually he pulled himself to his feet, and opened his mouth to speak.
"Look, Renton. It's just…"
"Shut up." Renton pushed him back on to the couch.
"Rents," Sick boy pulled himself up again. "I really don't know what happened. It was just a thing, and it was just, the club, and the drugs, and, just, it, just sort of, happened."
He took a step forward, placing his hand on Renton's chest. "It was nothing, really, nothing, and it just…"
He trailed off, and leaned in to kiss Renton, who dodges out of the way.
"It's not nothing. For fuck's sake. You've probably got something now, I mean, Robbie Blair, god knows."
"Rents, don't be a bastard." He pushed his hand up again, tracing Renton's chin with his fingers. He leaned on again, just brushing Renton's skin with his lips before Renton pulled sharply back, shoving his hand away with such force that Sick boy hit the ground.
"Fuck off Simon. You do this every time. I wouldn't mind, but you're just such a cunt about everything. Just fuck off."
Renton turned to leave, but Sick boy, on his feet again, reached out to grab his arm. Renton spun around, his hand catching the side of his face, sending him in to the wall.
"Just fuck off."
It's been a week, and he's been trying to figure out what to do. Trying to figure out a way to talk to him without losing face. Because, as much as he doesn't want to admit it, he misses him. And it's really fucking annoying, because he can't think of a single reason why. And he's sitting in the diner, and he's still trying to figure out what he can say, when Sick Boy slides into the booth across from him. He must be staring, because Sick boy doesn't meet his eyes for a few seconds. But when he does, he looks right at him, and Renton feels his breath catch.
Renton blinked across the table.
"I'm sorry." And his eyes say he means it.
And it's not much, but from Simon it's a big deal. Renton didn't even know he knew the words.
"And I didn't shag him."
"Robbie Blair. I didn't shag him."
And Renton's not sure if he believes him. But he's sorry, and for now, that's all he needs.