I love Trainspotting with passion (both book and film), so thought I'd search to see if anyone had done any fanfiction. I was delighted to stumble upon this forum and loved the stuff in it. So, I tried to write my own. I suspect it's rubbish, and not nearly as good as the rest, but I had fun writing it. Also, nobody appears to have posted on this forum in ages, so I thought I'd try and get the ball rolling again a bit. Hope you like it!
I blame his upbringing- Simon’s I mean. He never did have a very nurturing family from what I ever saw o’ them. Perhaps that explains his need for attention, his need for love. Not to say he ever reciprocates it. It’s as though he wants to have people clinging to him while he skirts to the next wreckage, never looking back. That’s where I come into this fucked up equation. Me, Mark Renton, and him, Simon Williamson. It was doomed from the start, but did that stop us?
“Be a dear, Rents, an’ pass me a cigarette”, he asked mockingly, as we sat in my questionable living room watching our friend Tommy fucking his gal through the power of VHS (for the second time, I might add). I thrust one in his face. He eyed me briefly, his brow furrowed. Completely clueless is Sick Boy. He seems to have no gage of conduct, or he’d be a whole lot fucking nicer.
“You’re welcome”, I murmured bitterly, not bothering to wait for the thank you that’d never come.
Next thing I know Sick Boy’s rolled over, his knees seated either side of my own- on top of me. I must’ve look like a right gormless twat, or a sly smirk wouldn’t have crept across his compelling face. He whispered something that sounded like little more than breath, but I could just make out the words-“Thanks, Mark.”
I stared at him, stared him right in those big blue the eyes o’ his. I opened my mouth, searching for suitable words, but shock left me speechless. He’d said it. He’d said what I’d thought him incapable o’ sayin. I leant in to him, inhaling deeply, resting my cheek on his chest. I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his expression, but I felt him shaking wi’ laughter. He held me at arm’s length with one index finger, so as to look me right in the eyes. He knew I didn’t like looking at people straight-like (I’m awkward as fuck like that; he needs to feel in control like that).
He relaxed his finger, then his arm, letting my head sink to his shoulder where he held me close. S’funny how everyone will put up with so much crap in life just for a moment like that one. That was our Sick Boy in a sentence.