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Mark ran his thumb over the grey box he'd pulled from underneath his bed. He could still enjoy the quiet 'click-clack' of the contents, though didn't quite want to bring himself to look at them yet. They were on his mind, though, whilst he flicked through well-preserved records and read through the various posters on his wall. He was still thinking about it when he pulled open the green wardrobe door, faced with all the shite he used to wear. It was the yellow fucking crop top, however, which gave him pause to think. To think about the mood he'd been in when he decided it was a good idea (he doesn't really remember, being honest) and how it felt to wear it. He does recall that one, so strongly that if he didn't know that he'd (thankfully) filled out far too much now, he'd've had the passing notion of trying to on again. What he could revisit, was the paint. He sat cross-legged on the bed, having made his decision to pull out two random bottles, one a sort of dull green and the other a Christmassy red (nevermind that it was fucking October).
The stuff he hadn't nicked from his Ma, Si had pinched from one of his sisters. Or stolen from a girl, he thought as he quickly span the top off. Mark's movements had quickened immensely, like he knew he had to start quickly or not at all. The nail varnish wasn't so much painting as it was dragging a lump over his thumb nail repeatedly; a clump had been wiped off against his jeans' and by this point he was certain that it was one of Si's. It had gotten to the stage where it was sort of a game, he recalled, in which whenever he went back to someone's flat he'd try an' steal a bottle.
It almost makes it easier for him, that it's almost entirely made up of drying clumps - it's like it's not as much of a Thing. A Commitment. It looks like shite, and he's only done one hand (excluding the finger he fucked up that's half covered in plasters) and he's just realised that this isn't 20 years ago and that these were nice jeans, and that Simon's gonna see this.
He stands up. Too much time spent wallowing in memories, that's what Si had shouted. He grins then, at the jolting mention of Sick Boy - wide as fuck, like - those are Simon's trousers he's got on! And he won't laugh at my hands. Everything else (this dialogue, even) almost definitely. But not this - some things you don't. He didn't, anyhow, back then. (He might laugh at trying to use two decade old shite, though)