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The night is cold, air dry and thin, with rain coming down at a moderate pace. Blue light seems to fill the silent room, not a movement being made or a sign of conscious life. The silence was innocent and pure, wrapping itself around anyone found in its wake.
Then, suddenly… Movement. A quick, hasty movement, flinging the man upright and shaking horribly. His skin was soaked with sweat and felt to be too tight, his eyes were burning from the lack of sleep, his back ached as he curled in on himself. The silence was gone in an instant, innocence being wiped off the face of the Earth with his mere presence. Simon couldn’t bear the pain in silence, however.
He grabbed at his chest, feeling it heave beneath his hand. He turned and noticed no one in the bed beside him, instead there laid an ugly green-grey jumper and Simon cursed himself as he knew he couldn’t keep doing this.
He couldn’t keep holding onto Renton like this, he knew it was doing him more harm than good… Still, as he looked at the jumper, he knew he couldn’t give it up. He looked at it and he knew he shouldn’t... He knew it was wrong.
He picked it up.
- Simon dunnae.
Felt the fabric in his hands.
- Please dinnae.
He brought it up to his nose.
It still smells like Rents.
He felt the tears welling up in his eyes again, even though he promised he wouldn’t. He tried counting, breathing, talking himself down, but with Renton these things never worked. No matter how much you count, no matter how much you breathe, no matter how much you talk, it doesn’t change that fact that Mark is gone. Mark is gone.
- Simon no, dinnae dae this again.
It was too late. It was already sinking in.
“Why the fuck did ye fuckin’ leave fer?” he questioned aloud, “Why the fuck did ye fuckin’ leave us?!”
He buried his face into the jumper, tears rolling down his cheeks as he allowed humiliation to overcome and consume him. He allowed his constant fear of failure to envelope him, he allowed it to consume him. Because, just maybe, if his failure finally consumed him - all of him - he’d finally be no more; Simon would cease to exist. Simon would cease to hurt.
“Ye were oor bezzy fuckin’ mate! Mark!” He pulled the jumper away from his face, “How could ye?”
He went to his kitchen, indulging in his darkest liquor, as he clenched Mark’s old jumper in his fist. He didn’t bother with cups, he tilted the big glass bottle up and he chugged like he hadn’t since he was a young lad in school.
The booze comes in, flooding his stomach with warmth and his brain with dizziness. All he can think about is the fire in his gut and the ginger minger cunt who’d previously been akin to his other half. The first time he’d drank this liquor had been at Renton’s house, they snuck it out of his dad’s drinking drawer…
***
It was half past three and everyone in the Renton household was fast asleep besides Mark himself and Simon who took some coercion to get up. Simon kept a lookout as Mark snuck into the cabinet and picked the lock.
Mark came rushing back with the big glass bottle of dark brown liquor, grinning wickedly, and urging Simon to run back into Mark’s room. They giggled, as kids do when they did things they weren’t supposed to. Mark drank first and he grimaced, hating the burn in his throat. Simon didn’t fancy it either but feigned a liking to impress Mark.
Like it or not, they drank the whole thing that night; then they smoked cigarettes by the only window in Mark’s room. Simon takes a long drag off his cigarette before handing it to Mark, their eyes connecting in a much deeper way than they usually did. Simon felt like he was actually seeing Mark, with no resistance, no jokes, just a pure genuine connection.
They already knew their fates when they exchanged glances, Simon wished it wasn’t true, but the way his breath caught in his throat told him he was in too deep. It’d been so silent for what felt like ages even though it must’ve only been moments; the soft light of the moon reflecting off of Renton’s blue eyes told Simon he didn’t have a choice anymore.
All he had was the utterance of Mark’s name, breathless and tingling on lips, escaping him like a cry of desperation. He silenced it quickly, leaning in and engulfing his friend in a kiss; one which was hesitantly returned. Renton wasn’t good at affection, he hadn’t had many chances with it, but in that moment he tried, truly, to express his fondness. To this day Simon has never known a sweeter taste.
The only regret Simon feels weighing heavy on his chest is that he didn’t tell Renton how truly beautiful he was in that moment. How, in that moment, Simon had never known a person more angelic and perfect, how he could collapse into ashes and be perfectly happy, how Renton’s shy grin is the cutest thing to grace the Earth, how his freckles dot his cheeks like the stars in the night sky, how pretty his gleaming eyes are in the moon’s reflection… He never got to tell Mark how much he truly took his breath away... And he’ll never get to.
***
“YEW CUNT!”
Simon smashed the bottle on the floor and slammed his hands against the kitchen counter. His rage becoming untethered and his common sense becoming muddled. He begins throwing all of his dishes out of his cabinets, smashing them on the floor, in the sink, on the countertops, and against the walls. All the while cursing that stupid fucking Mark Renton.
“Yew junkie piece of trash!”
He rips out the utensil drawer and throws it onto the ground,
“Yew never even fuckin’ said goodbye!”
He yanks the toaster out of the wall,
“Some fuckin’ friend yew are!”
The toaster goes hurdling out of the window.
Simon storms out of the kitchen into the living room, grabbing piles upon piles of movies (not the James Bond ones) and slinging them out of the window. He then grabs his journal off the coffee table and starts furiously ripping out every single page and tearing it beyond recognition.
“Fuck yer shitty fuckin movies! Fuck the book! Fuck everything!”
He grabs the coffee table and flips it with one foul swoop, a loud bang and crashing ensues. The guttural scream that tears its way out of Simon’s throat seems to drown out all the other sounds, he’s reached his limit.
He collapses to his knees.
He has no more energy.
No more energy to scream.
No more energy to throw things.
No more energy to think.
No more energy to fight.
Simon submits to his sorrows.
He looks at the papers around him, torn and mutilated, those were all his memories of Mark. Maybe that was how he was meant to release them, maybe he was never meant to have them. He didn’t deserve Mark.
“Ah just-... Ah just fuckin’ needed yew.” He nearly whispered, “Yew were all Ah fuckin’ had. Thae oanly yin whae ken us.” He swallowed hard, “An’ a just thought yew needed us too.”
Then, Simon spots one last page hanging in the journal. One last page he forgot to rip up. It was incomplete and scribbled to fuck because it was an old memory; the first time Mark ever held his hand. He grips the paper ready to tear it to shreds… Then he reads the end.
“... I think I love him.”
He takes a deep breath, as he sees the words he hardly ever dared to think of. He takes it to the kitchen table, lighting a cigarette and grabbing a pen. He makes only one adjustment.
“... I think I love him.”
He sits back in his chair and looks at the utter chaos around him and he picks up Mark’s jumper, smiling. All these years and he can finally fucking say it; he held that jumper tight to his chest.
“I love you, Mark.”