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It’s a rainy day on the day of Mr. Renton’s funeral. Not that it ever isn’t pissing it down in shitehole Scotland, but Mark still brings himself to find the humour in it. Pathetic Fallacy, he remembers from his Literacy class all those years ago. What’s pathetic is that Mark’s Dad is dead, and he can’t even bring himself to care.
He had sorted out plans for when it would happen months ago; he’s selling the house he grew up in to move in with Simon fucking Williamson, of all people. Mark tries his hardest not to chuckle now at the thought of it, imagining the people around him, blowing their noses into tissues miserably, won’t appreciate his seemingly unconventional humour.
He doesn’t speak at his Dad’s funeral, not to anyone there, not to anyone before, not when he’s asked if he’d like to ‘Say a few words in his honour?’ because fuck that.
Mark wants to be out of there as soon as possible, to shuffle into a pub silently, or sit his arse down on a random public bench, hell, he’d even take a musty crack-den over the tense stone walls of the church that the service is being held in.
And so, the moment it’s done, Mark legs it, saying goodbye to nobody, not even staying to collect the pity-gifts some of his Dad’s mates had come with.
He finds himself wandering listlessly through the streets of Edinburgh, managing to find himself further and further away from Lieth with every passing moment. Does he know where he’s going? No, not even a little. And he’s not sure he even cares. He just needs to be away from the crushing atmosphere of that fucking church, the misplaced guilt making it hard to breathe.
And fuck me, it must be bad if he’s roaming the streets of Edinburgh for fresh air. Place’s a shitehoal, he can’t help but think to himself as he kicks a can out of his way on the pavement.
It’s only then that he realises that he hasn’t even told Simon about his old man’s passing yet. Sighing, he plucks his phone from his pocket and dials Simon. The phone rings for a good moment, and for a bit, Mark thinks that Simon won’t pick up. But, he does. He always does.
”Hey, Mark, whis guid wi’ ye?” comes the slightly tinny greeting from his phone. Si’s voice sounds groggy and it registers in Mark’s mind that it’s late, the streetlamps having been on for a long while.
“Ehm hey, Si. Ye ken that deal we made, way back, like?” Mark asks nervously, sticking his free hand in his pocket and shuffling from one foot to another, like a junkie just starting to come off of a high. And doesn’t he just know the feeling well.
“Mark, ye goan’ havetae be moar specific than tha’, mate. Ah kin think ay about Ten deals wi’v made since whenever ‘Way back’ is.”
Mark runs a frustrated hand along his face before he decides to just go for it; “Si, ma Da’s deid. Let us bunk wie ye, aye? Like we said? Ahm sellin’ the hoose.”
There is a moment where no response but the sound of rustling fabric comes through the phone. Simon sounds more awake as he asks, “Whire are ye, Mark?”
Mark takes no notice of the response’s odd nature as he feels his eyes start to shine over, before immediately willing the tears away and looking around to find a landmark of some sorts, or a sign, or even a bus timetable. Nothing. “Bumfuck naewhire, Si. Ah goat fuck-all clue. Somewhire in Edinburgh- Ah hope.”
He can practically feel Simon’s eyeroll through the phone, ”Then share yer location wie me oan yer phone, fuckin’ auld man.”
“Ey?” Is all Mark manages to get out.
“Ah’m comin’ tae git ye, daft prick.”
Mark doesn’t protest. “Awright. See ye’s in a minute then? Ah’ll try dae tha’ location thing noo.”
As Mark’s pulling the phone away from his ear to find out how to do this fucking location thing, he hears a soft, ”Guid lad. Ah willnae be lang.”
After sorting out the directions for Si, Mark fishes his pack of fags from his other pocket and lights one up quickly. It’s about Two hours jntil Simon shows up, and it’s only when he feels Si’s disapproving gaze at his feet, looking down to see almost a whole pack’s full of fag butts littering the grubby pavement, that he realises he’s been chainsmoking.
Thankfully, Simon holds back on a witty or insulting comment, simply reaching over to open the door for Mark to hop in and sit down, which he does dutifully, offering Si the rest of his fag, dejectedly coming to terms with the fact it was the last in the pack anyway.
The other man takes it only slightly hesitantly, eyes surely lingering on Mark’s trembling form - I’m freezin’ ma fucken’ baws aff oot hear, Mark thinks reminds himself. That’s why he’s shivering - before looking back to the wheel and driving off without saying a word.
“Want tae talk ‘bout it, Rents?” Simon finally asks softly, after about half an hour of silence.
Mark looks over at Si and, after a moment’s thought, turns back, forcing out a hoarse, “Naw.” Ah really shuild cut doon oan the smokin’, Mark thinks, noncommittally.
“Awright,” Simon nodded and that’s that until they reach Si’s flat, where Mark unlocks the door for them and, after kicking his shoes off, immediately flops onto the sofa.
Simon’s gaze meets him for a moment, before telling him, “Night Rents,” waiting a second more, and then he turns away, heading to his own bedroom.
Mark doesn’t fall asleep quickly, instead, he restlessly tosses and turns until finally he drifts into an uneasy sleep.
A girl stands in front of Mark. The first thing that he notes is that she’s young, around mid-twenties, he’d say, blonde, quite pretty. He watches as she puts her hands on her hips, staring at him with a blank face. Mark tries to see past her, gain some context, but everything blurs into a blob of background static when he tries to avert his gaze. He can’t help his eyes from being drawn back to her.
There’s something about this girl that’s familiar, in the way that a new mate’s house is familiar the second time you visit, familiar in a way that the cars that frequent the street outside your flat are familiar. It’s a detached sort of recognition, almost slightly eerie.
She looks well-off; successful in a way that none of the skaggies he surrounds himself with usually are. And still, she just stands. And waits. And watches.
Mark wants to reach out to her, for a reason he can’t justify even to himself. But, he finds himself rooted to the spot. He calls, “Hello?”
Still, no response. “Dae Ah ken ye?” he’s asking, even though some weird part of him is screaming, Nae, ye dinnae want tae ken. Jus’ leave it, please, just leave it!
Finally, the girl speaks. “Aye, Mark. Ye dae.” her face remains impassive as she continues speaking, “Ye ken me fae a long time ago.” A hint of emotion crosses her face. A slight frown. Not of confusion; of anger. Of blame. “Although, Ah wouldnae say that Ah goat the chance tae be able tae git tae ken youse that well, Mark.”
Mark didn’t understand. Everything was mixing through his brain like the first time he’d tried crossfading. “How’d ye mean?” he asks.
She shrugs, but the anger grows on her face still and Mark begins to feel a pit opening in his stomach. “That place wis nae place tae raise a bairn, Mark. Ye ken that.” Mark’s face drops with recognition. His fingers go numb, consumed by static. “And ah ken that, tae. But what Ah dinnae get, Mark, is how ye can live wie yerself after what ye did. There wis plenty’o opportunities tae git me outta there.”
Mark swallows around his dry throat with a click, but he can’t bring himself to say anything. He feels like he’s been dipped in a bath of ice water. He’s sinking further and further into it as Wee Dawn’s - because she’ll always be Wee Dawn. She never got the chance to grow the nickname out - face becomes impassive once again, and she turns around and starts walking away.
Mark tries so fucking hard to continue after her, but his feet are stuck to the spot. He tries to call after her but the lump in his throat grows, choking him, suffocating him further as he tries to speak, smothering him until he can’t breathe, and the static is oozing through his veins until-
Mark wrenches himself upwards, gasping so fiercely that his entire frame heaves with the effort of breathing and he has to fight a gag from rising from his throat.
There’s a blanket wrapped around his sweaty form that definitely wasn’t there when he fell asleep. In his disorientated state, Mark still manages to note the light peeking through the curtains. Must be morning.
Mark rips the blanket off his shoulders and rises on shaky legs to Simon’s bathroom. He sets the shower to run, but before he undresses, he sits on the closed toilet lid, elbows resting on his knees and face in his trembling hands. He doesn’t know how long he sits there for, the shower mostly forgotten about. He can’t stop recounting the dream.
He’d done his best to make amends with the fact he was responsible for Wee Dawn’s death years ago, but he isn’t liking this whole ‘Reopening old wounds’ deal his brain has going on.
His internal conflict is interrupted, however, when he hears the door squeak to behind him, almost missing it over the sound of the still running water.
Mark jumps out of his skin, and immediately whips around to see Simon poke his head through the door.
“Ye wastin aw the hoat water, Rents.” he mumbles to Mark, but the teasing doesn’t seem to carry the weight it usually does. Instead, Mark can hear an undercurrent of worry in Simon’s tone. He can’t stand it.
“Aye. Sorry.” He quickly spits out, hopping up off of the toilet and looking pointedly at Simon until he closes the door, leaving Mark alone once again.
Mark undresses as quickly as he can, jumping into the heated stream of water. He tries to forget the dream, what Wee Dawn had said to him - what he thought Wee Dawn had said to him - but he can’t find it in him to let it go.
He doesn’t let the guilt eat him up, but there’s no getting rid of the small portion of his brain that won’t let it go, the memory rotten and sour amidst others. He scrubs his body quickly, hard enough to wipe the sweat off of his body, hard enough to where the skin under his fingertips turns white, hard enough that when he drags his nails over himself, they leave red, raw scratches in their wake, making him wince as the steaming water rolls over them in rivulets.
In the end, he ends his pity party and shuts the water off. He can’t even bring himself to care about the fact he’s using Simon’s raggedy towel before putting his old clothes back on.
Stepping out of the bathroom, Mark observes Simon at the kitchen countertop, glancing his way with a steaming mug to his lips, another similarly full on the counter - for him, he suspects.
“So, Mark. Whit’re we uptae today?” Simon asks, setting his mug down and clapping his hands together obnoxiously. Back tae normal, thank Gaud, Mark notes.
”We are uptae nothin’ today, Si. Gotta load’a paperwork n’ aw, dinnae Ah?” He explains. “Ahm real sorry. S’no somethin’ Ah particularly want tae dae either, mate.” He adds at Simon’s best ‘Kicked Puppy’ face. The cunt.
Instead, the guy sighs melodramatically and rests back on the kitchen counter. “Fine. Ah guess Ah’ll go entertain mahsel’ then.”
He pushes the spare mug towards Mark, who takes it gratefully. He notes that Si remembers how he likes his coffee, and he can’t help but be slightly pleased.
“How about this, Si. Once Ah git aw this shite sorted out wie ma Da, we’ll gae out tae the pub tomorrow, awright? We can invite Spud, tae. Make an evenin’ out ay it, yeah?”
Simon just grins back at him. “Awright, Mark. Go deal wie aw that stuff. Ah’ll probably jist stay here, then.”
Mark downs the rest of his cup, nodding at Simon, before heading towards the door and pulling it closed after him.
Mark takes the bus to the address he was emailed, some fuckin’ government building. He signs paper after paper. He waits in the hall for some printing to be done so he can sign more paper.
He’s not really there, if he’s to be honest. Moving robotically.
The day passes, and finally, Mark is done, free to leave. His Dad left mostly everything to him, bar a few useless things he couldn’t be fucked to waste brainpower on.
Stepping back onto the bus, he gets off a few stops early, walking to his Dad’s house. Well. Not anymore. He’s just collecting a few things, personal belongings, a toothbrush, his cash, a few documents and a change of clothes, stuffing it into a backpack and leaving again. He’d been given the choice to move his furniture out or just leave it there, and he couldn’t give a single shit about any of the shitty furniture in that house.
Mark trundles down to his local off-license, picking up two packs of beer and asking the tillkeep for a couple of packs of fags. Reaching into his pocket to grab some cash, Mark glances out of the window, the inside of the shop reflecting from the contrast of the dark sky outside.
Out of the corner of his eye, though, Mark swears he sees her. Wee Dawn. His stomach plummets and he does a double take, eyes widening. A rushing flows through his ears, and it’s a few seconds before he realises the tillkeep is speaking to him, with the most disinterested face one could possibly make.
“-ir. Sir. Yer fags.”
Mark looks down and sees his booze and cigs all in a bag for him to take. “Oh. Right.” he mumbles, dropping the cash on the counter and snatching his stuff before legging it.
After yet another bus journey, Mark is finally back at Simon’s flat, goods in hand. It’s times like this that he misses the high of Heroin. Sighing, Mark tries the handle of the door to see if Simon stayed true to his intentions of staying in, and surprisingly, it’s unlocked, and Mark lets himself in.
Setting the beers on the kitchen counter, Mark makes his way over to the sofa where Simon is apparently watching some shitty game show. Looking at Simon more closely, he can see that the cunt’s actually asleep, breathing even and eyes closed, twitching every now and then.
Mark takes a moment to just look. he doesn’t really know why. It feels right. It takes a moment for Simon to wake up, almost sensing Mark’s presence, but when he does, it’s with a grin.
“Sorry- sorry, Ah’ll git auf’a yer sleepin’ arrangements.” he says, pushing himself up and off of the sofa.
A, ‘Ye can stay, if ye want tae,’ fights to emerge from Mark’s throat, but he finds himself too tired to do anything except collapse onto the sofa, still warmed by Simon’s body.
They stare at each other for a moment, before Mark mumbles, “Goat us both some fags an’ booze. Kitchen counter. Ah’m knackered.” only watching Simon nod and head towards his bedroom anyway before his eyelids slip shut.
Mark is sprinting. His arms are pumping up and down as he huffs out ragged breaths, sore legs pushing him further with each step.
In the distance, he can see himself. Himself and Tommy. On the night he sold Tommy the skag.
His attempts to stop himself are futile, and the faster he runs, the further the scene gets from him. Mark’s almost sobbing as a scream wrenches out of his throat, ”Tommy!” but it’s no use.
To the side of him, appearing in the confusing wasteland of jumbled thoughts and fears, Tommy shakes his head at him. “It’s nae use, Mark. Ahm deid.” Tommy’s eyes are sunken, his skin is waxy and his hands are fidgeting. Mark already knows it’s too late.
“Too late, Mark? Ye were too late 20 fuckin’ years ago, mate.” Tommy looks down at him with disgust and it’s not until Mark spots that Tommy has to look down to greet his gaze does he realise that he’s sunken to his knees.
“Why’d ye give it tae me, Rents? Why’d ye hav tae ruin ma life like tha’? Why’d ye have tae kill me?” Tommy’s eyes turn pleading and confused. Scared.
On the floor, Mark begins to feel a sharp pain behind his eyes, and try as he might to keep his eyes on Tommy, he feels himself begin to curl up, clutching at his head in agony.
His brain feels like it’s about to explode right out of his ears, like it might leak through his nose at any moment. It’s so bad that he almost doesn’t notice the swell of pain eating him from the inside out in his stomach. He’s suddenly nauseous, gagging dryly.
Static begins to fill his ears and Mark gathers the strength to lift his head and wrench his eyes open despite the pressure behind them, gaze searching frantically for any sign of Tommy above him. He notices a figure beside him, and, tilting his head to the side, another wave of nausea passes through Mark as he sees Tommy’s cadaver before him, his eyes glassy and unseeing.
The pressure multiplies tenfold and Mark has no choice but to curl back into a ball, whimpering. He feels like he’s dying, and-
Mark wakes up once again in the early light of the morning, heaving as he curls into himself on the sofa, fingers clutching at his stomach.
There’s no blanket draped over him this time, and Mark can’t find it in himself to be anything other than relieved. He doesn’t know why.
Swallowing hard and lifting himself up off of the sofa, Mark heads to the kitchen and starts boiling the kettle. He goes through the motions of making a brew as a way to calm down, automatically reaching for two mugs instead of one.
His hands tremble as he pours from the steaming kettle, and he ends up spilling a bit on the countertop. Quickly wiping it off with the tea towel that was laying on the side, Mark squeezes the excess water out of the teabags before fishing them out with his spoon and reaching for the milk.
There’s a voice behind him. “Are ye makin’ a brew wie’oot askin me if Ah wanted yin first?” Marks rolls his eyes.
“Maybe if ye wouldnae jump tae conclusions before askin’, ye’d ken that Ah’ve made ye yin tae. But ye dinnae ken. Caus’ ye’re a stubborn prick.”
“Awright, Rents! Ah wis just messin’!” he hears Simon’s indignant tone call out as he pours the milk in the mugs.
Mark does his best to collect himself before he turns to face Simon. “So. Whit’re we daein about that pub night then?
Simon just grins at him, flashing his pearly whites. “Ah rang Spudsy yesterday, an’ he says he’s up fer it.”
“Awright, that’s settled then.” Mark states as the corners of his mouth tip up ever so slightly.
The rest of the morning and midday goes easily, Mark and Simon lazing around, smoking a few fags, even a bit of hash, - “As a wee treat,” Simon had smirked - and cracking open a few beers.
In the slow moments, where the conversation lulls and the joint is passed, Mark thinks of Tommy, thinks of Wee Dawn, and tries his best to forget about the dreams.
At around 6, there’s a knock at the door, and Simon answers while Mark slips his shoes on. Spud acknowledges him with a large grin, which drops only slightly as he greets, “Ah heard aboot yer Da’ an aw, Mark. Ahm sorry.”
Mark simply smiles in reply, “That’s awright, let’s jist enjoy the night, aye?”
“Right oan, Rentsy.” Simon speaks up, pocketing his keys as he locks the door to his flat behind him.
They amble their way over to Simon’s local, pausing every now and then to chuckle after the clubs just beginning to open, musing about the days they used to go every night.
Once there, Si greets the barman and looks to Mark and Spud, agreeing on three lagers. Iggy Pop starts playing on the jukebox, making Mark smile slightly. After a moment, their drinks are poured and they navigate through to a booth.
The familiarity is nice, and Mark allows himself to get lost in it over the hours. They nabber about trivial things, the day’s football scores, what Spud was doing yesterday, the best song off an album that Mark’s never even heard of.
He’s mostly content just sitting back and letting the sound of Spud’s voice whine about Si’s choice of favourite song - “But it’s goat trumpets, Si. Whit bluidy pooftie soang has trumpets?” “You, Spudsy, need tae broaden yer horizons a little.” “Broaden ma- Broaden ma horizons?! Whit a load ay pish!” - Mark’s almost relaxed until-
His eyes catch a flash of curly blonde hair at the bar. The figure isn’t facing him, but the likeness between this stranger and Tommy is so profound that Mark has to fight his muscles from standing up, reaching out to him.
“Mark?”
He whips his head round to see Simon and Spud staring at him, expectantly.
“Sorry, Ah wasnae paying attention. Ehm- Ah might pop tae the loos a sec.” Without even gauging their reactions, Mark gets up and hurries to the door marked ‘W.C.’
The ringing in his ears is starting to morph into a baby’s crying as he stuffs himself into a - gloriously clean - stall, pulling the door shut with a slam that makes the entire row of stalls shudder.
Mark immediately slumps back onto the door, rubbing a hand over his head, down to his eyes, as he slides down to sit on his haunches, balancing on the balls of his feet. He’s shaking again, and feels slightly queasy at it all.
The guilt threatens to leap out of that tiny, sectioned off area of his brain that he only visits after one too many drinks, or after one somber evening too many. Mark finds himself having to swallow down a rising ball in his throat.
He isn’t able to say how long it is until the beating in his heart slows and the crying in his ears dampens, but, just like the mornings he’s been having recently, he pushes himself up shakily and leaves the stall.
Mark takes a moment to observe himself in the mirror. Although there’s new wrinkles on his forehead and in the fold of his eyelids, new greying hairs at his temple, in this moment, Mark feels 20 years old again.
Young and dumb, with no idea of what’s to come. Begbie escaping jail to try to murder him, before ultimately ending right back in the shithole. Spud trying to better himself before he finally cracks, attempting suicide and only evading death by a hair’s breadth. Simon being left alone, turning to Cocaine and fraud.
A hysterical giggle almost bubbles from Mark’s throat as he sarcastically thinks, Aye, cause it’s aw worked oot fer us, hasnae it?
Mark turns the tap on and splashes some cold water on his face , wiping the rest off with his jacket sleeve and finally leaving the toilet. When he gets back, he’s surprised to see Simon sat alone at the table, chewing almost anxiously at the nail of his thumb, lager finished.
“Sorry aboot that. Whir’s Spud?” Mark tries to sound genuinely interested. He just wants to go back to the flat.
Simon looks up at him and smiles around his thumb, but not moving his hand as he speaks, “Goat a phone call. Had tae depart.”
Mark nods as he sits down, hands coming to fidget with his half-filled glass.
Simon’s mouth opens, as if to start speaking again, but Mark butts in before he can, “Look, kin we heid back tae the flat? Ahm no really feelin’ the night, mate. Ahm sorry.”
Simon stares at him for a moment, before agreeing. Mark pushes the rest of his drink over to him, and it’s gone with one tip of Simon’s head before he sets the glass down with a thunk and begins to follow Mark out of the booth.
As they reach the door, Simon sends an offhand, “See ye, James!” over his shoulder before they step outside and begin to make their way back to Simon’s flat.
They walk in silence for a few minutes, which is totally fine by Mark, until Sickboy speaks up. “Mark, kin Ah speak tae yeh?”
Mark frowns minutely, “Aye. Ye ken that, Si.”
There’s another beat of silence, and Mark almost starts to think Simon’s changed his mind, but then he hears from beside him, “Listen, aboot yer Da’, Ah ken yeh’ve bin feeling doon about it-”
“Ah retract ma statement,” Mark huffs. He was not in the mood for this conversation right now.
“-But it’s no just that, is it? There’s something else, Mark, dinnae try tae deny it-”
Mark turns to face Simon. They’re almost at his flat now, a few metres from the door. “Please just be a guid pal and drop it?”
They lock eyes for a good few seconds before suddenly, they’re at Simon’s flat. Simon just sighs and looks down at the door handle, mumbling, “Aye, Mark.”
They fall into the routine they’ve had for the past two nights quickly, and before Mark knows it, he’s ready for bed once again. He is deathly afraid of what might greet him in dreamland today, and almost considers forcing himself to stay awake, but his eyelids start drooping and he realises that he’s too tired to even sit up. Sending one glance towards Simon’s bedroom before his eyes slip shut completely, he can see Si standing in the doorway, silently observing him.
Mark recognises the scene in front of him, a blast from the past if the phrase was ever true.
Simon is standing before him, buttoning up his dress shirt and then moving onto sorting his tie out. Mark’s slumped on a low, wooden chair, observing. To the left of him, an impressive tower of voddy bottles stand, stacked haplessly, but still balanced.
It takes Mark a moment to catch into the fact that Simon is speaking. “-and honestly, Ah dinnae ken why Ah even stick wie ye anymore, Mark.”
“Whit?”
Sick Boy’s face remains casual, as if he were discussing the merits of a film, or a new car model, “Well, cannae ye see the impact ye’re havin’ oan us? Aw ay us?”
Mark grows uneasy, “Whit are ye talking about, Sicks?” the old nickname slips out of his mouth without a hitch.
Simon gestures a hand out to him, before starting his rant, “Well, first oaf, if ye hadnae fucked aff wie aw our money, I cuid be out ay shitehoal Edinburgh by noo. Begbie wouldnae huv been taken in. Mibbe Spud would actually be happy where he is. Plus, ahm no gonnae even start oan whit ye did tae Wee Dawn an Tommy, ye sick fuck,” he sneers.
Mark’s lost for words. Inside, he knows it to be true, but that still doesn’t help the way he freezes up, mouth drying. Sick Boy starts making his way up to Mark with a snarling face and eyes ablaze with fury.
Mark gets up clumsily, resting his weight on an outstretched hand to the wall, before balancing himself once again and straightening up. “Sicks, listen-”
“No, you listen, Mark!” Simon roars, shoving Mark backwards, causing him to trip over the rickety wooden chair. There’s a crash and the sound of breaking glass as the tower of bottles is made victim to the push. Mark flinches, Simon remains heaving with rage, not paying the calamity any mind.
He continues, “You ruined ma life. You ruined so many lives. You self-centered, egoist, condescending prick!”
With his last words, Simon shoves Mark into the wall. By now, tears are beginning to form in Mark’s eyes. Simon rears back, holding a fist out, and Mark cowers before him, letting his eyes slip shut after a moment’s hesitation on Simon’s part, before he moves to slam his fist into Mark’s face.
Except he doesn’t. The slam of Simon’s knuckles never hits Mark, and instead, there is a large thump to the side of his ear and it takes Mark a moment to realise that Simon had punched the wall beside him.
He doesn’t have time to register much else before Simon’s fist comes crashing down again in the same spot to the left of him, slamming the wall again and again, until bits of plaster start to break off. Mark watches, wide eyed, with fear pumping through his veins, causing his heart to almost beat out of its ribcage.
Finally, Simon stops his assault on the wall, cradling his now bleeding hand to his chest, taking a few steps back and gasping for breath, face red, eyes angry.
“And-” Simon starts, holding a finger up to point at Mark before pausing, huffing, dropping his hand back to his side and walking away. It takes a few seconds for Mark to gather his thoughts. He dashes after Simon, running through the familiar hallway of his old flat, before finding Simon at the door, about to leave.
“Simon!” Is all he can manage, reaching a hand out, but it’s swatted away at once and Simon just looks at him. There’s something about his face, his posture, that clearly shows that he has so much more to say, but he stays silent.
Turning back to the door, Simon pushes it open and Mark hears a mumbled, “You’re no worth it.”
Outside, there isn’t the familiar stairwell to greet him, but a vast plain of white, and somehow, Simon’s form is only a fraction of his own. Mark calls after him. He can’t let Simon leave. Not like everyone else.
“Simon! Simon! Please, Simon!”
“Simon! Si-”
“Mark- ye’re awright, please Mark, it’s- Ahm here, Mark.”
Everything’s a shade of black and Mark’s head is spinning. He feels hands on his shoulders and, on instinct, shuffles back frantically.
He hears a voice speaking, but doesn’t manage to register anything that’s being said.
The hands grip him tighter and this just makes Mark panic more. Trying to thrash out of the grip isn’t seeming to help, and Mark feels the survival instinct in him swell, and he calls for the only person he can think of right now.
”Simon! Help-”
The hands grip a little tighter, the voice speaks a little louder, but Mark can only think about Simon. Finally, the hands ease off him, but the panic doesn’t fade and Mark finds himself hyperventilating when he crawls back a slight bit more, only for his back to hit something slightly plush.
He’s about to call out once more, but then there’s a click, and an explosion of light assaults his retinas. Mark squeezes his eyelids shut automatically for a second, before wrenching them open to make sense of the situation.
Whipping his head round, his surroundings are familiar to him, and it takes a moment to recognise them as Simon’s flat - his new flat.
Speaking of, suddenly the man himself appears in front of Mark’s shaking form. His eyes are wide, almost frenzied and when he sees Mark isn’t thrashing, he sags slightly with relief.
He starts to lift a hand up to Mark, opening his mouth to start saying something, but Mark can’t help but violently shudder away from the hand, memories of his dream - because that is all it was; a dream, - resurfacing.
Simon’s face drops along with his arm, and after a beat of them staring at each other, wide eyed and shaking, Mark asks, “Dinnae ye ever leave, Si.” to Simon’s slightly stunned silence, Mark’s request takes on a pleading edge, ”Please, Simon, proamise me, ye huvtae proamise me that ye’ll never leave. Ah- Ah couldnae take it, if ye left. The others- the others Ah kin deal wie, just please, Si not you, dinnae- dinnae… Please…”
Mark’s sobbing by the end of it, and Simon is continuing to stare at him.
Mark grips Simon’s shoulder, tears streaming down his face while he sits up on his knees to shuffle closer. “Please, tell me ye firgive me, Si- I-”
Simon finally reacts, “Mark- Shh, Ah dinnae ken whit ye’re bangin’ oan about, just- calm doon fae us, awright? Ye’re awright, shh.”
Simon brings his hand up to the back of Mark’s head, and Mark finally crumbles. He buries himself into Simon’s sleep-worn pyjamas.
“Si-”
“Shh, Mark. Ah’ve goat ye.”
They’re left sitting there for a good number of minutes, Mark soiling Simon’s shirt with salty tears as he mumbles and shakes into Simon’s chest, who is just stroking the hair on Mark’s nape soothingly, holding him close, and shushing him as he rocks them back and forth lightly.
Eventually, Mark pulls back, staring blearily at the tear-marks on Simon’s sleepwear before awkwardly averting his gaze. Simon’s hand travels from the back of Mark’s head to his chin, tipping it up to look at him.
Simon simply holds eye contact before speaking softly, “Okay. We’re gonnae go tae ma bedroom, ye’re gonnae git a guid night’s sleep. Ye’ve goat eye-bags the size ay fitbaws. It’ll be like how we used tae sleep, aye?” Mark recalls the days of his first flat, Simon sharing the bed with him every night. “An then, in the mornin’, we’re gonnae talk about this. I ken somethin’s up, but fer noo, let’s just sleep.”
“Nothin’s th’ matter.” Mark immediately mumbles, and Simon shoots him a knowing look, not believing him for a second.
“C’moan.” He gently coaxes Mark up by bringing his other hand to rest at the angle of Mark’s elbow, pulling lightly. Mark unfurls from his kneeling position, knees cracking and back popping as he does so, and begins to follow Simon as they make their way to his bedroom.
Mark immediately sits on the bed, head heavy after the adrenaline of the nightmare has worn off, leaving him exhausted. Simon guides him further back, and Mark can see the dip in the pillow and folded-over portion of duvet where Simon must’ve been previously sleeping.
Simon lays down beside him, and after tucking Mark's back to his chest, rubbing a hand over his arm lightly, he finally manages to lure the trembling man back to sleep in his grasp.
Mark doesn't dream again that night, and when he wakes up, eyelids stuck together and heavy, it takes him a moment to wonder where he was, what he was doing off of the sofa and why there was a warm weight on his back.
The memory comes seeping into his consciousness lazily, and he sighs as he realises he’s going to have to actually talk to Simon about it today. Peering at the crack in the curtains, Mark can tell it’s only just come sunrise, so he has a while yet at least.
Mark manages to turn around slowly in order to not disturb Simon, and when he finds himself in a position where he can freely bury his face in Simon’s chest, Simon unconsciously moving a hand to wrap around Mark in his sleep, Mark finds that his heart is racing, like he was still a teen, sharing his first shot with Simon in a dirty park. For once, Mark breathes easy, allowing himself to fall back asleep with his nose nuzzled in the crook of Simon’s neck.
He’s woken up again after a few hours or so, he reckons, by a shaking of his shoulder. Cracking his eyes open, he sees Simon in front of him. “ ‘Moan, Rents. I’m daein tea. Let’s talk.”
Mark nods, stretching his back until it pops before pushing the covers back and groggily hoisting himself out of bed. Simon gives him some space to change, putting the kettle to boil and fetching some mugs.
Mark doesn't put anything too fancy on, just a pair of Simon’s trackies and a loose-fitting t-shirt.
By the time he walks into the kitchen, there are two steaming mugs on the small table in Simon’s kitchen, and Si is sitting in front of one, looking at him expectantly.
Sighing, Mark walks over to him and waits for him to speak. He does, after a moment. “So, what’s been making ye go aw fucken’ panicky oan us, then?” It seems brash, but Simon says it with genuine worry in his voice.
Mark doesn’t know what to say, and just swallows, before quietly murmuring, “Awh, c’moan. It wisnae that bad.”
“Mark, I woke up tae ye practically screaming bluidy murder tae ma name. If Ah hadnae’ve woken ye, ye’d huv ended up oan ma floor with an incredibly soar erse.” His voice softens marginally, “Please, just talk tae us?”
Mark stares at him for a second, deciding. He finally gives in, reaching for his mug and looking at his free hand on the table.
“Ah just- Ah cannae ever forget it, man. Ah’ve lived a fucked-up life, Si, and sometimes Ah cannae make mahself ignore it any maire, ye ken? Tommy, Dawn, all the other cunts Ah’ve fucked over in yin way ay anither.” He pauses to look up at Simon, who fixes him with a level look, gesturing for him to go on. “This guilt willnae ever leave me. And Ah ken it shouldnae, too. That’s the price Ahm payin’ for daein such fucked up things. Ah’ve ruined yer life. Ah love ye, but if it wisnae fer me, ye cuid be oota this place, Begbie cuid be oot livin’ a normal life. Ah killed Tommy, ah didnae dae anything to stop Wee Dawn fae dyin’. Ah wis just concerned wie shootin’ mahself up wie aw the junk Ah saw fit tae clog ma veins up wie and callin’ it a day. And ye shuid hate me fae it.”
For the first time since he’s started speaking, Mark lifts his head to look at Simon, who is staring back at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open ever so slightly.
There’s an awkward amount of time that passes before either say anything, before Simon swallows and asks, “Dae- Dae ye really believe aw that ye just said?”
Mark frowns. “Aye? Ah wouldnae lie tae ye aboot any ay that stuff, Si.”
“Well then ye must be either soft in the head, or unbelievably wrong aboot everythin’. Ah don’t blame ye yin single bit. Ah wis never gonnae go anywhere. Begbie wis gonnae end up in jail anyway, or did ye forget he wis awready a criminal, oan the run?” Mark swallows and waits for him to speak more. “Nobody blames ye fir Dawn or Tommy. It wis- It wis inevitable, the tike crawlin’ aroond that junkie-den aw day everyday,” Simon speaks like it hurts to. “If Tommy hadnae goat the shot fae yerself, he wuid have just goan to Swanney’s. It’s no yer fault, Mark. And everyyin can see it but you.”
Mark swallows as he takes in all that’s just been said to him. There is a raging conflict in his mind, and eventually, Mark decides to set it to rest. He can’t do much else but mutter, “Okay, Si.”
Simon watches him. “Please tell me ye believe me, Mark.”
“Ah dae,” he says eventually, and for once, he feels like he isn’t lying as he downs the last of his tea.
This must show on his face, as Simon relaxes and smiles at Mark, before standing up and collecting their now empty mugs. He is just about past Mark when he pauses, swivels and stands before Mark. Simon doesn’t speak, and Mark tips his head up to see what he wants. Simon is looking down at him, biting the inside of his cheek, seemingly trying to make his mind up on something, before he asks, “And Mark?”
“Yeah, Si?”
“Ah love ye tae.” Before Mark can even process what Simon has said to him, the man is bending down towards him. Mark’s eyes widen a fraction as he realises what is about to happen, and all of a sudden, there are lips on his.
The kiss only lasts a moment, and it’s chaste, but the warmth of lips pressed to Mark’s lingers as Simon walks to the sink, as if nothing had happened.
Mark is stunned, frozen in place as his breathing quickens and his heart booms against his ribcage.
He doesn’t know much, but at this moment, he can take a guess that all will be okay eventually.