𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 ▸ 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴

𝗼𝗻𝗲. the itch

~𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗲'𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗵, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲, 𝘄𝗲'𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗲𝘇𝗲, 𝘄𝗲'𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲𝘁𝘀, 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗵, 𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗲 𝗱𝗼~

Renton wasn't a particularly pretty boy. Especially when he was using. His eyes were red and raw most hours of the day, his skin was pasty and ashy until she reached his fingertips; pale blue like the bruises she was adorned with. He was a skimpy lad - her sister would have been able to snap him simply by lifting her hand.

But when she was high, he was the most beautiful thing in the universe. Her and Renton would shoot up together in the flat and lay there for hours. Part of her knew it was purely because he yearned to be comforted and just to hold something, but she liked to imagine that there was a purpose behind the warmth in him holding the side of her face. Even early on, he would hold her to his chest, spine pressed straight against the floor, and they would sink together. She melted through him, into him, until she was a puddle of love witnessing the world pass by. His heartbeat pounded softly through her head with a sound infinitely more comforting than her mother singing her to sleep as if she were an infant swaddled in cotton.

She lit a cigarette with what little strength remained in her arms and blew smoke upwards, remarking in a slur, 'What were you saying about an orgasm?'

Mark scoffed. 'This. Don't you think it's better than your most mind-shitting orgasm ten thousand times over?'

'Wouldn't know.'

'Never had a good one? Sick Boy never kept up after his own?'

Her head moved further into his fusty t-shirt as she grinned and breathed him in. Her hand moved to his mouth, allowing a few puffs of the Russian imported cigarettes from Mother Superior, more importantly allowing him to taste the traces of where her lips had been. Ordinarily, he'd be sharing five cigarettes a day with her or Sick Boy or Begbie, but again, it was different when they were using. The filter was the most delightful, divine thing that had ever touched his lips. So heavenly, in fact, that it made him want to eliminate the middle man altogether. He gazed down the contours of his own nose to see hers pointing to the rotting ceiling, and below that were her lips. He might have done it if he could have brought himself to even sit upright.

'Listen-' his hand obliviously drew shapes on her stomach where her top had ridden up- 'we'll make that right one night, eh? You can hold me to it.'

'I fuckin will, Rent.' She took a few longer, more exaggerated drags from what her sister liked to call a "coffin nail". 'Sick Boy won't be happy with you, though.'

'Why won't I be happy? What could you possibly have done to make my life worse?' a rather grating, loud voice clamored. The bleach blonde crouched in front of them.

'Sick Boy!' she cheered and forced herself into a sitting position. It was the happiest he'd ever seen her. She leaned forward and cupped his cheeks, cigarette placed between her index and middle finger, and kissed him rather lovingly.

He grimaced, but he also kissed her back for the few moments before she pulled away. 'What the fuck do you think you're doing, girl?'

'Why is it,' she licked her lips, 'that in all that time me and you were together, I never had a good orgasm without using my own fucking fingers?'

Renton burst out into hysterics. It took an embarrassingly short time for her to choke on the smoke in her lungs and blow it into Sick Boy's face, collapsing back onto the floor with Mark - trembling with disembodied laughter - breaking her fall.