âI really am the luckiest guy in the world. Several years of addiction right in the middle of an epidemic, surrounded by the living dead. But not me. Iâm negative. Itâs official. And once the pain goes away, thatâs when the real battle starts. Depression, boredom⌠you feel so low, you want to top yourself.â
a/n: ill man. this one's short! i hc sicky is good at stats because... because. please enjoy and interact if you liked it đĽ°
Tommy knocked his sneaker against yours under the table, interrupting your deep concentration in your statistics assignment. You glared at his cheeky smile, slamming your foot back into his. This prompted a full-on spar, your feet tangling with each others as you kicked each other relentlessly, holding in your giggles to avoid the withering stare of the librarian. Lizzy looked at you two, rolling her eyes with a smile.
It had been a month since youâd moved to your new school and Tommy and Lizzy instantly took you under their wing, sitting with you at meals, keeping you company at the library while you âstudiedâ, mostly messing around in the back of the room away from the watchful, derisive eye of the librarian.
Tommy let himself be defeated, and you returned your gaze to your assignment. The work was particularly difficult that day, and the numbers swam before you. You put your head down, trying to focus until you were distracted by the appearance of a suit jacket and the glint of a belt buckle in the corner of your eye, and you felt the gaze of the wearer burn into your head.
You looked up to see two men standing before you, grinning down at you. They sparked your curiosity - you hadnât seen them around before. One stood with his hands in his blazer pockets, dark glasses framing his face as the pinstripes of his pants swam in front of your eyes, his hair a shock of ice blonde. The other stood next to him, rubbing the back of his buzzed head, his short, bright crop top revealing a flash of skin.
You looked back up at them, almost as a challenge. Youâd be lying if you said they didnât intimidate you a little, especially the blonde, his stance oozing an unwavering confidence.
âYouâre not gonna introduce your little friend to us, Tommy?â He spoke, smirking down at you, an almost vicious tone to his voice as it cut through the silence of the library, eliciting a harsh âSh!â from the librarian. His friend laughed.
â(Y/N), Sick Boy and Rent Boy.â Tommy smiled, pointing at them respectively with the tip of his pencil.
You blinked. âYour parents mustâve hated you.â You spoke, prompting them to laugh, Sick Boyâs lip curling upward, revealing his teeth to you in his wicked, strange, endearing smile.
âNicknames. Mark Renton and Simon David Williamson at your service. Friends call me Renton. Weâre friends, I hope?â Renton teased as he slid next to Tommy, slinging his arm around his shoulders.
You raised your eyebrows. âPending approval.â You retorted. âBut since youâre at my service, approval may be given quicker if any of you happen to be good at statistics.â You spoke, pushing your assignment toward them.
Simon slid into the chair next to you, his cologne strong up close as he took the paper in his hand, lighting a cigarette. He glanced at it and plucked your pencil from your hand, scribbling the answers down at a remarkable speed as he nursed the smoke in his other hand, you looking on, completely amazed.
âDo you guys go to school with us?â You questioned.
âNo. Too clever for that shite. Rents is too fuckinâ stupid.â Sick chuckled, making astonishing progress on your work as Mark flipped him off almost instinctively. You looked down at him, hunched over your paper, his mess of blonde hair hanging over it. His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he concentrated. He finished the last question with a flourish, sliding the paper back to you.
âSick Boy, youâre my hero.â You looked up at the work admirably, running your finger over the paper, feeling the ridges in his surprisingly neat scrawl.
He beamed back at you, sliding his arm over your shoulder. Sleazebag, you thought, affectionately. You smiled at him, meeting each otherâs gaze.
âWhy donât you watch your hero play footie tonight?â Renton arched an eyebrow, smirking at you two. âTommy, you coming?â
âWouldnât miss it. I can pick you up if youâre coming, (Y/N).â Tommy offered.
You glanced at Simon. âSure.â
âYouâre not allowed to smoke in here.â The librarian nagged, prompting Simon to tear his eyes away from you.
âSorry.â He spoke, sarcastic, his lips twisted into an overly saccharine smile. He leaned back, pulling a hardcover from the shelf and stubbing the cigarette out on it. The librarian huffed as he and Renton stood, striding toward the door.
You watched Simonâs broad shoulders disappear past the shelves, looking back down at the book. Smoke wafted up from the scorched ring that sat in the middle of the first O in Dostoyevsky.
Heâs choking on it again. Gagging on the things he knows he shouldnât say; gagging on his feelings. Those feelings that donât come out, those feelings that hide themselves deep inside somewhere youâll never be able to find them. Youâd never find them because theyâre hiding somewhere cold and deep inside your mind, a place you really donât want to find.
Heâs watching his friend trying to light his cigarette on a windy afternoon. His redheaded mate canât seem to do it and heâs getting frustrated. He looks at the guy and smiles, he canât help but to smile. - I love you, Mark Renton, yew stewpid cunt. Their eyes meet and the redhead gets embarrassed, turning redder.Â
âWhatâre yew starinâ at?!â he barked, âYew think âs funny?â he remarked bitterly through his teeth
Simon smiled wider. - Yewâre sae cute when yeâre embarrassed.
The blond looked at him, red-faced and embarrassed. - Oh, Rents, Ah love yew.
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