Do you know what they do to people like me inside?
They Cut your balls off and flush them down the fucking toilet!
Trainspotting (1996)
Dir: Danny Boyle
Mark (Rent Boy), Simon (Sick Boy), Tommy and Daniel (Spud) are a Scottish pop group (called ‘Trainspotting’..get it? idk lol) and when Mark ran away to get out of the spotlight and ‘Trainspotting’ broke up and no one knows where he is, so rumours start to spread around in 2016 about Mark being dead so Mark makes a Twitter account to tweet at like TMZ or something:
TMZ: Mark ‘Rent Boy’ Renton dies at 46, Rest in Peace 😔
Mark ‘Rents’ Renton: @TMZ uhh.. am I dead??
and fans go batshit crazy and Mark an hour later posts a photo of him with the rest of the lads and it captions:
Mark ‘Rents’ Renton: feels so nice to be back with the lads, I’ve been gone for what? nearly 20 years now? wow.. time flies by doesn’t it, there’s gonna be some secret new projects we’re gonna be working on, so you better start Trainspotting lads.. 👀😊
and this is the tweet that breaks the internet, they come out with new albums and the band changes their name to ‘T2 Trainspotting’ as the start of a new era,
a few months or so later Mark and Simon announce on their twitters that they’re together with really cute aesthetic photos, after that when the band goes on tour they get interviewed and one of the questions were (directed to Mark and Simon) “*what were the exact moments that either of you knew that you were in love with the other*” and they had the same answers, that they fell in love during the 90s when the band only debuted that year, them a few years later they get married and release a record of them just singing songs they wrote about one another (and there’s some duets in there too)
this will be turned into a fic soon, so follow my ao3 if you like for this ! it’s EvelynnIDK
and some of the stuff in this might be changed along the way lol
so here are some of the little headcanons I made for this au:
- in the T1 era, their outfits are orange and white while in T2 era their outfits are orange and black
- Mark ends up being a spokesperson for Converse while Simon ends up being one for Doc Martins
- for a music video Mark has to teach Simon how to ride a motorcycle for some parts of the video
mid-movie Trainspotting fic below the cut, ~1,650 words, unrequited pining
(I know the Trainspotting fandom on Tumblr is like two and a half people but fuck it; T2 convinced me that Spud had a thing for Tommy all along, and now I’m taking both and a half of you down with me)
note: this thing demanded that I write it in the style of Irvine Welsh; I am not Scottish and I am Very Sorry™
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Ah dinnae mind daein whatever Sick Boy likes, even though ah never git tae peck whair we go or what we dae. Ahm no that imaginative anywey. Leave it up tae me and ahd probably find some wey tae fuck it up.
Crossroads Pub wis always Sick Boy’s favourite when the skag made him sociable. Ahve goat a pint in front ay us, Renton tae ma left and Tommy tae ma right. Sick Boy’s tae the left ay Rents, pontificating aboot entrepreneurism or some shite. Ah cannae quite ever wrap ma haid aroond it, bit ah always nod anywey as if ah dae. Who’s gaunnae ask ma opinion?
It’s awright when it’s the four ay us. Long as ah keep tae masel ah kin mair or less disappear. The only problem comes when Rents gits up and mumbles he’s oaf tae huv a pish, and ah notice Sick Boy’s fucked oaf too, innae far coarner wi Alison or somesuch. It’s only me and Tommy now, and nae mair philosophizin goin roond ah kin conveniently defer tae. Ah cannae hold a conversation oan ma ain. Ah cannae even hold ma ain attention half the time.
Suddenly ma whole spine pricks wi the pressure tae be interestin. It’s no that ahve never hud a one-oan-one conversation before. It’s jist that Tommy’s a functional human bein. Ahve never bin burdened wi that. Certainly he doesnae expect it ay us. Does he? Ah stare intae ma pint fir as long as ah think ah kin git away wi. It’s no exactly helpin.
Ye cannae blame us fir feelin a maggot innae presence ay someone like that, really. Tommy’s no like the rest ay us. First ay aw, he’s clean as a whistle, he is. We widnae even know how tae survive a fuckin day like that. No tae mention he’s fuckin athletic, ay aw things. Ah dinnae understand why he even fucks aboot wi us. Wir no the types tae dae anything tae oor bodies besides obliterate them. Fuckin beats me why he’s no goat any better friends.
“Awright, Spud?” he sais. Oh fuck. He’s seen us fuckin starin. Ah didnae even know ah wis.
Ahve goat tae come up wi somethin now. Frankly ahd jist as soon git tae fuck and make like ah wis never here innae first place. Bit it’s too late fir that. Ah struggle tae produce even a word or two, anythin ay aw. It’s no comin oot.
“Anyone home, Spuds?” Tommy sais. Ahve paused too long.
Ma tongue’s a fuckin boy scoot’s knot now. Ahm sweatin like ahve jist come oaf the fuckin trip ay a lifetime. Gaunnae fuckin dae us in, it will. Ah mentally will Rents a slow and painful death fir leavin us here. How long’s it take tae huv a fuckin pish? He fall innae fuckin bog? Ahm a goner if ah dinnae open ma fuckin mooth, sae ah dae, no quite sure what’s gaunnae come oot til thair’s nae goin back.
“Ah…uh…Man U?”
That’s what ah come up wi. The great genius. Tommy’s whole face turns intae the likes ah huvnae seen since ah first casually used the term ‘skagged’ in front ay ma wee granny oan accident. Now ahm willin the slow and painful death tae masel instead ay Rents. It’s ma ain fuckin fault anywey.
He’s sizin us up. “Yir trynae huv a chat wi me aboot Man U, s’that it?”
Ah feebly nod. S’aw ah kin dae besides pray tae aw ma estranged gods fir a brawl tae break oot and crack ma fuckin skull wi a chair.
“D’ye even know what Man U’s short fir, Spud?”
Ah couldnae huv told ye if ah hud bin oan Catchword fir fifteen thousand pounds wi aw ma family innae studio audience. No that they’d show up fir a thing like that even hypothetically. The point is, ahm fucked and we baith know it.
Tommy situates his elbows oan the bar-top and leans in close tae ma face aw ay a sudden. Ah wisnae prepared fir that. He’s starin us innae eye. Now aw ah kin think aboot’s how many words ah know fir the color blue. That and asphyxiating oan ma ain drymooth.
“Ah want ye tae tell us the truth,” he sais. “Ye oan that shite again?”
Ah wish ah wis. It’d surely explain a lot. It’s probably no in ma best interest, bit ah decide ah kin git masel oaf the hook fir ma pathetic bungling wi a falsified confession.
“Oh, aye. Aye. Jist oaf ma face, ah am.” Ah casually cover the crook ay ma airm tae keep him fae seein my track marks scabbed shut, bit ah make like ahm only tappin the vein. “S’pose ah wisnae subtle.”
“Aye. S’what ah thought.”
Part ay us s’poses ah ought tae be ashamed ay masel oan account ay Tommy’s remarkably low expectations ay us. Bit ah cannae be arsed tae muster up offense aboot it. What’s the point? Typically he’d be right. Ah foster nae delusions aboot the wey ah conduct masel. At this moment ahm jist astonished a person like Tommy MacKenzie’s seen fit tae gie a shite.
Anywey, he’s no cruel aboot it. He’s goat a kind tone. “Listen tae me, awright?” Ma ear canals might ay well be drilled open. “Yir better’n the lot, y’know that?”
Maybe ah shake ma haid, maybe no. Ah cannae tell. Sweatin tae soak ma keks, though.
“Ah mean it, aye.”
Manchester United! Ahve finally worked oot the answer tae the question fae before. Ah dinnae think he wants us tae say it anymair, bit ahve goat it, that’s the important part.
“Ye could make mair ay yirsel than this. Ah believe that,” sais Tommy. “Yir no like the others, Spuds. Ah know wir mates wi Sick Boy and Rents and aw that, ah dinnae mean nae offense and aw, bit ah think we baith know yir the better man in the equation. Yir no a schemer or an apathetic. Ye care aboot mair than yir fix. That’s fuckin valuable, y’know. That’s character. Ye dinnae even see the potential ye goat.”
Ahm riveted now. Tommy’s girlfriend’s a lucky lass, bein oan the receivin end ay pick-me-ups like this aw the time. Ah cannae remember her name. Ahll huv tae take that tape oot the video shoap again.
“Now, ah want ye tae promise me.” He’s goat his hand oot fir me tae take haud ay, like a proper agreement and aw. “Ah want ye tae promise me right here and now that yull git yirself oaf ay that shite. Yull be dead by twenty-five if ye keep it up. It’d be a fuckin shame, s’what it’d be.”
Til now, ah probably widnae huv concurred wi that last part, bit somehow Tommy thinkin sae lends the notion a mite ay reasonability.
“Kin ye promise us that?”
Frankly, any promise ah make is first-class bullshite. Ah know that. Nae delusions aboot that either. Ahm as like tae walk oot ay here and score ma next fix as ah am tae take ma next breath or a shite innae morning. Bit the thing ay it is, while ahve goat Tommy starin us doon like that, ah cannae fuckin say nae. Ah cannae bring masel tae disappoint him.
“Aye, I kin dae that,” ah sais, and fir jist one moment, ah almost believe it wholeheartedly masel. Ah stick ma clammy hand in his and let him dae the shakin. He’s good at that, too. Ma airm flops aboot like a chicken wing. Ah feel like somebody important.
At least til Tommy breaks oot intae such a fuckin smile, ah feel like the unworthiest fuckin radge ever knobbed intae existence by any bipedal creature.
“That’s a lad,” he sais, thumpin us oan the back as he lets us go. Ma fuckin lungs clear oot. He takes up his pint again. Ahm already detecting a whinge ay guilt in its infancy brewin in ma gut fir lyin, bit ma face is aw bent up now, screwin intae some garish, toothy arrangement ah dinnae recognize, sae thair’s no much ah kin dae aboot it fir the time bein.
“Let’s git the fuck oot ay here,” Sick Boy sais. Ah jist aboot shite masel. He’s popped up near ma shoulder wi Alison oan his airm. Baith goat the sickness in thur eyes, sporting a fine glisten. Ahm no gaunnae be far behind.
Nervy, ah look aroond. “What aboot Rents?”
“Ootside awready.” He’s no lookin at Tommy, since we aw know thair’s nae point innit. He’s lookin at us. “In or oot?”
If ah dinnae go, thair’s nae wey ahm gaunnae see a fix. Ah should be grateful Sick Boy even remembered ah wis here.
Ah glance at Tommy, sensing eyes on us. He’s no lettin go. Somethin palpitates in ma wasteland ay an abdomen.
“S’awright,” ah hear masel tell Sick Boy. Ah slip oaf ma bar stool. “Ah think ahll huv a stroll, actually. Lovely day and aw.”
Sick Boy’s lookin at us now like ahve goat four haids covered in boils, bit ah couldnae gie a shite, because Tommy’s haid bobs at us in approval, smilin on us directly, and he tips his pint. Maybe ahve made his day. Widnae that be great?
“Ahll walk ye oot,” ah offer. No because either one gies a fuck if ah dae, bit because ah plan tae ‘change ma mind’ the moment wir ootside. Tommy doesnae huv tae know.
“Good on ye, Spud,” Tommy sais. Ma face scrambles intae mair goofy shite, and it stays that wey through the pub and oot the door.
It’s forty-six minutes til ah finally git ma fix, bit ah only know that thanks to Rents daein the countin. Fir once, it slips ma mind tae dae it masel. And aw ah kin conclude is that the stuff is shite, because oddly enough, fir probably the first time, ahm nae giddier after than ah wis innae first place.
