𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 ▸ 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴

𝘁𝘄𝗼. sick boy, sick girl

~𝘄𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗮𝘀 𝘄𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲, 𝘄𝗲 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗴𝘂𝗶𝗹𝘁𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁~

A few days passed. Mark and Lana had successfully robbed a rehab clinic of their methadone prior to returning to his place - it took a few hours as Mark had pretended to be seeking professional treatment while she snuck into the back for a few bottles. Sick Boy had decided not to accompany them on the journey to "safe sobriety" as he was utterly determined to get clean with complete independence.

The flat was eerily similar to the squat, only better furnished. Renton had a small television, a bed, a couch, and doors on the kitchen cupboards. Though this presented a sting for Lana within her senses, she also respected him for it. He had thought to do what she had not; flog the collective belongings of his friends for a hit while preserving his personal life.

'This place yours?' she asked.

'I'm rentin it for now. Can hardly get clean when locked in a room full o' junkies, eh?'

'What does that mean? You want me to stay?'

'If you want. Won't be pretty.'

'S'pose I 'ant got anywhere else.'

Lana collapsed of exhaustion across his bed and stared at the ceiling, overcome with an unfortunate feeling of stupidity. After all, going clean for someone else was (as she perceived it) an impossibly stupid thing to do. It had been a few hours since the pub now, and she was beginning to experience an ache at the back of her neck and an intense desire to move her hands. If she were as bold as she was in the midst of a high, she might have tried to hold his head or take his hands in an endearing sort of way, but in the present, she had become distracted.

'Is that Valium?'

'Aye.'

Lana reached out to hold the dark tinted bottle. 'Where did you get it?'

'Me Ma. I didnae enjoy takin it, but she can easily get more from the docs the minute she realises it's gone.'

She considered taking a cheeky swig, but he was watching too closely. Instead, she pulled herself across his creaking bed to the pile of magazines, muttering, 'Jesus. You really prepared, Rent Boy.' Lana flicked and peered through the glossy pages without real intrigue of the contents, more in interest of his doing with them. 'Oh, I see -' she laid back and grinned, holding up the bright magazine -'This is how you were planning on keeping busy?'

Renton looked over and his stomach instantly turned. 'Oi! Get off that!'

'Can I borrow this? Haven't had a good fingerin in ages!' Lana announced, continuing to flick through the soft porn most likely bought from the railway siding on one of Rent's last hits.

He snatched the magazine and stuffed it behind the bed in an instant, leaving him standing over the girl with her hair spread across his own pillow, looking up at him with mischievous brown eyes. For a moment, she appeared awake and content at the same time. Mark had never seen that before, and just as well; as it lasted only until the itch returned to Lana and prompted her to query as her eyes clouded over, 'Have you got a shitter in this dump?'

Her bones ground against each other as if she'd been walking for decades. The sickness was knocking at her door. And when the sickness called, Lana called for Mother Superior. Johnny Swan. Swanney. She didn't care for his name when he was the one who harboured the gear. The sickness was calling, and the cure was beyond Mark Renton and his unbearably sensible decisions.