Disclaimer: I do not own the movie(s) that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Title: Sick's First Hit
Author: c. dirt (mui)
Summary: Fic takes place before the movie, based more off the original novel. Simon AKA "Sick Boy" gets his first taste of heroin under Marc Renton's expert supervision, while Marc carefully (or not-so-carefully) attempts the delicate art of seduction. But in the end, who is really being seduced?
Rating: NC-17 for sex and graphic drug-use
Pairings: Sick Boy/Renton, of course
Disclaimer: Trainspotting and ALL the characters mentioned in this fic were created by the genius Irvine Welsh. I am simply using them for my own perverted fangirl desires in this fanfic, and no profit is being made. Now, onto the good stuff!

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He looks scared, propped up against the dingy wall like that, tourniquet clenched in his teeth, his eyes wide and garish. Like a little boy. Simon smells like cheap cologne and sweat. My mouth hangs inches away from his ear: I tutor him, guide him. He is irresistible like this.
"First, ye 'ave te go up… up the vain… never down, tha's nae good," My fingers tense on the plunger of the syringe. The muscles of his arm tremble beneath me.
"Then, then ye suck a littul blood in…" I watch the redness pool in the cylinder with a vague fascination, my lips never leaving the invisible brush of his skin, the electric tingle of his unshaven cheek. Simon is beyond conventional beauty, he is gorgeous and he knew it.
"Push dun, slowly… ahh." I grin, push the plunger as I speak, and he moans.
The erotic sound prickles at the back of my brain, makes my lungs sting. I think of how Ali used to moan when she would get a hit, and how she said it was better than any meat injection, better than any cock in the world. He goes limp against me like a doll, and I can smell the ash in his hair, feel his dull breath on my collarbone. I try not to think about cocks.
"Tha', Si, es the bonified shite," I murmur, quite sure he can't hear me. I yank the rubber tourniquet from his white arm and wind it about my own bicep. I turn to cook up my shot, watching him out of the corner of my eye, his body like a beautiful corpse on the floor. His clothes barely fit him; pinstripe blue pants low on his boyish hips and long legs, his torso covered in a thin layer of drug-induced sweat and a gray dress shirt. Simon always knew how to dress.
I shoot the junk into my arm and drift into a pleasant blackness.

I wake up four hours later to see Simon writhing on the floor next to me, his lips moving fluidly but making the faintest of whimpering sounds.
"Si? Si, what the bloody fuck are you doing," I hear the words pour from my lips, but they have very little weight to them, like floating bubbles.
"Better than sex," His voice is shaky, halfway between a whine and a whisper. He cranes his golden-haired skull back to look at me, his eyes glassy, a crooked grin affixed to his flushed lips.
"Tha's shite coming from you," I reply, meaning it. Simon loves sex, it's all he bloody thinks about, and the day he thinks of junk as better than shagging will be the day I kick the habit for good.
"Ah ken," He laughs, pushing off the dingy carpet to look at me properly. "I jus, ye ken, feel like a thousand quid."
Most blokes do after plunging 50 ml of skag into their veins. Hours after shooting heroin is like a breeze, a walk in the bloody park… until the withdrawal comes in, and the cramps, the sweating, the need. But I try not to think about that for now.
"Are we meeting with those chickies?" I ask, rummaging through my memory of the previous night. We had met two oriental grad burds at the pub, and Si had invited them down to the game, while I stood in the corner like the biscuit-ersed cunt I am.
"Aye," He props himself up against the wall, the wall he was laying up against just before, so bloody scared that his bairn eyes were almost popping out of his head.
He stares at me for a good few moments, which would have made me more than slightly uncomfortable in any other situation. But I am flying, hammered, ripped, stoned, out of my box. I smile at him, clueless.
He leans his slim frame over me and kisses me square on the lips and I freak.

"Doss cunt!" I cry, dragging myself from beneath him, feeling like my head's exploding in every direction. I want to act mad, I really do, but I start laughing, hee-hawing like an arse. He keeps on grinning at me, prodding me in the ribs with his finger, and saying: "You like it, doncha buftie?"
Well, of course I did. Truth is, I fancy men and although I never outright say it, most of the mates know it. But Simon is not a homosexual, and his behavior was purely mate-to-mate, a playful consummation of machismo friendliness. So I gather up my balls, and give the radge a clench-jawed grin.
"Oh, fer fucks sake, Rents," He laughs, and points at something.
My blurry vision follows the invisible arrow from his fingertip to the crotch of my tight jeans. I'm hard, at mast, solid, aroused. I have an erection.
"Tha's not from you!" I carry on, rolling onto my stomach to conceal my embarrassing predicament. To be truthful, I don't usually take the time to look at my knob, yet alone touch it. The junk tends to do that to you: suck all the blood out of your body and into the back of your head. It's safe for me to say that this is the first stiff one I've had in a week. But it's nonetheless bloody embarrassing.
"Oh, it's not is it?" He laughs, but it's more like a giggle, and he has these luminous rings around his freshly baked, glassy eyes when I look up at him, hair in a golden mess. He looks as thought he's been thoroughly fucked this way and that, ravaged up good—in a way, he had been—and his appearance certainly doesn't help my cock any.
So, shrinking away, utterly embarrassed and muddled up post-scag, the bloke still has the nerve to play around with me.
"Want me to rub it for you?" He asks, in a tone suddenly quite serious and sultry.
"Piss off!" Is what I say, screwing my eyeballs shut and curling into a pathetic ball. Sick Boy is a sadistic bastard, we all know that, he's the kind of radge fuck who does birds 'til they're sore, doesn't apologize and never calls them again.
And, not surprisingly enough, it's wimpy, poofter Rent-boy, who's finding his attractive, brutal mate's manipulation to be arousing: leaning into the whip, taking the pain and wanting more.
Shite. I really am a fucked up wanker.

"Do you, Marky? Do you want me to do you off?" His voice seems strangely closer, louder than before, as if it's right inside my skull, and then I realize he's whispering right against my ear. I'm shivering, and the heat in my cock is blossoming through my thighs and going up and down my spine in demanding, unmistakable spasms.
I don't quite move when I feel his fingertips tracing over the bulge in my worn jeans, no, 'move' isn't the right word for it. I shudder, jarring and pathetic, gasping shamelessly and going: "Si! What the fuck 'er ye doin?"
But I stop asking questions when I feel the moist stab of his tongue against my earlobe, and the graze of his sharp, straight teeth on my flesh.
I know what the beautiful bastard is doing.
He's seducing me.