FIC: Hardly a Substitute II

[splix]

Title: Hardly a Substitute II
Fandom: TRAINSPOTTING
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Drug use
Disclaimer: Miramax, Irvine Welsh.
Feedback: Is treasured.

Thanks: to kimberlite and LaConstance for the beta -- and to phantomminuet, for challenging me to get her favorite line from the film into a
fic.

Summary: Sick Boy continues Renton's education.




*************



"For a vegetarian, Rents, you're a fucking evil shot."

Well, of course I am. One's got to have some talents in life. When I
was a kid, I used to imagine that I was a spy for MI5 -- embarrassing,
but true -- picking off Blofeld and the like. Well, that, when I
wasn't pretending that I was Han Solo.

Or Princess Leia, but that's not the point.

Actually, the only reason I shot the poor dog in the arse was so Sick
Boy would shut up. He never fucking shuts up. Talk, talk, talk, all
fucking day, and if I weren't his best mate I swear I'd beat the shite
out of him.

But I am his best mate. And here I am once again, sitting with him on
his scummy mattress and wondering what I'm doing here.

Fuck that. I know why I'm here.

What he did to me the other day...

Liked it? Fuck, yes, I liked it. It was fucking incredible. Sick Boy
knew it, too. Wanked right in front of me afterwards, never taking his
eyes from me for one second.

And I liked it. But Sick Boy...I have my doubts that he even
remembered it. He hasn't mentioned it at all. And I'm kind of afraid
to say anything to him about it. Actually, 'terrified' might be a more
appropriate word.

He looks at me blearily through a haze of smoke. Some
apple-tobacco-hash that smells horrible, tastes worse, and for all
of Sick Boy's enthusiastic endorsement, has only produced a raging
headache and a desire for crisps. I realize I'm starving.

"Have you got any food?"

He focuses on me. "No...wait. I've got some cake."

I stand. "That'll do."

He waves me in the direction of the cooker, on which sits a box
of...oh, Christ. It might have been cake a month ago, but it appears
to have...congealed. I make my way back to the mattress and look down
at Sick Boy, who is nearly asleep, his eyelids at half-staff.

"Rents...did you get the cake?"

"No, man. It's gone over. I've got to get something to eat."

He looks at his watch. "Fuck me, is it really two-thirty?"

"Aye." Fuck. Two-thirty in the morning...where the fuck am I going to
get something to eat? At this point I'd kill for a crisp. A piece of bread.
A biscuit. Any fucking thing. My stomach rumbles loudly.

"Sit down, Rents. There's nowt open right now, and I'm too fucking
tanked to walk anyway. Put a video in."

Oh, for fuck's sake...the only videos he owns are Sean Connery movies.
And I no longer share his enthusiasm for the work of Sean Connery,
since I've seen each of his films at least ten times, and...oh, fuck
it, anyway. I rummage through his collection, looking for the most
inoffensive one...there we go. HIGHLANDER. A crap film, to be sure,
but I must admire Connery's total disdain for any accent but his own.
Ramirez, from Madrid...my ass. I pop it into the player and fling
myself on the mattress, trying -- without much success -- to ignore
the increasing hunger pangs. I'd forgotten what it's like to be truly
hungry. You don't really feel it on the skag.

I suddenly realize that he must have paid his electrical bill, since
the lights are on and the video player is working. I also realize
that he owes me ten quid, but I'll let that go for the moment. We
watch Christopher Lambert slice up some bad guys in silence.

"What do you think, Rents?"

"About what?"

"About Conor, there, and Ramirez...what do you think of that whole
mentor thing?"

I struggle to make some sense out of what he's saying. I can't. "I
don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you think that they were fucking?"

"What?"

"Well, you know, there's some disparity there...Ramirez is a
swordmaster...Conor's just..."

"I think that Conor can handle himself pretty well," I argue.

Sick Boy shrugs. "I think they were fucking."

I look back at the screen. "Maybe." Another hunger cramp hits me. "I'm
really fucking hungry, man. We have to get something to eat." I roll
onto my stomach and will the hunger to leave me.

"Rents."

"Yeah?"

"I don't really appreciate the way you treated me the other day."

Confused, I look at him over my shoulder. "What are you going on
about?"

"I mean," Sick Boy says, lucidity returning to his eyes, "I think I
did you a favor, and you failed to return it. I consider that a
serious breach of friendship."

Ah. I get it.

"Sorry." It's all I can think to say.

"Is that all you can think to say?"

"Aye."

"What are you going to do about restoring my faith in you?"

Why doesn't the punter just ask me to give him a blowjob?

"What do you want?"

Sick Boy crosses his ankles and inspects the toes of his shoes.
Expensive shoes. He always dressed better than the rest of us,
and never let us forget it, either. He's stolen so much shite from
Cameron Toll -- anything to make him look like a peacock in a room
full of pigeons. And he's never been caught. It's amazing. And the
fucker would never steal anything for me, either. Claimed he could
never remember my size.

"Well, I'm not sure," he says. "Why don't you tell me what you'd be
willing to give me."

Thanks a lot. Ball's in my fucking court, is it? Well, I'll show him.

"Anything."

He smiles at me, and I suddenly wonder if I've made a terrible
mistake.

Sick Boy stands and walks to the end of the mattress. "On your knees,
Rents." He unzips his trousers and pulls his cock out. He's not
wearing any keks -- for some reason, this is amazingly exciting to me.
I raise myself and kneel in front of him, my heartbeat thudding
unevenly in my own ears.

"Put it in your mouth, Rents." His voice is soft and shaky. Good.

Uncertainly, I put my hands on his hips, trying to remember all the
birds that had accommodated me -- all right, not that there were all
that many, but still...what had they done? Was it hands on the hips,
on the arse, what? Now I wish I'd paid closer attention to what they
were doing, rather than concentrating on the sensation of having my
cock sucked. I decide to compromise and slide my hands back until my
fingertips are touching Sick Boy's arse.

Seems good enough. Sick Boy closes his eyes and waits. I lean forward
slightly and open my mouth, stick my tongue out, and go down on him.

Is "going down" an appropriate term to use whilst the recipient of the
blow job is standing? And why is it called a blowjob and not a
suckjob? My God, did the girls who sucked me off think about stupid
shite like this? It occurs to me that I've been selfish, but it
doesn't bear thinking about at the moment. Not while I've got Sick
Boy's stiffening prick in my mouth.

This is absolutely the oddest sensation, his prick shoved into my
mouth, hardening there, swelling...and I feel my own prick hardening.
Jesus...I start to stroke him with my tongue, back and forth, pulling
back, sliding down. Sick Boy puts his hands on either side of my head,
guiding me.

He thrusts against me, just a little, and I make a noise deep in my
throat. My last girlfriend used to do that. Felt incredible, that
vibration of the throat...then I realize that I haven't gotten his
prick that far in. Well, here goes nothing.

He groans and jerks against me as I gag.

Shit. Not as easy as it looks. I'm fucking humiliated, but I press on,
wanker that I am. Back and forth, in and out, and Sick Boy trembles. I
can feel the vibration in his body. I clutch his arse more tightly and
fall into the rhythm of his increasingly powerful thrusting.

My cock is so hard, and my fucking jeans are really tight. It hurts --
feels great.

Sick Boy comes in my mouth with a hoarse shout. Oh, Christ -- before
I can stop myself, I pull out and spit his spunk onto the floor.
Tastes awful. I look around for something to rinse my mouth, but
there's nothing and the toilet's down the hall. I swallow painfully
and lie on the mattress, stroking my prick through my jeans.

Sick Boy zips up and sits beside me. "Rents."

"What?"

"Want me to do you?"

I can't look him in the eye. "Yeah."

"You want me to tie you up like last time?"

My prick suddenly swells again, painfully hard, and I realize that I
have A Kink. Perverted bastard, aren't I? Sucking off my best mate in
his hellhole of a bedsit and wanting to be tied up.

"Yeah."

I feel Sick Boy's hands on me, and for the first time since I got
clean, I feel like I don't need the gear. This'll do just fine.


end.