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Simon
Simon checks his reflection, buttoning up his crisp white shirt. Early December's chill is now sharp enough to warrant more layers, but his favourite black cashmere is nowhere to be found.
"Oi, Mark, ye seen ma black jumper?" he calls out.
"Naw, dinnae think sae," Renton replies absently, eyes fixed on the telly.
The washing machine rumbles to life, and suspicion creeps up on Simon. "Whit did ye toss in there?" he asks, keeping his tone even.
"Just some gym stuff, naethin' major," Renton shrugs.
"Any darks in wi' it?"
"Eh, maybe? Cannae really recall."
"Fur fuck's sake." Simon hurries over to cancel the cycle and yanks the door open. As he rummages through the wet laundry, he finds the shrunken, misshapen remains of his designer jumper.
"Weel, looks like ye've knackered ma six hunner quid Balenciaga," Simon says acidly, tossing the ruined jumper onto the coffee table.
Renton blinks. "Six hunner quid fur a jumper? Fuck me, that's mental."
"Limited edition an' aw." Simon sinks down onto the sofa. "Guess Ah'll just drop it at the Salvation Army, let some joyful little brat get a kick oot o ma auld designer gear."
Renton puts his hand on Simon's knee. "Fuck, Ah'm sorry aboot that. If it means that much, Ah'll get ye a new one, aye?"
It does, but at the same time, it doesn't. This is just another annoyance in the game called Simon's Life; Renton's disregard for textiles 1, high-end fashion 0. With the EU loan repayments coming due soon, splurging on a replacement isn't exactly practical.
"Cool it, sugar daddy. It's no like we have extra money lyin' aroond."
"Ah've still got a couple o thousand quid left from the redundancy," Renton says. "And Ah've been lookin' fur work."
"No very hard, by the sound o it," Simon says under his breath. If Renton really wanted, surely he would have found something by now.
Renton hesitates. "It's no that Ah cannae find somethin' similar tae whit Ah used tae do..." he starts. "But whit's the point o changin' ma life if Ah end up doin' the same old shite? Maybe it's time tae look fur somethin' Ah can actually enjoy, ye know?.."
Simon has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Rents, a job is meant tae make ye money, no bring ye pleasure. That's whit hobbies are fur."
"But why can it no be both?"
"Look at ye, fallin' fur the big capitalist lies at forty six. Doesnae suit ye."
Renton ignores the jibe, looking pensive. "Ah was thinkin'—"
"Here we go," Simon mutters.
"Well, just think aboot it, Simon. Ye've got a knack fur schemes an' workin' the system, and Ah can sort the numbers and plannin'. We've always made a good team, haven't we? Why no start oor own thing instead o working fur someone else?"
"Like that fantasy we pitched tae the cooncil aboot turnin' Port Sunshine intae a posh bed an' breakfast? Maybe wi' a hipster arts centre in tow?"
"Or a club, or rentals — something along those lines," Renton replies, undeterred. “Can be whitever, really.”
They are so often on the same page that it's easy for Simon to forget how much Renton's life has diverged from his own over the past two decades. But then stuff like this comes up, and it becomes obvious they're not just on different pages — they might be reading two totally different books. Still, Simon finds himself arguing instead of outright dismissing the idea.
"Launchin' a new business needs serious cash upfront — cash we took but dinnae actually have anymore. And we've got tae start payin' back that hunner thousand quid in less than six months. Even if by some miracle the business takes off, it willnae rake in enough tae cover the repayments, never mind turnin' a profit onytime soon."
"Weel, Ah've crunched some figures. If we delay the repayments fur a year an' stretch it over twenty, it'd be under five hunner quid a month. No too bad, eh?"
"Twenty fuckin' years?" Simon utters, stunned by the realisation. This sounds like shackling themselves to a loan for another lifetime. Who needs shite like marriage or a mortgage when you can be stuck with this instead for two decades? Not that it interferes with Simon's plans — he doesn't have any for the next twenty years anyway. Still, this feels like a trap.
"Rents, punks dinnae get auld. Or have ye forgotten?" Simon tries one last angle, immediately realising how juvenile it sounds. Renton grins.
"Sae noo ye've got principles?"
"Ah most certainly do not!" Simon retorts, offended by the suggestion.
"Weel, maybe punks adapt instead of growin' auld. We dinna have tae buy into aw their crap tae make a profit from it. Think o it as a smart evolutionary strategy, survival o the fittest, if ye like."
"Pitchin' it like a pro, aren't we?" Simon admits, impressed despite himself. Renton beams, looking very pleased with his tactical finesse.
"Ye really can see us runnin' a legit business, can ye?" Simon says weakly.
"Simon, ye're already runnin' a bar, legally. Sure, it's nae making any profit, but that's probably 'cause ye're puttin' zero effort intae it. Is it really such a stretch tae think this might work?"
Simon scoffs, glancing back at the ruined jumper. Is that how one becomes whipped? One day, you're a rebel, sticking it to the man, and the next, you're considering launching a proper, law-abiding venture. Bluidy hell.
"Ah might give it some thought," Simon concedes begrudgingly.
Renton
Renton rolls onto his side, feeling pleasantly warm and relaxed. He glances over at Simon, who's settling back against the pillows.
"Ah gotta say, that didnae exactly make me less sleepy," Renton admits, stifling a yawn.
"Ye are more than welcome tae stay in bed," Simon says as he leans in to kiss Renton's temple.
Renton leans into the touch for a moment before reluctantly pulling away. "As temptin' as that sounds, Ah really need tae get gaun'. My da's still needin’ a lift after his procedure, isnae he?"
In the kitchen, Renton realises that something crucial is amiss. "Shite, did we use up the last o the coffee?" he says, turning over an empty pack of Lavazza, with a couple measly coffee beans falling out of it. "How am Am supposed tae wake up fur this noo?"
"Would ye fancy some coke instead?" Simon replies lazily.
"Yeah, right," says Renton, and then his brain catches up. "Wait, ye mean ye have cocaine in the flat?"
"Weel, Ah wasnae gonnae just chuck oot my stash, was Ah? Ah did pay fur it, after aw."
"Ah'll pass," says Renton before heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Despite the generous offer, he opts for a coffee at Greggs instead.
~~~
"Ah dinnae get it," says Renton later in the evening when they lounge on the sofa with plates of garlic pasta and salad. "How does it make any sense tae keep a stash in the flat while ye're in rehab?"
"It makes perfect sense 'cause Ah'm no an addict."
"So, ye're no even tempted tae use it at aw?" Renton asks, curious. Simon has been doing better, though it's tricky to pinpoint why — maybe it's the closure of his legal process, or maybe the rehab is actually working.
"Whit are ye gettin' at, Mark?" Simon demands as he's getting annoyed.
"Ah just mean, ye were hittin' it pretty hard, and noo ye just casually keep a stash aroond? Seems like rehab's doin' somethin' right, after aw."
"Rehab, ma arse," Simon retorts dismissively.
"Still, ye have been in a better mood lately. And ye're sleepin' better too," Renton points out.
Simon pauses, clearly considering this but still too stubborn to concede that rehab might have benefits besides keeping him out of jail.
"Ever heard o the Rat Park experiment?" Renton shifts the topic to something less contentious.
Simon raises an eyebrow. "No. Am Ah aboot tae?
"There was this Canadian bloke back in the sixties, studying addiction. He locked rats in cages wi' unlimited access tae gear, mostly heroin and cocaine. Unsurprisingly, they aw got hooked and died pretty fast."
"Whit a shocker," says Simon, making a show of disinterest. It's rare when Simon doesn't know something about drugs, after all.
"But then later oan he felt like he'd missed something. He reckoned the rats might have got addicted because they had fuck aw else tae dae, stuck in those wee cages oan their own. Sae, he built them a Rat Park — a huge cage full o toys, a pool, and loads o other rats they could hang aboot and shag."
Simon snorts. "Go oan, then."
"They had the same access tae gear, but this time, they barely used it; they just kept havin' a right guid time, gettin' high once in a while and livin' the best o their rat lives."
"That's one fur the therapy books. Sae, whit's the grand conclusion?"
"That the environment plays a crucial role in addiction formation. And also, that the opposite o addiction's no sobriety — it's connection."
"Right, Ah'll get that printed in big bold letters, shall Ah?" Simon quips sarcastically. "Put it next tae ma 'Live, Laugh, Love' poster."
"Laugh aw ye want, but things are different noo, are they no? Maybe Rat Park works no just fur rats," Renton says with a shrug.
Simon just rolls his eyes, not having a comeback for that. They finish the dinner, clear the table, do the dishes — and that's another day gone. Another unbelievably mundane day that feels almost too strange, especially compared to the chaos that used to be their norm.
As Renton lies awake in bed, listening to Simon's steady breathing, he wonders how they got there. They are still pretty much fucked up, and what they have is not perfect by all means. But now they have each other, and that's probably more than they deserve anyway. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.