title: Games
fandom: Trainspotting
characters/pairings: Renton/Sick Boy
rating: Mature
warnings: foul language, references to drugs, sexual humiliation
summary: Renton loses. Again. (pre-movie continuity)
notes: for the wondrous and amazing Alex, who wanted to be evil. tho, if she really wanted to be evil, she would have said Renton/Spud, or Renton/Bigsby... *shudders*

"It's the natural law. Cause... and effect. You'd understand it if you paid more attention to the details."

It was Tuesday. It had to be fuckin' Tuesday, didn't it? I wasn't fuckin' high, of course. After a long weekend, it was good sometimes to enter a brief period of detoxification. The problem with detoxifying was, of course, the absolute lack of anything useful in my bloodstream. My kneecaps were fuckin' killing me.

"The essential question, you see, is why? Not how... there are many roads that lead to the same destination. It's the why that tells you the how."

It was also bleedin' cold, thank you very much, not that Sick Boy could tell one way or the other. He was wearing my bloody coat. Flinging my bloody scarf around his neck. And he was gloating. Bad enough that he was sore winner, but he had to fuckin' gloat about it, dragging the whole damn thing out. It was enough to make me just want to get up and leave, and forget about male pride and all that bollocks. There were three things keeping me on my knees, however.

The first was that I was naked, ensuring that I would not get far, even if I did get tired of the game.

The second was that my hands were tied behind my back, with my own damn lucky belt no less, ensuring that if I tried to get up, I'd just make a great bloody fool of m'self.

And third... he was gloating. If I got up now, I'd never hear the end of it.

"Why... leads to the cause. To the root of it all. Why brings us to the source. There is a reason behind action. And the reason brings us... enlightenment."

I'd forgotten to call m'folks. I forgot to call them often, so much so that when I did call, they got rather upset with me. I had intended to call last week while my father was out at work, and my mother was thoroughly soaked in valium. I had wanted to ask for money, not because I thought that they would give me the money, but because it had been several months since I had asked. It was only polite to ask.

He stood directly in front of me, his hands behind his back and his hips out, the big gloating gloater. If I relented, and looked upwards, I would surely see him grinning down at me like some ferocious loon. Clearly, there was no reason for me to look up, so I stared at the wanker's zipper.

D'ya know that there are letters on the zippy bit? Are on every bloody zipper. It's the same ones, too, there's only a few places where they make zippy bits. Good money in zippy bits, I'd think.

"Reason is related to desire. We are motivated by our appetites. We crave pleasure. We crave attention. We crave food and water and shelter, too, but when those desires are sated, we only feel relief. When we give into our urges, our primal calls for more, we feel larger than life. Humongous."

He crouched, so he could look me in the eye. He spread his arms out like wings at that last bit, speaking like a fuckin' ringmaster at a carnival.

I hate him, on principle, you know. He's a bastard, through and through. He lives just to spite people, and he acts like the whole fuckin' world just wants to be him. Or be with him. He's always got some mad scheme festering in the back of his head, waiting to uncoil on the most unsuspecting person he can find.

He delights in humiliating others, preferably the people closest to him, and there are no boundaries with Sick Boy. I mean, we don't call him that for bleedin' nothing, right? He might just take this all the way. This stupid fuckin' game I wouldna bothered with if I had been either sober or high. He got me in that quasi time between the summit and the nadir, and he did it on fuckin' purpose to he could stand here and gloat about it now.

He might very well whip out his cock and make me suck it. He might very well push me down on my face and shag me like a dead whore. Or he might just keep on lecturing me until my fuckin' brain bleeds out m'ears. No way to tell, because he knows that I know that he could do anything he wants to, so he's just going to keep going on until I fuckin' break.

Say no, he says. Say stop, he says. It ends when you say it ends.

So I lose if I win and I win if I lose. His game, his rules, my stupidity for falling into it.

"Desire is the root, the cause, the impetus. Desire is the spark that brings all things to life. Ultimately, the truth is... You are here, now, on your knees, waiting for me to abuse your body however I see fit... because you choose to be. It's what you want."

He comes around the back and puts his hands on me.

Now, mind you, it's not all off. We fuckin' get high together. We sometimes even live together, when it's convenient. It's a happy little commune of junkies and thieves that I associate with, naturally, and while we all like to toss it in with the girls from time to time, when you are in that rarefied state of mind we covet so dearly, little differentiations lose meaning.

What difference does it make whose hands or whose lips or whose body is stimulating you, when all you want is that push to go over the edge?

But Sick Boy will do it sober. He'll do it clean. And he'll do it to prove a point.

He'll go all the way, he'll fuckin' cuddle and go through all the fuckin' foreplay, if only to show that he can. That yes, Renton's sweet little ass is open for business whenever he comes calling. That yes, the wanker is just that good.

I'm not going to give him the satisfaction, though. I'll ignore him, I'll pretend I'm not here, I'll just let him do or say whatever. When the time comes, I'll scream and I'll moan, but I'm not going to beg, fer crissake.

And I swear to god, one day, it'll be me screwing him over.