Chapter Text
The music in the club is blasting so loudly that Mark feels it more than he hears it – it’s transcended the realm of sound and become something heavenly, something alive, and it’s reverberating through his rib cage like a heartbeat. Not particularly feeling the party atmosphere this evening, he’s found a seat on one of the long leather banquettes at the back of the club and is waiting patiently for the ecstasy to kick before he ventures out onto the crowded dance floor. The pill’s left a bitter, chemical taste lingering on his tongue and he washes it down with another swallow of vodka, idly scanning the darkened room for his friends. He spots Tommy over by the bar, engaged in earnest conversation with a few youths in football jackets, but can’t see Sick Boy (probably gone off with a girl or two) or Begbie (probably battering some poor cunt in the alley outside) anywhere. Spud is hanging around the edge of the dance floor, doing an odd little shuffle that could probably be charitably described as dancing. When Mark catches his eye and gives him a little nod, he makes his way over right away.
“Alright, catboy?” he says, looking even more disheveled than usual, his narrow face flushed and his grin wide and eager. Blissful. He ignores the seat next to Mark and falls right into him instead, spilling into his lap and giggling an apology. Hurrying to steady him (and narrowly avoiding getting a sharp, bony elbow in the face for his trouble), Mark can’t be sure if the move was a deliberate one or simply a consequence of being too intoxicated to stay upright.
Not that he’s complaining, mind you.
“Stop flailing around a minute, Spud, and just— fuck, watch where yir knee’s going, alright?”
With some difficulty and several false starts, they manage to work themselves around into a marginally more comfortable position, with Mark sitting back and Spud straddling his lap. And Spud might not be the most comfortable person one could pick to have a wee cuddle with, being mostly composed of sharp edges and protruding bones, but he makes up for it by being warm and enthusiastic and eager, pressing against Mark like he’s trying to sink clean into him. Not to mention the fact that he weighs practically nothing – a consequence of the heroin-induced appetite loss which has afflicted all of them. Even in the dim lighting of the club, Mark can see that his friend’s pupils are blown wide, and he suspects that he’s not the only one who’s experiencing a bit of drug-induced joy.
He grins up at Spud, feeling the ecstasy begin to spark through his system, surging electric through his veins. “Enjoying yirself?”
“Aye, it’s...it’s pure magic, likesay,” slurs Spud, and he’s even more incoherent than usual, nearly unintelligible, but Mark doesn’t mind; floating in the chemical sea, he feels nothing but an endless and overpowering affection for his friend. “Ah mean, ah’m really feeling sortay cosmic, here. Like, wir aw oot in space. Like David Bowie, ken?”
“Right. David Bowie,” Mark agrees automatically, because there does seem to be a curious logic to it, as he stares at the other’s eyes and thinks about black holes, constellations, distant night-worlds unseen and unvisited. About falling through some hole in the stratosphere and drifting endlessly through the galaxy, just like David Bowie. Planet Earth is blue, and there’s nothing I can do—
Just a regular space oddity.
Eventually, he comes back down to earth with the startling realization that he’s getting a little hard – either as a consequence of the drugs or of Spud’s overwhelming warmth – and squirms, trying surreptitiously to readjust his position. Oblivious, Spud babbles on above him, the words spilling out in a rush as he meanders erratically from thought to thought. “—and in a way, we sortay are in space, so it makes sense, ken? Only wir jist going around in circles, likesay, just around and around and—” (and his hands brush down the front of Mark’s threadbare t-shirt, pressing flat against his ribs) “—it’s like wir aw jist along for a ride, Rents, ken what ah mean?”
He doesn’t quite trust himself to speak, but he hums in agreement, which seems to delight Spud – looking positively fascinated, he chases the reverberations of it across Mark’s chest and then dips his head down, nuzzling against his neck.
“Jesus, Spud,” Mark breathes, jackknifing upright and then immediately regretting it, because now Spud is grinding down against him a bit, and he’s hard as fuck and his veins are burning up, he’s burning up. Surreptitiously, he steals a glance around the club (he’s struck with the sudden disquieting idea of Begbie coming across them like this), but the music is still pounding and the disco lights are still blazing and nobody seems to be paying them much attention, tucked away as they are in the shadows. Well, why not? When you get right down tae it, why the fuck not?
Humming to himself, filled with a sense of giddy purpose, Mark skims his fingers down his friend's chest, tracing a nipple and giving it a little tweak. Best to test the waters, considering the circumstances. He's encouraged in his efforts by a quiet yelp. "Aye, that's, eh— that's barry, man. Jist dae it again, jist keep touching us...it's eh, like ah'm pure feeling it all over..."
Mark repeats the experiment and, this time, is rewarded by a corresponding twitch of Spud's hips. The ecstasy is kicking in now in earnest, filling him with an incredible sensation of lightness; he's ceased to feel the leather of the seat under him or feel the weight of his own body. They're floating now, both of them are, and he's suddenly struck by the sheer beauty of his friend. It's absurd, but Spud – skinny, snottery, sticky-fingered Spud with his daft smile and even dafter ideas – is breathtaking. In the flickering club lights, he doesn't even look particularly human. A transcendent thing, like the music. Mark runs his fingertips along the line of one sharp collarbone and then reaches up to touch Spud's lips, marveling at the sensation of hot breath against his skin. "You know, ah'm thinking you've got a point," he remarks, more to articulate his own jumbled, drug-fueled thoughts than anything else. Spud has patently stopped listening, too busy squirming and gasping against him. "Wir aw along for the ride together, aren't we? So it seems tae me like we might as well enjoy it, right?"
Above him, Spud is nodding distractedly, looking increasingly frantic – not a particularly attentive audience, but an eager one. In his intoxicated condition, it takes him whole seconds to fumble the front of Mark's jeans open and, when he finally manages it, he wastes no time in plunging his hand right in. It's haphazard, horribly clumsy, but the feeling of Spud's fingers closing around his already-hard cock is still enough to send a jolt down Mark's spine. Even the clumsiness of the act strikes him as oddly arousing, under the circumstances. The enthusiasm of it. He's been on the receiving end of better handjobs, but he can't remember the last time someone seemed so hungry to touch him. He stares up at Spud, thinking again about constellations and David Bowie and snatches of songs which he can't quite remember, and feels his breath catch in his throat as a sudden jerk of the wrist has exactly the right effect. "Danny—"
Looking vaguely pleased with himself, Spud grins, ducking his head bashfully. He's kissing at Mark's neck again as he tugs at his cock and mumbling nonsense between the kisses, so that it's all wet and warm and incredibly sloppy. It's easily the messiest bit of necking Mark's experienced since he was about fifteen years old. It's truly embarrassing how much it's turning him on.
Gradually, it dawns on him that it might be turning him on a little too much – that, between Spud's earnest efforts and the drugs sizzling in his veins, he's starting to tip perilously close to the edge. He feels a sudden stirring of self-consciousness. Paranoia. He can't come in his jeans like this, getting jerked off out in the open where anybody could wander by and see. Hastily, he nudges at his friend's shoulder, trying to push him away.
Spud’s breath is almost painfully hot against his neck as he pulls back a little, frowning in bemusement. He's still rubbing at Mark, still teasing him – almost absentmindedly, like he's forgotten that he's doing it at all. There's a flush of colour high on his cheeks, striking against his pale skin. “Eh, what’s wrong, Rents?”
“Fuck, Spud,” he manages, batting ineffectually at the other’s hands. “Stop it or ah’m gaunnae come!”
Spud stares at him, all bleary-eyed and dazed. “You don’t want tae?”
"Not here, you cunt."
With a little difficulty, Mark dislodges his friend from his lap (Spud yelps in protest, barely managing to keep himself from going sprawling across the floor) and stands, quickly buttoning his jeans. If they're going to finish this somewhere more private, it's clear that he's going to have to be the one to take the initiative. He might not be thinking quite clearly, addled as he is by the pulse of the MDMA through his brain, but Spud doesn't even look like he's on the same planet at this point. He's standing at Mark's side now, swaying slightly, eyes closed and head tilted back. Blissed out of his mind, drifting through the distant reaches of the galaxy.
"Come on," Mark tells him, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him, tripping and stumbling, through the crowded club.
It's all dissolving into a fever dream, all pulsing lights and blurring silhouettes. Still no sign of Begbie, but he thinks he catches a glimpse of Sick Boy in the far corner, engaged in chatting up yet another girl. For once, he doesn't feel even the slightest bit jealous. We're all getting lucky the night, eh, lads? He means to head for the gents’, for the relative privacy of an empty stall, but they get turned around somehow and end up in the cloakroom of the club instead, which is small and cramped and littered with boots and jackets. But it’s fine, it’s good enough, it’s fucking perfect, because as soon as they get through the door, he’s shoving Spud back against the nearest wall and Spud is kissing him, kissing down his neck, kissing him so hungrily that it's more than Mark can bear. That same frantic energy is gripping him as he gets the front of Spud's ratty jeans open and yanks down his keks. As he goes dropping to his knees on the tiles.
"Oh," says Spud, gawping down at him, wide-eyed. His hands fidget uncertainly with the hem of his shirt, fingers knotting in the fabric. "Mark, there's, eh, nae need...ah mean, only if you want tae, but—"
If I want tae. "Believe me, Danny, ah want tae."
Mark wastes no more time, tugging Spud's drawers out of the way and leaning in to take the other man's cock in his mouth. Inhales it, practically. Inhalants and injections, stimulants and depressants, opioids and hallucinogens – they've done it all together, him and Spud, comrades in intoxication. And, now that he thinks about it, isn't this just one more sort of drug? One more fucked up wee trip, both of them panting and gasping together in the dark, waiting for the blessed high. Thrilled by the notion, he gets a firm grip around the base of Spud's cock and licks eagerly at the head. Relishes the taste of it on his tongue, as chemical and strange as the ecstasy had been.
"—knew it, Mark," Spud is slurring, his head thrown back against the wall. He doesn't quite seem to know what to do with his hands; they flutter, indecisive, in the air and then go drumming against his sides, keeping time with the music. "Knew you'd understand, how wir— wir pure in this together, man, me and you. Wir oot in space, jist the two ay us, see, and they cannae touch us now, they cannae..."
Listening to him babble, Mark thinks he understands. As he shoves his hand down to touch himself and, still licking and mouthing desperately at Spud's cock, feels it twitch on his tongue. As he hears Spud's slightly-too-late warning ("Mark, man, ah'm gaunnae—") and chokes, spitting the salt taste of it onto the tiles. He understands. He does. The ecstasy has lifted them up, carried them away. And now, as they go floating through space, strung out and breathless and lighter than air, all they have left to hold on to is each other.