Chapter Text
Vyvyan wakes up on a Thursday like any other with the sweaty warmth of another person next to him.
It takes him a moment to acclimatise. Whoever it is is lying flat like a log, Vyvyan's arm casually thrown over their back. He blinks and stretches (legs brushing someone else's, prickly with hair) and opens his eyes.
It's Rick, of course. Rick is crammed into bed with him, mouth open, drool wet on his chin, letting out these funny little snuffling breaths like a small woodland creature of some sort. Something fluffy and sweet that Vyvyan would be tempted to crush under his boot.
Not that Rick is fluffy or sweet, of course. He's a complete and unequivocal bastard. Anybody can look nice and a bit girly-pretty when they're asleep, Vyvyan reasons. Christ, Vyvyan bets even Thatcher-
No, no, let's not get too carried away.
Regardless, Rick is asleep in his bed, all sweaty and smelling not particularly great, huffs of morning breath and the general stink of unwashed bastard. All Vyvyan can think as he wakes up a bit more and scratches his belly is that he has no idea where any of his clothes are, and that he isn't even a bit hungover in the slightest.
They hadn't been drinking. He almost wishes they had been. People do daft shit when they're drunk. Vyvyan knows he sometimes gets particularly soft and stupid after he's had a few. It'd be nice to have that cushion, that plausible deniability. Chalk it up to the Babycham.
Except they'd been sober, because they usually are sober together, because Rick is a stupid bloody infuriating girl who thinks he's better than a couple of pints of mild.
They'd been sober, and Rick had finally admitted that he really was a virgin. It was the sort of hushed confession that on any other day would've invited a thousand years of ribbing and a kick in the bollocks. Except it'd been delivered softly, quietly, with Vyv's hands at his hips and Rick's mouth all kiss-pink and swollen.
Vyvyan couldn't have taken the piss if someone'd paid him. He'd just snogged the stupid ponce instead, not wanting to say anything. Better for them to both keep quiet. Better for them to shrug off their clothes and pretend their hands were steady as rocks. Better to do it and try and keep quiet, dimly aware of the thrumming bass of whatever music Neil was listening to, buzzing through the bones of the house.
Rick's snoring, a bit. A few weeks ago, after that big row when Vyvyan had half-destroyed the bathroom and Neil had been living in the fridge, Vyvyan had stroked Rick's hair for a little while. Rick had been fast asleep and it'd seemed rude not to, what with the way his head had been resting against Vyv's thigh. It'd started out innocuously enough - he'd accidentally dropped fag ash on Rick's head and quickly tried to brush it off - but had developed into just petting the bastard. Like some greasy, deeply annoying cat.
Vyvyan's got the same sort of feeling now, high in his throat like a lump. Rick's eyelashes are all girly like this. In fact, he's weirdly compelling when he isn't opening his gob to speak and ruining it all.
Vyv thinks about choked-off gasps and quiet affirmations and the way he'd held onto Rick's shoulders, fingers digging in like Rick was all that was tethering him to earth, gravity forgotten.
Rick mumbles in his sleep, frowning. Witnessed by nobody, Vyvyan touches him, awkwardly, fingers cupped over the shell of his ear. He strokes Rick's temple with his thumb and for one fearful knife-stab of a moment thinks the bastard might actually wake up. He imagines Rick's eyes opening, catching Vyvyan in the act of - of what?
Christ, he never should've shagged him.
Vyvyan slips out of bed and sets about finding his clothes. SPG's perched on the chest of drawers, black eyes watchful. Vyvyan flicks the vs at him.
He feels better once he's dressed. He fishes out knickers and jeans and his chain from weird places, each item bringing him one step closer to himself. This is just a normal Thursday, same as any other. Except when he peers through the gap in the curtains he can tell by the quality of the light that it's early, earlier than he'd normally be up. Except Rick is in his bed, sheets low on his back, showing off far too much bare skin for Vyvyan to deal with right now.
Rick has a tutorial every Thursday morning. Vyvyan knows this because he does his best to make it everybody else's problem, crashing and bashing about the place and screeching at the top of his lungs. Sometimes, after causing the maximum amount of noise and irritation, he doesn't end up going at all. He rushes out in a big girly strop and Vyvyan inevitably finds him smoking down by the phone box in a huff.
Sometimes, Vyvyan gives him a lift to college. He tells himself he's driving that way anyway, and nags Rick about petrol money. They squabble over the radio and shout at other drivers if they're particularly shit, Rick joining in on Vyvyan's favourite pastime of flicking the vs and making wanker hand gestures out of the window.
He imagines driving Rick in today. He imagines sweating in the driver's seat under the weight of the knowledge of every part of the daft sod.
Vyvyan imagines watching Rick bite his thumbnail and knowing where his hands have been. Knowing and quite wanting them back there, if he's honest.
Swallowing hard, Vyvyan grabs his boots and tries to sink into some semblance of his normal routine. He ties his laces amongst the fag ends and old chip papers on the floor. He spends too long fiddling with the turn ups on his jeans, getting them even, like it bloody matters.
He spends too long listening to the whisper of Rick's body against bedsheets and thinking about his skin and his mouth and -
Vyvyan slips out of his bedroom and eases the door closed behind him, then pats around in his pockets for a cigarette. He turns up nothing beyond a couple of squashed roll papers and a five pence piece.
"Vyvyan," Mike says, ambling down the stairs. He's wearing a waistcoat as usual, the flash bastard. "You're up early."
"Yeah," Vyvyan says, vaguely. "You got a fag, Michael?"
"I do indeed, Vyv, but it'll cost you," Mike says, digging a pack out of his pocket. Vyv takes one and lights up, following Mike downstairs.
Everything's blessedly normal in the rest of the house. Well, as normal as can be expected. Neil's pottering around in the kitchen humming under his breath. Vyvyan moves a mouldy saucepan off one of the chairs in the kitchen so he can sit down.
"You making breakfast, Neil?" Mike asks.
"Yeah," Neil says. "I've been having ideas, right, I've been thinking…lentil soup."
He says this with the air of someone making an important announcement.
"For breakfast?" Mike asks.
"For any meal, really," Neil says, giving Vyvyan a weird look. "You alright, Vyv?"
"Hmm?"
"You're not, you know. Hassling me or whacking me with a frying pan 'cause breakfast's not ready yet."
"Yeah, you are a bit quiet, Vyv," Mike says. "You and the missus had a falling out?"
Vyvyan blinks, coming back to himself a little.
"Piss off," He says, when he realises what Mike's getting at.
"Doesn't sound promising, Neil," Mike says. "Hope you're ready for another week in the fridge."
"Oh no," Neil says. "My trousers still smell of cheese after last time. And we didn't even have any cheese."
"Look," Vyvyan says, ashing onto a nearby plate. "Can both of you just shut up? It's too early for this. Neil, where's the bloody tea? I'm parched."
Vyvyan pretends he doesn't see Mike and Neil sharing a look. It's bizarre, the way the ongoing situation with him and Rick has made them into co-conspirators.
Rick. Vyvyan experiences flashes of memory while Neil clatters about the kitchen, collecting up all of the dirty plates and dumping them in the sink.
The thing is that Rick is absolutely bloody awful. Vyvyan has a grudging respect for how committed he is to being the worst and most infuriating person to ever walk the earth. He can't open his gob without saying something so irritating that Vyvyan thinks even a saint would want to clobber him to death. In fact Jesus himself, Vyv reckons, would've taken a swing at Rick. It's just the sort of person he is.
And Vyvyan isn't a poof, alright, all evidence to the contrary studiously ignored. But even he can admit that if Rick wasn't so totally and completely repellent he'd have the girlies hanging off his stupid poncey every word. It's his eyes and the shape of his mouth and the way he frowns when he's pissed off, right before Vyvyan hits him or steals his purse or calls him a twat. It's the way that one vein bulges out in his forehead when he's about to start yelling, face all red and sweaty, angry about some shit that doesn't even matter.
It's the way Rick looks when he thinks nobody's looking at him, when he's picking a spot on his chin or reading some book or singing loudly off-key to Cliff sodding enormous bastard Richard at arse o'clock in the morning.
But luckily for Vyvyan, he supposes, and unluckily for Rick, he really is the single most dreadful person to ever exist. Vyvyan highly doubts anyone else will ever bother to look past his deeply infuriating and extremely punchable facade. He finds this comforting, and tries not to dwell on why.
It's like having a secret. Mike and Neil know about the snogging, sure, but nothing much has changed outwardly beyond that. Vyvyan and Rick still chase each other around the house with blunt instruments. They still yell at each other across the kitchen. They still hate each other.
But inside, privately, Vyvyan's thoughts are sort of soft. Unpleasantly so, like dog shit or mouldy food.
He holds these thoughts close in quiet moments, stupidly worried they'll show on his face. Surely it's only a matter of time before someone looks at him and says, wait, is he thinking about that prize dickhead?
The answer, unfortunately, is yes.
Vyvyan's thinking about pranks to play on Rick, or beating the shit out of him, or ways to get him alone. He's thinking about how actually he's not a bad kisser when all's said and done, and that his smile is sort of alright as smiles go.
He's thinking about that quiet admission of inexperience last night, and how much it must've cost him to be honest. He's thinking about Rick getting nowhere with his shirt buttons because his hands were shaking so much. Vyvyan had grabbed hold of his fingers for a moment to steady him because it was unbearable, seeing the self-assured little prick go to pieces like that.
Vyvyan's thinking that overall, even though he absolutely loathes Rick, don't get him wrong, he doesn't hate him as much as he hates, say, traffic wardens or prog rock or The bloody bastard Good Life.
He's so consumed by thinking, only dimly aware of Neil pouring the tea and Mike disappearing behind a newspaper, that it takes him a second to notice footsteps on the stairs. As a result he's blinking, somewhat dazed, when Rick walks into the room.
And the thing is that even though on one level everything has changed, on another everything is exactly the same as it always was. Rick's in his pyjamas and dressing gown, same as any other day. He claps his hands obnoxiously loudly, doesn't look at Vyvyan and says:
"Emergency house meeting, right now. Where's my toothbrush?"
"Use a toothbrush, do you?" Vyvyan says.
"Don't try and be clever, Vyvyan," Rick says. "I want my toothbrush returned to me by the count of ten or you're all really gonna regret it."
"You can use my toothbrush," Neil says. "As long as you wash it after. It's made of bamboo."
"Neil," Rick says. "The last thing I want to do is put something in my mouth that's been in your mouth, alright? I'd rather be viciously and horribly eaten alive."
"All you've got to do is ask, poofy pants," Vyvyan says, just to watch Rick turn red and lose his train of thought.
"Shut up, Vyvyan, you pervy," Rick blusters, still not meeting Vyv's eye. "Neil, I'm not using your weird hippy toothbrush covered in your weird hippy germs."
"Well, actually, Rick," Neil says. "You can say that, right, about things that have been in my mouth, but aside from being unnecessarily heavy it doesn't make any sense because, like, we all use the same cutlery."
"He's got a point, Rick," Vyvyan says, just to be an arsehole.
"Yeah, just use his toothbrush, it's quicker," Mike says, unhelpfully, from behind his paper.
"Would you use his toothbrush, Michael?"
"Well, no," Mike says, turning a page. "But I've got girls to think of, you know? My face is prime real estate. These pearly whites have got to be pearly white, you dig?"
"Oh, whatever," Rick spits. "I don't want Neil's toothbrush-"
"You can't use it anyway, actually," Neil interrupts. "I'm revoking my offer on account of you being really uncool about it."
"I don't want your toothbrush, hippy! I never wanted it! I want my toothbrush and I want it now."
There's silence around the table. Mike rustles his paper and Neil takes a drink of tea. Vyvyan watches Rick jittering in place, building up to a full-scale tantrum, and has to stifle a grin.
"Does anyone ever listen to me? At all? Ever?" Rick hisses. "My toothbrush. Where is it."
"Did you try the cup with the other toothbrushes?" Neil says.
"No," Rick sneers. "I thought I'd look in the garden to start with."
"Oh," Neil says, frowning. "Well, no wonder you couldn't find it. I don't know why it'd be out there, Rick."
"Neil, do you actually have a brain or is it just one big chickpea rattling about up there?" Rick says. "Yes, I looked in the cup with the other toothbrushes. That was the first place I looked, on account of the fact that I'm not an intellectually challenged moron. It's not there."
"Are you sure you own a toothbrush to begin with?" Vyvyan inquires.
"Vyvyan," Rick says, and glares at him. It's ridiculous that this of all things is what sends a thrill down Vyv's spine - a sensation he'd never admit to, even under torture. "If you say one more unhelpful and stupid thing I'm never snogging you ever again."
"I'm not sure I want you to if you've got no toothbrush," Vyvyan says, grinning at him. "It's bad enough eating lentils the first time without second helpings right out of your smelly gob."
"Hey," Neil says, reproachfully. "Lentils are really cool, Vyv."
"They usually are when you cook them, Neil," Mike says, from behind his paper. "Or hot enough to melt steel."
"It's a delicate balance, alright?" Neil says. "I'd like to see any of you try it."
"I wouldn't want Rick to do it," Vyvyan says. "What's he gonna do, fumigate them with his breath?"
"Right! Right, that's it," Rick says, and makes a big show of miming zipping his mouth shut.
"What's that, Rick?" Mike says, his interest piqued, emerging from behind his paper. "Vow of silence?"
"No," Rick scoffs.
"Oh," Neil says, sadly.
"I am never snogging you again, Vyvyan. Ever again. That's it."
"You said that last week, Rick," Mike says, going back to his paper.
"Yeah, and then I caught the two of you in the broom cupboard," Neil says, pulling a face. "Which is seriously uncool, right, because you guys know I'm the only one who goes in there on account of the fact that I'm the only one who cleans anything in this house, and-"
"Listen, bum breath," Vyvyan says to Rick. "Your stupid manky toothbrush is in my room where you left it last night."
Rick splutters wordlessly for a moment, red in the face. There's that vein Vyvyan likes so much, throbbing away in his forehead like he might explode into jelly.
"Why didn't you say that to begin with?"
Vyvyan shrugs.
"More fun watching you get your knickers in a twist."
Rick lets out a wordless cry of fury before he turns on his heel and stomps off upstairs. Vyvyan cadges a cigarette from the pack Mike's left on the table, listening to all of the thudding like it's a classical symphony.
"I don't get it," Neil says, after a moment. "You and him are…you know. You like him, right? I mean, you must do, since you snog him all the time, but then you piss him off on purpose."
"That's where you're wrong, Neil," Vyvyan says, getting to his feet. "I don't like him."
When he slips into the bathroom a moment later, Rick is furiously cleaning his teeth. He glowers at Vyvyan in the mirror.
Vyvyan shuts the door, then goes to lean against the dresser and finish his cigarette.
He doesn't know the etiquette here. Not that he and Rick have ever followed any etiquette - not that he and Rick are anything, just flatmates who beat the shit out of each other and (maybe, now) shag. But Vyvyan feels awkward, and hopes to God it isn't obvious. Then again, Rick's so bloody self-absorbed, he's probably safe.
Rick's taken off his dressing gown, revealing that godawful vest of his. Vyvyan thinks he must've seriously lost it, getting all dry-mouthed watching some daft git clean his teeth. There's something about his pale shoulders, the curve of his spine when he bends to spit in the sink, the weird niceness about the nape of his neck. That's the sort of spot where Vyvyan could really sink his teeth in if the mood took him. If they ever shagged again, you know, and did it like that. If Rick would let him. If he'd want to.
"I'm not talking to you, you know," Rick says, like Vyvyan isn't halfway to a stiffy just from seeing him in his stupid ugly vest, toothpaste foam all around his mouth.
Vyvyan moves, then, slow enough to give Rick the chance to piss off if he wants to.
"Good job I don't wanna talk to you, then, isn't it?"
"Vyvyan, no," Rick says. It's laughably unconvincing when his voice has gone all thin and fragile, breakable as eggshell. Vyvyan flicks his cigarette butt God knows where and moves a bit closer, relishing the gormless heavy-lidded look Rick gets on his face in moments like this. "Oh, alright, then. But you're still a bastard, you know."
Vyvyan trails a hand up Rick's bare arm, feeling clumsy and stupid like he always does when he first starts touching him. It's something about still wanting him in the cold light of day, desperately trying to be gentle when he wants to grab with both fists and not let go.
Rick's mouth's all foamy and open and Vyv can hear him breathing in the quiet as their noses brush and God, he really really hates him.
Vyvyan can't stand the way it feels when he leans in to kiss him, when he pulls back straight away to make Rick work for it, when Rick swears under his breath and yanks him close, those stupid hands of his suddenly greedy, forced into it by Vyvyan.
"Eurgh," Vyvyan says, a breathless moment later. "Spearmint."
"Well, if you'd let me rinse first…"
"Nah," Vyvyan says. "See, this way it's like I cleaned my teeth as well. Saves time."
"That's disgusting," Rick says, but he snogs Vyv again shortly afterwards, throwing an arm over his shoulder in his eagerness to be close, so he can't think it's that disgusting.
A moment later, Rick's tucked a proprietary hand in the waistband of Vyvyan's jeans to hold him in place, which is the sort of shit that drives Vyv absolutely crazy. Rick's carelessness is infuriating in every other situation except this. Vyvyan loves when Rick forgets himself enough to grab at him. It makes him feel less alone in the weird soft feelings, like maybe inside Rick's losing it just as much as he is.
Vyvyan's just about to suggest that Rick skips college today when there's a knock at the bathroom door.
"Guys? Will you be long in there? I need the toilet."
"Go outside, Neil," Vyvyan says.
"Yeah, piss off, Neil," Rick says.
"Alright, well, no, first of all," Neil says. "And also Rick, your parents are on the phone. I left Mike down there talking to them."
"Shit," Rick says, tearing himself away from Vyvyan to throw the bathroom door open. "Out of the way, hippy!"
He shoves his way past Neil and charges off down the stairs, leaving Vyvyan wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, feeling somewhat dazed.
When he makes his unhurried way downstairs, he can hear the sort of bollocks Rick spouts to his parents floating up from the hallway. He puts this weird voice on with them, every word so very clipped and neat, sounding even more of a bellend than usual.
"…really no need," He's saying as Vyvyan passes him in the hall. Rick meets his eye for a second before he turns away, huddling into the wall. "No, no, that's - well, of course, I…"
"You ready to meet the parents, Vyv?" Mike asks, when Vyvyan joins him on the sofa.
"You what?"
"Rick's parents. They're coming to visit."
"Why?"
Mike shrugs.
"That is a mystery, Vyvyan. At a push, I'd say to make sure their precious boy isn't engaging in drugs and debauchery."
"Well, he isn't," Vyvyan says, scowling. "So they can bloody well stay where they are, can't they?"
"No, of course," Rick's saying. "Yeah, yeah. Alright. Yes, love you too." He slams the phone down, then kicks the wall for good measure. "Fascist Tory bastards."
He comes and squeezes in between the two of them on the sofa.
"They're coming to visit," He says, hollowly. "Next week."
"Chin up, Rick," Mike says. "Plenty of time to hide your porn mags."
"I don't have porn mags," Rick says, in that unbearably superior way of his.
"He does," Vyvyan says.
Rick elbows him in the ribs.
"Those are modern art zines, Vyvyan, you oaf."
"Well, plenty of time to hide your modern art zines, then," Mike says.
Rick puts his head in his hands for a second, the drama queen.
"Why do they have to come here?" He asks. When he looks at Vyvyan his eyes are all big and watery. "They're doing it on purpose to make me miserable, I know they are. It's just bloody typical."
Vyvyan doesn't say anything. He thinks about Rick saying love you too, as easy as anything. He thinks about his own mum, who on occasion when he runs into her takes a moment to recognise him, eyes clouded with confusion. When she does realise who he is she either asks him for money, says some truly awful shit or tells him to piss off.
Love you too, Rick had said, like it was nothing. An empty platitude to get off the phone, the words fluffy and substanceless.
Rick's going on, and Vyvyan isn't listening in the slightest. He's thinking about how he wants to hate Rick more, wants to hate him properly, the way he used to. This new softness is spreading like rot within him. It's getting to the point where sometimes Vyvyan doesn't even want to beat the shit out of him all that much.
Like now, caught up in the warmth of Rick's thigh against his, the brush of their arms when he makes his stupid girly gestures, and the weird wonder of his side profile.
Vyvyan has this awful creeping feeling, getting stronger by the day, to touch Rick just for the sake of touching him. Yeah, they punch and they snog and whatever, but sometimes Vyv wants to just touch Rick's shoulder when he's sitting all hunched over like this. Sometimes he just wants to feel the warmth of him under his hands.
Which is a terrifying, teetering on the edge of an abyss sort of a thought. Alright, so they shagged, but that's understandable, given the nature of their arrangement. Sex and violence are natural impulses, not poofy at all. But wanting to touch Rick just for the sake of touching, just to feel him and maybe catch that funny little smile he does sometimes before he remembers to scowl, that's weird. That's too much. That makes Vyv want to give Rick a proper shove, right off the sofa and onto the rug. It makes him want to mash his face into the floor.
Vyvyan watches the way Rick's mouth moves when he speaks, and the line of his jaw. There's this one spot there that's loads of fun to bite. He makes this really great noise every time, all high pitched and stupid.
Vyvyan thinks it might be fun to kiss there, just once, just in passing. Not as a prelude, just for its own sake.
Maybe when he next gets pissed, he thinks.
"…wonder if they'll want feeding," Mike's saying. "'Cause the chef's temperamental at the best of times."
"And only cooks sodding lentils," Rick says.
"Well, that's alright, isn't it?" Vyvyan offers. "Parents love all that healthy shit, don't they?"
"I don't think what Neil does to lentils is particularly healthy, Vyv," Mike says.
"I dunno. I liked that lentil bake."
"Are you sure you're feeling alright?" Mike says, staring at Vyvyan in disbelief. "It was inedible."
"Well, yeah," Vyvyan concedes. "But it made a really great missile. Smashed a window in the science building with it."
"I wondered where it had gone," Mike says. "You did us a service there. We'd still be having it for tea if you hadn't."
Vyvyan salutes him, grinning.
"Oh, well, that's just great for my parents, isn't it?" Rick snaps, getting to his feet all of a sudden. "Sorry mummy and daddy, dinner's disgusting but you can use it to break a window on your way home! That'll be ruddy marvellous, won't it?"
With that, he storms off upstairs again for the second time that day.
"Twice before midday," Mike muses. "That's a new record for him."
Vyvyan doesn't go after Rick immediately. He nips out to the corner shop for some fags and milk, and smokes on the front step for a while. Rick's tutorial's at eleven, though, so when it gets to five to ten he decides to bite the bullet and see what's bothering the stupid bastard. Best to get it out of the way now rather than letting it fester all day.
When Vyvyan lets himself into Rick's room, he's sat on his bed tying his laces.
"Brilliant, Vyvyan!" Rick snaps, the second Vyv steps over the threshold. "By all means, walk right in! It's not like I'm entitled to any privacy, or anything. I could've been naked, you know!"
"You're not," Vyvyan points out. "More's the pity."
Rick flushes.
"I'd prefer it if you knocked in future," He says, folding his arms. "In fact, I'm gonna have a word with Mike and Neil about adding it to the People's Charter."
"Bloody shitting bastard hell," Vyvyan grumbles. He goes back over to the door and pounds on it with his fist a couple of times. "There. Happy now?"
"No," Rick says, but he doesn't tell Vyvyan to piss off or anything. Vyv closes the door behind him, then goes to sit next to him on the bed.
He doesn't know if Rick catches his moment of indecision before he joins him. He's still all pink in the face from being a twat when Vyvyan offers him a cigarette.
"What's up?" He asks, when Rick declines. "Is this about your parents?"
Rick shrugs, but doesn't seem particularly forthcoming.
"Well, what's wrong with them visiting?"
"What's wrong?" Rick scoffs. "Neil's gonna poison them with lentils and Mike'll try and get them to invest in some dodgy deal of his and you-"
Vyvyan's heart clenches in his chest like a fist.
"And me what?"
Rick deflates, visibly, the fight going out of him.
"Doesn't matter."
"What doesn't matter?"
Vyvyan needs Rick to say it, to say something. He needs him to tell the truth - that Vyv isn't right for Rick's prissy horrible parents. He's not right for Rick full stop.
"Nothing," Rick says. "Nothing, alright?"
"Liar," Vyvyan says, in the manner of someone pressing down on a bruise. "Scared I'll show you up in front of mummy and daddy, is that it?"
"No," Rick says, vehemently. He swallows, looking away, and there are his eyelashes again, pretty as a girl's. If Vyvyan had the patience he'd hold him down and pluck out each and every one with tweezers so he'd never have to look at them again. "I feel like they're gonna know."
"Know what?"
"About us, you horrendous dolt," Rick says.
It's like all of the soft feelings Vyvyan's been having are rising in his throat like bile.
"Us?" He scoffs. "What us? There is no us. You're not my bloody girlfriend, Rick."
Rick blinks for a moment. Vyvyan watches a muscle jump in his jaw. For a second, he thinks the stupid ponce might actually swing for him. For a second, Vyvyan wants him to, more than anything. He knows where he is when they're hitting each other. Vyv's strayed into unknown territory here, and every step is a foot wrong. If Rick hits him, he can hit back and everything will be fine.
But Rick doesn't hit him.
"No, I'm not your girlfriend," He says, every syllable dripping with disdain. "And thank God for that. I'd rather eat broken glass than be romantically linked to you."
"Well, good," Vyvyan says. "And while we're on the subject, there's no way I'm meeting your parents, either."
"Good!" Rick says, his face red. "I don't want you to meet them anyway."
"Works out perfectly then, doesn't it?"
"Yeah, it does," Rick says. His lip's curled in disgust as he gets to his feet. He throws some books and papers into his bag, avoiding Vyv's eye. "I have a tutorial to get to, so if you don't mind shutting the door behind you and then pissing off somewhere and possibly dying in a fire, that'd be great."
Vyvyan just sits there as Rick hurries out of the room and flounces off down the stairs. He listens to the hurried patter of his footsteps, the indistinct buzz of him snapping at Neil, then the slamming of the front door.