Chapter Text
Monday morning finds the four of them huddled in the garden, clustered around the smoking remains of the kitchen window.
"How on earth did this happen," Mike wants to know.
"Exploded," Vyvyan says.
"I gathered that, Vyv, what with the loud bang, the stink of gunpowder and the general debris. Allow me to rephrase - why?"
"You know automatic doors, right?" Vyvyan says. "Well, I was thinking-"
"That's a first for you," Rick snorts.
Vyvyan flicks his cigarette right out of his mouth without even looking at him, the bastard.
"I was thinking, right," Vyvyan continues, while Rick is forced to scrabble around on the ground for his fag. "Why not automatic windows?"
"So you blew it up," Mike says, flatly.
"Yeah," Vyvyan says. "I mean, it was completely automated, you can't argue with that. I didn't have to touch the latch or anything."
"Yes, Vyvyan, and now nobody can touch the latch, can they?" Rick says. "It's probably five streets away by now. I bet it plummeted right out of the sky and hit some old dear putting out her washing and now she's dead. What do you think of that?"
"Not a lot," Vyvyan says. "Poof."
"Yeah, well," Neil says, poking at a shard of glass with the toe of his shoe. "Bagsy not ringing Mr Balowski about it, alright? I don't see why it always has to be me who phones people and writes letters and cleans and cooks and-"
"Shut up, Neil," Rick, Vyvyan and Mike say.
"Nobody has to ring Balowksi," Mike says. "I've got a glazier who owes me a favour. You've timed this impeccably, Vyvyan, he just got back last week."
"That's lucky," Neil says. "Where's he been?"
"Wormwood Scrubs," Mike says.
"Oh, that's brilliant, Mike," Rick says. "Let's let a convict fix the window! What are you gonna do next, put barbed wire on the back fence and start carrying around a big ring of keys?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Mike says. "All the jangling would scare off chicks."
"God, I bet other student houses aren't like this," Rick says. "I bet they bake bread together and drink wine and engage in lively sociopolitical debate. I bet none of their windows ever explode."
"What a load of poncey girly bollocks," Vyvyan sneers.
"People in other student houses actually like each other, Rick," Neil reminds him.
"Yeah, and other houses don't have Vyvyan in them," Mike points out.
Vyvyan looks pleased with himself then, as if being an insane pyromaniac is something to be proud of.
"Mike's right, you know," Neil says. "This is all Vyvyan's fault. No offence, Vyv."
"None taken," Vyvyan says, cheerfully.
"I'm aware whose fault it is, thank you, Neil," Rick says, icily. "I just don't see how bringing in a convicted criminal will make things better, that's all."
"Alright then," Mike says, chucking his cigarette on the ground and grinding it under his heel. "You ring Balowksi and tell him your boyfriend broke the window."
"He is not my boyfriend, Michael!"
"Alright, your main squeeze, your lover, whatever you wanna call him. You tell Balowksi and see what he says. See how much he adds to the monthly debt, you know what I mean?"
God, Rick doesn't half hate Mike sometimes.
"Alright, fine," He says, scowling. "Get your criminal associate to fix it. But I'm telling you, when he steals all of the lead off the roof or - or pilfers all of our valuables, not only will you pay but I'll say the biggest I told you so you've ever ruddy well heard."
"That, I can live with," Mike says.
"Hey, Mike," Vyvyan says, keenly. "What was this bloke in for, anyway? Murder?"
"Who knows, Vyv," Mike says, and goes back indoors.
"Who knows," Rick mimics, sourly. "I bet the judge bloody knows. I bet his victims know."
"He might've just evaded his taxes," Neil says. "Or done nothing at all. The justice system's totally corrupt, man, everyone knows that."
"Shut up, hippy," Rick snaps. "I wasn't talking to you. In fact, from now on, it's safe to assume I'm never talking to you, alright?"
"Oh, Rick," Neil says, glumly. "I said I was sorry, like, five thousand times."
"Well, it's not good enough," Rick says. "You completely ruined my parents' visit-"
"I did not!"
"-and my life, actually, with your big mouth."
"I'm sorry, Rick."
"Apology not accepted," Rick says, throwing his fag-end on the ground. "And I hope you die a very painful death very very soon."
With that, he makes his self-righteous exit by crunching through all of the broken glass on his way to the back door, then sloping off up to his room to be anywhere that Neil isn't.
If Rick's honest with himself, he has to admit that Neil isn't the sole source of his ire. Not that he's about to tell him that, though, because it was the stupid hippy's big mouth that had ruined Rick's parents' visit.
Thanks to Neil, Rick had spent hours fielding questions about Vyvyan. Vyvyan this and Vyvyan that, Rick's girlfriend Vyvyan, who absolutely was a girl and not some spotty unwashed lunatic who only yesterday had come home from college with a lamppost strapped to the roof of his stupid car.
Because Neil had just had to make that comment, hadn't he, about snogging Vyvyan? He couldn't keep his gob shut for one bloody second, whether that was droning on about lentils or how difficult his stupid life is or this. Rick's snogging Vyvyan, and also I'm a twat and I smell utterly dreadful, is what Neil should've said, in the spirit of full disclosure.
But despite all of that, it isn't the only thing rolling around and around in Rick's head like a pinball machine. It's everything - it's the way Vyv had dragged him outside the other day and borderline kissed him on the cheek, in a way that was so uncharacteristically sweet as to be actually insane. Rick had been left stumbling back indoors, red-faced, Neil and Mike's usual nonsense washing over him without leaving a jot of an impression behind.
What's Vyvyan thinking, treating Rick like that? Like a bloody girlfriend? He'd promised, actually ruddy well promised, that Rick wasn't his girlfriend, even after - even after, you know. The shagging.
Which was another mistake, Rick thinks, dry-mouthed. It was bad enough before, not being able to focus on anything with the sure and certain knowledge that Vyv was surely moments away from twatting him with a plant pot. Then there was the snogging, and that was bad enough, and now - now Rick doesn't know whether he's coming or going.
Well, actually, he does know - he's coming, more often than not, and the thing is that Vyvyan's always there as well.
It just feels like everything's getting away from him, gathering more and more momentum, 'til he's got no hope in hell of catching up. Add onto that Neil basically telling his parents that he has a girlfriend and, well - he deserves a good bollocking, he really does. Rick isn't ever going to forgive him.
He ends up pacing up and down in his bedroom, brimming with self-righteous fury. Even this place isn't an escape anymore, it's so cluttered with odds and ends of Vyvyan's. It feels like wherever he looks there's something else - a dog-eared notebook full of Vyv's spiky scrawl, weird studded things he's taken off and just abandoned. There's even a sock or two, which is tantamount to a murder attempt. The second one of them moves, Rick's actually beating it to death, vegetarianism be damned.
There's a roll-up on the windowsill, leaking stringy tobacco crumbs. It's some pathetic matchstick of a thing of Vyvyan's. It has to be Vyvyan's because Rick has yet to get the hang of rolling a fag, much to Vyv's amusement.
Not that Rick is particularly inclined to learn when he can just let Vyvyan do it for him, hotly fascinated by the nimble movements of his fingers and the tantalising flash of his tongue when he's sealing the paper.
Rick stops to light the tiny fag, even though it's so small he may aswell not have bothered. He may aswell move to outer Mongolia, really. He may aswell-
Vyvyan bursts into the room with irritating presumptuousness, shutting the door behind him.
"Who pissed in your cornflakes, then?"
"Oh, get knotted, Vyvyan," Rick snarls. "What's this? Are you the hippy defence squad now?"
"No," Vyvyan scoffs. "Christ, what are you smoking, you girl."
"It's your bloody roll-up, actually!"
"Got about one puff in it," Vyvyan says, sticking a proper fag in his own mouth. Rick watches him light it, watches the line of his eyelashes, the way he pouts around the filter. Just to be an arse, he doesn't move when Vyvyan offers him the cigarette a moment later.
"Maybe I don't want your spit, have you ever thought of that?"
"News to me," Vyvyan says, and just keeps holding the fag out, smoking away. Rick takes it just to get him to bugger off.
"If you've just come to annoy me you can blimmin' well piss off, alright? I'm not in the mood."
Vyvyan doesn't even dignify that with an answer, being the very picture of ignorance that he is. Even more annoying than that, he sits down on the bed.
Irritated though he is, Rick's eyes catch helplessly on the way Vyv moves, his stupid hair and distracting hands. This is the thing, alright, this is the problem. He used to be able to be in a room with Vyvyan without feeling like his throat was crammed full of pointy rocks. Now he's gone soft and pathetic, rendered mute by the twitch of an eyebrow or the huff of breath.
Perhaps it'll fade, one day. Perhaps he won't be bothered. The longer it goes on the more Rick feels like he might be losing his mind.
"Neil is a twat, alright," Vyvyan says, oblivious to Rick's inner turmoil. "Obviously. And you're well within your rights to hate the stupid bastard, because I do too. We all do. But it didn't do any harm, did it, what he said? To your parents?"
"Since when do you care about my parents?" Rick sneers. "Have you decided I am your girlfriend after all? Which isn't only offensive to me but also I suspect vaguely misogynistic and a bit bloody poofy as well."
Vyvyan flicks the vs at him.
"Oh, bravo, Vyvyan," Rick says. "That's just the sort of hard-hitting rhetoric we need in today's society. Tell me, when is your appearance on Question Time?"
"If you don't stop being such a dickhead I'm gonna smash your teeth in," Vyvyan says, mildly. He pauses, quiet for a moment, picking away at a loose thread on Rick's duvet cover. "You've not said anything about them visiting. And far be it for me to give a shit, 'cause I don't, but there isn't a single topic on earth you're not willing to go on about for at least forty minutes."
Rick's mouth falls open in outrage.
"That's not-!"
Vyvyan raises a finger, talking loudly over him.
"So I'm thinking, right, that's weird. For you. So something must've happened that you've not mentioned."
"Ooh-hoo, it's like Sherlock Holmes is in the room," Rick says.
Vyvyan just looks at him. There's something weirdly snakelike and predatory about his stare, but not in the exciting and saucy way - this is just quiet and calculating. Rick looks back for a moment, blinking rapidly, feeling like an idiot.
"Nothing happened," He says, eventually, his voice a little strained.
"So, what? You're just being more of a twat than usual as part of some new hobby, is that it?"
"I am not being a twat, Vyvyan," Rick says, loudly.
"You are," Vyvyan says, stubbornly. He pauses. "Mike said your mum and dad thought I was a girl."
Rick swallows.
"They did," He says. "But I'd really rather not talk about it."
"Well I really rather would, you ponce," Vyvyan says. He pauses. "Mike said he told them I had cracking jugs."
"Oh, Mike said, Mike said," Rick says. "Why don't you go and ask Mike what happened, since he clearly knows all about it." He pauses. "As a matter of fact, yes he did tell them you had nice breasts. Which was completely ridiculous and unhelpful, not to mention sexist."
"I don't mind," Vyvyan says, squishing away at his chest in an unbearably self-satisfied sort of way. "So that's it, then, they thought I was a girl."
"Well, yes," Rick says. "But it's hardly ideal, is it?"
Vyvyan shrugs.
"I'm not bothered."
"Of course you're not," Rick snipes. "Not when your hypothetical jugs are the wonder of the modern world."
"Well, you've never had any complaints."
"Vyvyan, I'm being serious."
"So am I!"
"I just don't see the point in you joking around when I'm trying to give you a straight answer-"
"No such bloody thing as a straight answer where you're concerned, is there?" Vyvyan says.
Rick rounds on him then, well and truly incensed.
"Oh, just piss off, alright? Piss off. You're an arsehole and I hate you. If the amount that I hated you could be concentrated into a laser beam it'd be powerful enough to vaporise your stupid head and half the ruddy planet as well."
"Poof," Vyvyan says, which is what counts for a witty riposte as far as he's concerned.
God, Rick truly loathes him, he really does. Unfortunately his hatred for Vyvyan is won out by his inability to let a subject lie. It feels like the whole business with his parents has been squatting in the back of his throat, and when he opens his mouth it just comes out whether he wants it to or not.
"My parents thought I was a poof, alright," He says, in a rush. "Which I'm not. And I thought they'd mostly forgotten about it, but then - then big gob Neil says oh, Rick's snogging Vyvyan, and now they think you're a girl with breasts and - and that's it," He finishes, lamely.
Vyvyan seems to absorb this for a moment.
"So you're bothered 'cause your parents don't think you're a poof anymore," He says, slowly.
"Yes," Rick says. Then, realising that's not quite right, he frowns. "No."
"You want your parents to think you're a poof."
"No."
"Then what's the problem?"
Rick huffs out an irritated breath.
"You're not actually a girl, are you?" He says, with the air of someone explaining something to someone exceptionally stupid.
"No," Vyvyan concedes. "You wouldn't fancy me if I was."
"Oh, just get out, will you? Go on, get out. All you ever do is take the piss-!"
"I'm not taking the piss! I just said you fancy me 'cause I'm a bloke, what's wrong with that?"
"Maybe I don't fancy you at all, actually," Rick hisses. "Maybe I hope you get crushed to death by a piano falling from the sky! You and that stupid hippy!"
It's honestly a shock when this doesn't start a fight. Vyvyan just looks at him. There's something horribly knowing about his gaze, which is ridiculous considering Rick knows for a fact that Vyv is about as perceptive as a glob of mould.
"I don't get it," He says, eventually.
"Well that's hardly surprising, is it?" Rick sneers. "You could fill an encyclopedia with all the stuff you don't get."
Vyvyan aims a half-hearted kick in his direction.
"Prick," He says. "So you don't want your mum and dad to know you're a poof-"
"I am not a poof, Vyvyan-!"
"But you're annoyed with Neil because now they think I'm a bird. So they think you're not a poof. And that's bad?"
"It's a lie, Vyvyan."
"Right," Vyvyan says, as though he's waiting for Rick to say something else. When Rick doesn't, choosing to gnaw on his thumbnail instead, Vyvyan continues. "Well you cleaning the lavvy was a lie as well. And flattening your hair, and wearing that horrible perfume that smelt like a tart's boudoir."
"That was cologne, you philistine."
"Whatever. All of that was a lie. You being this flat haired non-smoking neat and tidy ponce, none of that was true."
"That's different."
"How?"
"It just is, alright?" Rick says, vehemently.
He can't explain, not to Vyvyan. He can't explain how his mum's palpable relief at him having a girlfriend had been like a presence in the room, looming over Rick's shoulder and breathing down his neck. Thank God you're not queer, his mum hadn't said, but she may aswell have bloody done, the way she'd gone on about it.
She'd been sat exactly where Vyvyan is now, daddy having taken Mike and a bemused Neil off to look at his new car. There had just been mummy, not a hair out of place, looking completely wrong on his clean-but-rumpled bedsheets. Rick had felt sick to his stomach, like the pair of them were intruding on a crime scene. There ought to have been a chalk outline of Vyvyan on the sheets, sprawled out selfishly, his presence blatantly obvious even in his absence.
She'd asked about Vyvyan. She'd said she was proud of Rick. She hadn't outright said she was proud because of the whole girlfriend thing but the correlation was obvious.
Then she'd started blathering on about his marks, again, as usual. Every word had felt like a dead weight on his shoulders, crushing him down into nothing.
"I'm not a poof, alright," He ends up saying to Vyvyan. "But I'm not - you know, right, you know." And he gestures vaguely at Vyvyan. "She was so proud of me for having a girlfriend and it's not even true."
"They don't have to know that."
"It doesn't matter what they do or don't know, Vyvyan, it's what I know. And I know mummy was pretty bloody chuffed thinking her precious boy might actually be normal after all."
Vyvyan huffs out a long breath, expression oddly thoughtful. When he beckons Rick over with a jerk of his head, Rick is irresistibly reminded of the conversation with his mum in this exact same place.
Except this is horrible smelly Vyvyan, who moves along to make room for Rick before shuffling in too close. He doesn't try and distract Rick with a snog, which would be bizarre enough on it's own. What's weirder is the way Vyv sort of rests against Rick in some weird not-hug situation, breath comfortingly warm on his neck.
"I wouldn't worry about it," Vyvyan says, sort of butting Rick's shoulder with his forehead.
"Oh, you wouldn't, would you?"
"Nah. There's no way she ever thought you were normal to begin with."
Rick could turn and shove him, or slap him around the back of the head. He could do any number of things other than what he actually does, which is leaning into Vyv a bit, the two of them not looking at each other, not acknowledging. Rick could be alone in the room, in fact, just sitting there smoking, were it not for the warmth and pressure and knowledge of Vyvyan, breathing loud as a clock-tick in the quiet.
It's soothing, being with Vyvyan without them trying to shag or kill one another. It's companionable. Rick would never voice this, and he's fairly certain Vyvyan wouldn't either, but he likes it.
Probably means he's completely and utterly doomed, he thinks, later, lying sprawled out on his bed. Vyvyan's long since buggered off somewhere, but Rick can still smell him all around in a way that could be romantic if Vyv really was some flowery girlie and not his own depressingly dreadful self.
Even so, Rick breathes deep, safe and unobserved. You know what, mummy, he says, in some imaginary chat with her. I'm not a full poof, I don't think, but you know my girlfriend Vyvyan? Well she's actually a bloke. And he's not my girlfriend, or my boyfriend either, he's a bloody nuisance and an irritant and -
And he'd kissed Rick on the head. Not now, not today - before, after his parents had left. Rick had drunk too much wine, and he doesn't even like wine. His parents know he doesn't like wine and they'd brought it for him anyway, which is just bloody typical, really.
One glass had softened the edges of everything, so Rick had poured another, then another. The more he drank the more it dulled the ache of the look in his mum's eyes, 'til the whole day could've been something that had happened to someone else entirely.
Rick remembers Neil showing up and irritating him to no end, clicking his fingers right in front of Rick's eyes whenever he tried to close them, like being drunk is anything like having a concussion. Rick vaguely, dimly remembers Vyvyan coming home, but less as a clear recollection and more of a feeling - the rightness of Vyvyan being there, the furrow of his brow and the uncharacteristic softness of his hands.
Rick remembers being upset. He thinks he remembers crying.
He thinks he remembers - no, is certain he remembers - Vyvyan kissing him on the forehead. He's so sure he does, so certain of the touch of wetness on his skin, the brush of damp lips. But he can't have, can he? Not Vyv.
Now, thinking back on it, surrounded by the smell of Vyvyan in his absence, Rick rubs at his forehead. It's as if he can somehow awaken the memory of it, of such a tender thing given by one as untender as Vyvyan.
-
The next day, Rick decides to turn over a new leaf.
His parents want an academic son with a girlfriend. Rick isn't gonna do anything completely mad and try and seduce some girl - which he ruddy well could if he put his mind to it, make no mistake. But there's Vyvyan, and - and it's not important. Regardless, Rick can't fix the girlfriend part of the equation.
What he can fix is his attitude to his studies. It's swotty and pathetic and completely antithetical to his poetic soul, but perhaps where his parents are concerned it might fill in the gap where his heterosexuality unfortunately isn't. Not that Rick's gay, but still. He has to concede to being at least a little bit poofy where Vyvyan's concerned. Anyway, that's irrelevant. His parents are desperate for a horrible swotty son, so they'll blimmin' well get one.
Which means that Rick starts Tuesday as he means to go on, focused entirely on his studies. He hasn't even eaten yet, not that he's in the mood for lentil custard or chickpea cakes or whatever terrible concoction Neil might pass off as food today - but that just shows his dedication to the cause!
Rick sits up in bed and diligently reads a handout for his Thursday seminar - days and days early! Normally he doesn't bother, keeping his head down in class and hoping against hope that he doesn't get asked any questions. Not this week, matey! This week he's the new and improved academically-minded Rick, and all of those horrible squares at college had better watch out.
The only fly in the ointment is the fact that he doesn't currently have the luxury of being alone. Vyvyan, of course, is crammed into bed next to him, his face buried in a pillow. As if Rick wasn't already consumed with thoughts of a fried egg sandwich, his stomach grumbling away, he now has to contend with thoughts about Vyvyan as well, which are hardly conducive to a focused reading environment.
Rick tries and tries again to read the words on the page in front of him. He feels like they're squirming before his eyes, kaleidoscoping into images of Vyvyan and the freckles on his shoulders, the peaceful slouch of him, loose and lax in sleep in a way that he almost never is when he's awake.
Rick thinks longingly of a time when he could go about his day without being bothered by Vyvyan. Then he realises that actually, pre-snog, pre-shag, pre-whatever, Vyvyan was still making his life a living hell, just in a completely different way.
Perhaps, grudgingly, Rick has to admit that it's better like this. Nine times out of ten Vyvyan doesn't even try to kill him anymore. Well, seven times out of ten, maybe. Well, eight. Alright, truthfully the only real difference is that Vyv's more likely to get distracted from the killing Rick of it all and try and snog him instead, which is still pretty bloody lovely.
But in spite of all of that, it's simply not on for Vyvyan to sleep in his bed like this when Rick's trying to enter a new phase of his life. He wants to be more mindful and drink more black coffee and say interesting things about Giddens and Marx while smoking cocktail cigarettes. How can he possibly do that when he can't even read a simple article? How can he do anything at all when Vyvyan's warm next to him, with his shoulders and his pale arms and his sleep-crushed hair? God, Rick hates him.
Vyvyan drives him to his Thursday seminar, more often than not. They squabble over the radio and have slap fights at traffic lights and sometimes Rick pauses before he gets out of the car, straightening his badges, and Vyvyan will lean in, all stale fag breath and Rick's roll-on deodorant, the thieving bastard, and kiss him goodbye.
It's sweet, maybe. Rick could never say so without fear of getting clobbered, but it's sweet.
Not that any of that makes up for right now, of course. Rick is much too aware of Vyvyan's skin, the memory of softness making his fingers twitch with longing. All he wants to do is launch this stupid handout across the room and touch him.
"Vyvyan," He says, instead. When Vyvyan doesn't wake up, Rick jabs at him with his bent knee. "Vyvyan, wake up."
Vyvyan groans, the sound muffled by the pillow. He makes a vague noise which is most likely piss off.
"Vyvyan," Rick repeats, undeterred. "Can you at least put a shirt on?"
Vyvyan doesn't even move, the bastard. All Rick can see is his stupid flat hair. He looks absolutely ridiculous.
"You put a shirt on," Vyvyan mumbles. Then, after a moment's thought, he adds, "Poof."
Rick scoffs.
"I'm wearing a shirt, I think you'll find. Well, a vest. It doesn't matter. I'm wearing something, because I'm a respectable member of society."
"Thought you were an anarchist?"
Rick splutters a little at that.
"That is besides the point, Vyvyan. I don't know how I'm meant to get anything done with you lying there all…exposed. It's appalling, and I won't stand for it."
Vyvyan shifts about, then, revealing the bridge of his nose and the shell of his ear, his face all screwed up.
"Piss off," He says, hoarsely. "If you didn't want me to be all exposed you shouldn't have ripped my shirt off in the first place, should you?"
"I didn't rip your shirt off," Rick scoffs, suddenly feeling very hot indeed.
"Did."
"Did not! Anyway, I've folded it since then."
"Well hoo-bloody-ray for you," Vyvyan says, sleepily. "Your medal's in the post. Now shut up before I punch you in the knob."
He turns onto his side, curling into Rick a little. His arm and the back of his hand burn hot through Rick's pyjamas.
Swallowing, hard, Rick does his level best to read at least something. Vyvyan, unfeeling as ever, huffs out a breath. Rick swears he can feel it on his thigh, goosebumps erupting all down his arms.
"You could sleep in your own bed, you know," He points out, valiantly.
"Can't. SPG was sick in it," Vyvyan says. "Well, not sick, 'cause hamsters can't be sick. What I mean is he spewed a load of veg and hamster pellets from his cheek pouches right onto my pillow, the horrible little bastard. I'm best off sleeping in here 'til he's sorted it out."
"And how long is that likely to take?"
"Dunno. He plays by his own rules."
"He's a hamster, Vyvyan."
"I know that, bum breath! Now shut up!"
Rick squirms a little, just because it's his bed and if he wants to shift about a bit to get comfy then he bloody well can, and Vyvyan can swivel.
Except Vyv's still mostly naked, isn't he, and now Rick can see the line of his mouth and nose and the strange softness of his eyelashes.
"Vyvyan," He says, the word coming out with a crack in the middle of it. He clears his throat, mortified. "Vyvyan, can you put a shirt on if you're so insistent on staying?"
"Rick," Vyvyan says, in the measured tone of one about to mete out extreme violence. "If you don't shut up and let me sleep I'm gonna smash your teeth in."
"Vyvyan-!"
"It's not my fault you've got a stiffy just 'cause I'm here."
"I do not have a stiffy," Rick says, which is half-true at least. "If you must know, Vyvyan, you've got a horrid great blackhead on your back. Ruddy massive, it is. Like a big eye, watching me. It's completely revolting, and I can't concentrate while I can see it."
"So don't look at it," Vyvyan says, without even bothering to open his eyes. "Or better yet, shut your face."
"This is my bedroom," Rick reminds him. "It's not my fault SPG's thrown up in your bed-"
"He hasn't thrown up, alright, hamsters can't throw up-"
"-and I just think I should be able to do some very important work for a very important class-"
"You don't give two shits about the class!"
"Without having to look at you, if that's at all possible."
Vyvyan squirms, finally cracking an eye open to glare at him. Rick feels like he should've known what was coming then, but maybe they've been spending too much time together. As it is he's completely blindsided when Vyvyan snatches the handout off him and launches it across the room, pages flapping like wings.
That starts a fight, of course. Rick slaps Vyvyan, and Vyvyan promptly rolls over and thumps him, which leads to Rick finding the tender skin near his armpit and giving it a ruddy good pinch 'til he howls, then-
Then Vyvyan's clambering on top of Rick and giving him such a thorough snog that he momentarily forgets how to breathe. Rick's helpless to do anything but cling onto Vvyyan with the air of someone trying to ride out a tidal wave. He could drown in the desperation he feels, a feeling he'll take to the grave, touching and grabbing at as much of Vyv as he possibly can.
"Knew that's what you were after," Vyvyan says, breathlessly smug, a wonderful dreadful weight on top of Rick, their limbs all tangled together.
"Oh, shut up," Rick says, weakly, and kisses him.
-
Later on, the house is eerily quiet. Vyvyan pissed off to go into college, which Rick ordinarily would've ribbed him for if he wasn't entering his new mature, academic phase. He'd settled for a goodbye snog in the bathroom instead, with Neil scratching sadly at the door like an annoying cat, blathering on about needing the toilet. Neil's disappeared since, and Mike's off somewhere doing something delinquent, no doubt. Rick decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet to bring his reading downstairs. His Thursday seminar handout is now somewhat dog-eared after Vyvyan's attack, and no easier to get through without distraction. He sets it on the floor and thumbs open the book he's been meaning to read, one that Doctor Morrison had recommended in their last lecture.
Rick's man enough to admit, privately and to himself only, that pre-Vyvyan he did sort of have a thing for Doctor Morrison. It was just a teeny tiny little thing, not poofy at all, just a bit of hero worship. Completely understandable and normal and above board, actually.
It's not the same now, not even a little bit. Despite the distinct unpoofiness of Rick's admiration, some of the shine had worn off in the wake of Vyvyan's - well, in the wake of Vyvyan. That doesn't mean that Rick wants to pass up the opportunity to debut his new well-read and intelligent persona during his next class.
The book in question is about class structure and the industrial revolution and is actually really ruddy interesting and not a complete snoozefest at all. The last time Rick had tried to read it he'd been resting his eyes for a moment when Vyvyan had appeared out of nowhere. He'd leant over the back of the sofa, dug his chin right into Rick's shoulder and blown a wet raspberry in his ear.
"Page three," He'd noted with satisfaction. "Ha!"
"Oh, yes, Vyvyan," Rick says. "I suppose you find the objectification of women pretty bloody amusing, don't you? Well, I don't. As a feminist I am completely opposed to misogyny of any kind. So if you don't mind buggering off, I'm trying to read. Thank you."
"Looks really boring."
Rick scoffs at that.
"Just because you're completely averse to intellectual activity…"
"I don't call reading some boring old book just 'cause some boring old ponce recommended it intellectual activity. I call that being a ginormous poof."
"Some of us came to university to learn, you know."
Vyvyan had cuffed him 'round the back of the head at that.
"Come on, then," He'd said. "What exactly have you learned in that nonce's class?"
Rick had looked around fearfully then, as though Morrison could somehow be lurking within earshot.
"You can't just call someone a nonce, Vyvyan."
"Yeah, I can," Vyvyan had said. "I saw him down the Kebab the other day, right, with some bird-"
"Sexist!"
"-who was young enough to be his daughter. Slobbering, he was. Is that what it says in there?" Vyv had leant over the back of the sofa again at that, huffing hot annoying breath right in Rick's ear in his attempt to peer at the book. "How to perv on students? Or is that on page five?"
"Vyvyan!"
Vyvyan dodged Rick's flapping hand with ease, straightening up all of a sudden. When Rick had looked up at him his expression had become strangely thoughtful.
"Is that what you're reading this for?" He'd asked, slowly. "'Cause you want him to slobber on you?"
"No!" Rick had scoffed. When Vyvyan's eyes had stayed sort of hard and dangerous, he'd repeated himself. "No, Vyvyan." He'd gulped, hoping Mike and Neil weren't anywhere nearby, and added, very quietly, "You're the only one who gets to slobber on me, alright? You bastard."
Vyvyan had nodded at that, apparently satisfied. Rick had though that maybe they might kiss - maybe it'd be sweet and perhaps a bit saucy - and then Vyvyan had leant in close and stuck his tongue right in Rick's ear.
"Your earwax is disgusting," Vyvyan had said, conversationally, after Rick had finished screeching and slapping at whatever parts of Vyvyan he could reach. "Enjoy your book, poof."
And Rick is enjoying it, that's for sure. He's learning so much and he's being entertained at the same time, and it has nothing to do with seducing students or being a nonce, no matter what Vyvyan might say. He's just getting stuck into a really thrilling paragraph about cotton mills when Neil slopes into the drawing room.
He freezes when he spots Rick on the sofa, looking like every bad thing that could happen to a person has just happened to him fifteen times over.
Rick stares hard at the book in his hands. Not for the first time, he wishes he could explode Neil's head with his mind, like Vyvyan and the bloody kitchen window.
Alas, Neil's head remains deeply unexploded. Not only that, he has the audacity to amble over to the sofa and loom over Rick, casting an ominous shadow on the pages of his book.
"I'm reading," Rick says.
"Can you stop for a second? I want to talk to you."
"No," Rick says, without looking up. "I don't want to talk to you, ever, Neil, and I don't want you to talk to me. In fact, don't even think about me at all. If you have so much as one thought about me I'll make you wish you'd never been born."
"I already wish that quite a lot, actually," Neil says, folornly.
"Neil," Rick says, in a tone of forced calm. "Go away."
Of course, the stupid hippy doesn't go away. Worse even than that, he's lingering, wringing his hands and breathing. It's just typical of Neil, really, to go on being alive in the most infuriating way possible when Rick's trying to concentrate.
"Rick."
"I said go away, hippy!"
"I just wanted to say sorry again, right," Neil says. "Which makes it the five thousand and second time I've apologised, which is quite a lot, right, and shows how sorry I am, even though you've only ever been horrible to me from the moment I first met you."
Rick huffs out a sigh, like he hasn't heard a word, and turns a page in the book.
"Rick?" Neil says. "I said I'm sorry, right? Look, five thousand and three." When Rick doesn't respond, he continues. "For saying that stuff about you snogging Vyvyan." Rick stays quiet, staring so hard at the page he's surprised he's not burning a hole in the paper. "To your parents, I mean. Rick, can you hear me?"
"Of course I can bloody well hear you!" Rick yells. "You're droning on right by my ear, you idiot!"
"Well you weren't answering me."
"Because for the millionth time I'm not talking to you, Neil! Now piss off!"
Neil stays quiet for the grand total of thirty seconds.
"The thing is, Rick, I didn't mean to say it. It just, like, slipped out, you know, by accident. And I am sorry." When Rick doesn't answer, Neil huffs out an irritated breath. "Don't forget that I stayed up really late making sure you didn't choke on your own vomit, and that was difficult for me on account of the fact that I had a really bad headache at the time so I wasn't feeling too good - at all, actually - and also you're quite an annoying person. I didn't have to help you, right, but I did, and I think that makes up for what I said, and probably, like, saved your life, if you think about it. So you're welcome."
Rick hits him with the book. It isn't even a hardback or anything, but Neil still acts like he's been stabbed, clutching at his arm reproachfully.
"Oh, right, sure, Rick," He's saying when the front door opens and Vyvyan stomps in from outside, shaking rain off himself like a wet dog. "Be like that, that's fine. I was only being nice, right, and considerate, which is way more than you deserve."
"You tell him, Neil," Vyvyan says, hitting Rick's legs 'til he moves them so he can plonk himself down on the sofa next to him. "In fact, better yet, knock his block off."
Rick slaps his shoulder. Vyvyan just grins at him, all teeth, like some horrible great stinking shark.
"I'm not going to sink to his level, actually, Vyvyan," Neil says, before sloping off upstairs with his nose in the air.
"You couldn't sink to my level anyway, Neil," Rick shouts after him. "On account of the fact that your level is already the lowest it's possible to be on. Lower than hell. It's just you and Hitler down on your level, hippy!"
It takes him a moment to realise that Vyvyan's just looking at him, like some weird pervy, his eyes strangely bright. Rick gulps and wonders if he has something on his face.
"Give us a snog," Vyvyan says.
"I will not," Rick scoffs. "Knock his block off, Neil. You're an arsehole, you know that?"
"Yeah," Vyvyan says, with an unconcerned shrug. "Give us a snog anyway."
"I'm reading, Vyvyan."
"Oh? Page four, is it?"
"No," Rick says, quickly closing the book so Vyvyan can't see where he's up to.
"What's all this reading crap about, anyway? You never normally bother."
"I do so!"
"You do not."
"I read all the time, actually, Vyvyan."
"And get bloody nowhere, unless it's a nudey mag," Vyvyan says. "Know how I know?"
Rick glares at him.
"I'm sure you're intent on enlightening me," He says.
"'Cause ages ago I went through a load of your books and I wrote Rick is gay on the back pages and you never even noticed. That's how I know."
"You did what?"
"See, I told you," Vyvyan says, smugly. Rick goes to hit him with the book and Vyvyan snatches it off him and launches it across the room. It hits the wall with a sad slap and a thud.
"You complete and utter bastard, Vyvyan!" Rick says, slapping his arm. "I've lent those books to people, you know!"
"Right," Vyvyan says, slapping him right back. "And now those people know you're a bit poofy. Well, they probably guessed beforehand, to be fair."
"Defacing private property is a crime, you know. I'd like to see how far you get in the medical profession with such a flagrant disregard for the law, Vyvyan."
"Oh, shut up," Vyvyan says. "My point is you don't read, and now you've done nothing else all day. Well, except, you know." And he waggles his eyebrows at that, the reprobate. "Is this about your mum and dad again?"
"No."
"Is it 'cause Mike told them all about my great tits?"
"No, Vyvyan," Rick says, rolling his eyes. "It has nothing to do with your tits, legendary though they may be."
Vyvyan laughs at that. His hand finds it's way onto Rick's knee, a hot and heavy weight. "Here, give us a snog and I'll let you have a feel."
"A feel," Rick repeats, with as much disdain as he can muster in the face of his rapidly weakening resolve. "Of the breasts you don't actually have."
"Yeah," Vyvyan says. "Or are you just that poofy that you don't even care about jugs anymore?"
Inevitably, that starts a fight. It's not a very dignified affair - there's a lot of slapping and screeching involved. Vyvyan yanks one of Rick's pigtails so Rick scrabbles at the front of his t-shirt 'til he finds his nipple to give it a ruddy good twist. Vyvyan lets out this horrible pained noise on an exhale that makes Rick feel all hot and dry-mouthed.
"There you go," Vyvyan breathes, with a grin. "Knew you still liked jugs."
"You're utterly vile, you know," Rick tells him. He's man enough to admit that the way he promptly clambers on top of Vyvyan to snog him might lessen the impact of his words somewhat.
Later, they take refuge in Rick's bedroom.
Neil had come back downstairs and found them snogging. He'd made such a fuss about it you'd think he'd seen actual willies in action. He'd gone on and on about the People's Charter and respect for your housemates and everyone has to sit there, you know, and I just don't think it's, like, very fair, man, and a bunch of other borderline fascist drivel. It had been a relief when Vyvyan had whacked him with the broom handle.
Rick hadn't actually expected Vyvyan to follow him into his room. In fact, Rick had turned to say something to him on the landing and Vyv had just presumptuously let himself in and flopped down on the bed.
Once again, Rick is revisited by the memory of his mum sitting there asking about Vyvyan, now replaced with very real not-girl Vyvyan getting his boots all over the sheets and grabbing a comic off the bedside table like he owns the place. Rick ends up relegated to the floor next to the bed, which means Vyv has been periodically knocking him in the back of the head with his knee for the past hour. Rick could move, of course, but this is his bloody room, and it's Vyvyan who should move, or bugger off altogether. Rick settles for giving Vyvyan a whack every time he knocks him, trying to focus on the magazine he's reading instead.
"There's a show tonight," Vyvyan says, eventually.
"Well la-di-da," Rick says, without looking up. "What is it? A Shakespearean tragedy, perhaps? Something by Aeschylus?"
"You what?" Vyvyan says. "No, it's a proper show, with music. A gig. And I'm gonna go, so I might be back late."
"How unbelievably thrilling," Rick says, dryly. "Well, you can just go and sleep in your own bed afterwards, matey. The last thing I need is you bursting in here at two am doing beer burps right in my earhole."
Vyvyan just knocks him with his knee again. It's only when he falls suspiciously quiet that Rick eventually looks around, frowning, to find Vyvyan looking right back at him.
"What?" Rick asks.
Vyvyan shrugs.
"You could come with me, if you want," He says, like it's nothing at all, more focused on picking dirt out from under his fingernails.
"Oh, don't strain yourself," Rick sneers.
Vyvyan looks at him then, apparently baffled.
"You what?"
But Rick is already feeling self-righteously irritated, his pride wounded at such a lacklustre invitation. He can come along if he wants! As though Rick spends all of his time absolutely clamouring to be with Vyvyan, as though he's constantly caught up in thoughts about the stupid spotty squirt, as though when they're not together he mulls over conversations or fights they've had or the feel of him-
Alright, so maybe there's the tiniest weeniest little grain of truth in all of that. But that doesn't mean it's alright for Vyvyan to act so - so casual about it, as though he doesn't care whether Rick's with him or not.
"Oh, nothing, Vyvyan," He says, snootily. "I think I'm busy tonight, actually. Lots of important reading to do."
"Oh, Jesus Christ…"
"You know, just absorbing vital knowledge, the way we intellectuals do."
"You've spent the last forty minutes reading that poncey article about whether you're a summer or a bloody winter, whatever the absolute piss that means."
Rick flushes at that.
"It's interesting, alright! It's good for the brain, to - to encounter new information, and-"
"Don't try and dress it up, Rick. You're reading a girly magazine because you're a big girly poof."
Rick turns and whacks him with the aforementioned girly magazine.
"Maybe I'd rather stay at home and read my girly magazine than go anywhere with you, Vyvyan. In fact, maybe the thought of going anywhere with you makes me be a little bit sick in my mouth, did you ever think of that?"
"No," Vyvyan says, stubbornly. "Are you gonna come with me or not?"
Rick makes a big show of shaking out the pages of his magazine, squinting a little like he's absolutely invested in the article, even though it could be gibberish for the amount of attention he's paying.
"Rick," Vyvyan says, knocking him with his knee again.
"Oh, are you still here?"
Vyvyan reddens at that, his jaw clenched tight for a moment. Rick fully expects fisticuffs, and braces himself for either hitting back or legging it.
The expected blow doesn't come.
"You're such a twat," Vyvyan says, instead of clobbering him.
Rick swallows, hard, staring with absolute focus at the magazine.
"This show," He says, slowly, turning a page. "Will any of the horrible creatures from your course be there?"
"Dunno," Vyvyan says. "Don't care. Look, last chance. You gonna come with me or what?"
Rick thinks that perhaps if he had more self-control - maybe even more self-respect - he'd turn down this less than glittering invitation. As it is, there's something about Vyvyan's eyes, always, that makes him say yes - albeit with a lot of grumbling and scowling, just to make it clear that he isn't quite so easily won.
Which is how Rick and Vyvyan end up crammed into some sweaty bar in an even sweatier basement. It's the sort of place with sticky floors and damp walls, where you can barely see your hand in front of your face in the fug of cigarette smoke.
"God, look at this," Rick says, when they're safely ensconced at the bar. "A punk rock show. That's pretty blimmin' anti-establishment, isn't it? I bet those squares at the anarchist's society are all sitting in watching telly. But not us!"
Vyvyan reaches over and grabs the back of his neck at that. For one mad, heart-stopping moment, Rick thinks Vyv might try and snog him here - here, where they're surrounded by sweaty leather and vaguely hostile eyes.
Except all Vyvyan does is say, "Don't be an arse, Rick," their foreheads knocking. Then he sticks a fag in Rick's mouth without even asking first.
Rick squirms away so he can light the cigarette himself. To his horror he finds that he can't even be annoyed with Vyvyan for too long. Not because he's pissed - he's sworn off the booze after the other day, even though the look the barman had given him when he'd asked for tap water had been positively scathing. No, it's because Vyvyan is clearly unutterably thrilled to be here, jittering about the place and drumming his fingers on the bar to whatever music they're blaring out before the band come on.
"This is gonna be great," Vyvyan says, his eyes bright. "We'll wait here, right, get suitably pissed - or not, as the case may be."
"Suitably sugared up," Rick says, already vowing to buy a coke on their next round.
"Whatever, yeah, and then when the music starts we can rush in."
"And what?" Rick asks, feeling a little lost. "Hit people?"
"No," Vyvyan scoffs. "You sissy. Just - jump about a bit. Enjoy the music."
"Dance?" Rick asks, somewhat skeptically.
"Well, yeah, I s'pose," Vyvyan says, almost bashful.
Rick's mouth suddenly feels very dry indeed. He thinks again about Vyvyan asking him here, about his studied indifference, the same sort of shield that Rick employs himself from time to time.
"You invited me here to dance?" He asks, slowly. "With you?"
Vyvyan blinks for a moment, apparently lost for words. He's saved from responding when someone shoves into him in their haste to get to the bar, and Vyv turns and shoves right back again. The bloke who'd done the initial shoving - some guy with a safety pin right through his nose, bloody hell - actually apologizes to Vyvyan right away, and Vyvyan accepts without complaint! It's like watching dogs walking on their hind legs.
"They're pretty bloody polite here, aren't they?" Rick says, leaning in so he can speak right into Vyvyan's ear.
"Don't let them hear you say that," Vyvyan says, and gives his hip a squeeze out of nowhere. Rick flashes hot for a moment, feeling like he's been burned. Before he can even parse the sensation, Vyv's downing his drink in one.
He grabs Rick's sleeve, dragging him away from the safety of the bar to the relative unsafety of the dance floor - if that's what this lot would even call it. There are just a lot of people milling around, clothes torn and hair tall, the clink of chains and the sweet smell of hairspray.
It suddenly occurs to Rick to feel out of place, underdressed in his blazer - or perhaps overdressed. Perhaps, despite being certified girl bait in every day situations he might in fact be the square here, which is something of an unbearable thought. He doesn't know if he's imagining the side-eyes and unimpressed looks he's getting.
When he looks over at Vyvyan to mutter something to that effect, he finds he doesn't really care at all.
Vyvyan is visibly buzzing to be here, hopping up and down on the balls of his feet like a particularly manic hare. When he grins at Rick it's more of a baring of teeth, an oddly thrilled grimace. Rick feels a strange warmth about it, even while he's rolling his eyes and pretending not to care.
In the end, the band turn out to be a bunch of people with terrible dress sense who look like they just rolled out of bed. Rick understands that they have a theme going on (and the theme is apparently looking like they fell into a jumble sale), but even so. Rick knows for a fact that Cliff Richard wouldn't be caught dead looking so drab.
Not that anyone else seems to care, of course. In fact, nobody else seems bothered about anything beyond rushing at the stage and whooping.
There's exactly the sort of tidal rush of people that Vyvyan had predicted, a great wave at risk of sweeping them away from one another. Vyvyan grabs hold of Rick's shoulder at first, steadying him, tugging on the cuff of his blazer and probably pulling it all out of shape. When the drumbeat starts it feels like it's pounding in Rick's ribs, a boot kick that he feels high up in his throat, the bass thrumming in his bones. The flood of the crowd becomes some mad whirlpool, buffeting him here and there, and he resolves to just let himself be taken. He's shoved this way and that, sort of jumping about, trying to dance as best he can in the disorder of a rugby scrum.
And Vyvyan's right there next to him, for the most part, yelling along to incomprehensible lyrics and throwing himself about without any regard for his personal safety. At one point Vyv actually gets clocked in the face by a flailing hand and rather than starting a fight he just throws his head back and laughs, face bright and gleaming in the stage lights.
It's mesmerising. He's mesmerising, dreadful though it is for Rick to admit, even to himself. There are several somewhat hairy moments when the two of them get separated and Rick can see Vyvyan popping up above the heads of the crowd like some particularly mad whack-a-mole, just throwing himself about the place.
It sits thick in Rick's throat, how Vyvyan makes him feel at the show. It's fondness, he's realising, with a slow and creeping dread - fondness for the stupid horrible bastard who shoves into him from behind unexpectedly, huffing hot breath into the side of his sweaty neck. Rick laughs at first, forgetting himself, then squirms and pushes him off. He catches the eye of some bloke in the crowd whose gaze is uncomfortably sharp, staring at the two of them over the heads of other people. Just as soon as it's happened it's over, a slow-motion camera flash of a moment. Vyvyan offers him a drag of his fag and encourages him to try to pogo, the mad bastard. If it wasn't for what happens later, Rick would've forgotten all about it.
"Bloody brilliant, wasn't it?" Vyvyan says, afterwards, when they're finally in the cool embrace of the night air. It feels wonderful after the fug of sweat and smoke of the bar and Rick stands for a moment just breathing in great lungfuls of cold air, luxuriating in it.
"It was alright," Rick says, struggling to revert to his usual show of indifference. "Hardly a poetry night, but…"
"Oh, shut up, you girl," Vyvyan says, giving him a shove. Rick stumbles backwards right into someone, and when he turns to vaguely apologize he gets shoved right back, twice as hard.
It's that bloke from before, the bloke from the crowd who'd been looking at them, Rick's sure of it. Rick puts his hands up in surrender, feeling hatefully wimpy, muttering some sort of apology. The bloke just shoves him again, eyes bright and hard.
"Here, piss off," Vyvyan says, getting in between them as easy as anything and squaring up to the bloke. "The only person who hits this poof is me, alright?"
The bloke surveys the two of them, his eyes glittering dangerously. He's with a group of similarly knuckle-dragging looking blokes who are sniggering and nudging each other.
"Go on, then," The bloke says, in the face of this sussuration of approval.
"You what?"
"You're the only one that hits him, hit him."
"Oh, yes," Rick says, finding some of his bravado now that Vyvyan is safely between him and this bastard. "Because we're performing monkeys, is that it? Get knotted, farty breath."
"You hit him or I will," The bloke says, as though Rick hadn't spoken. He takes a dangerous step forwards, right into Vyvyan's personal space.
Vyvyan just surveys him, unblinking and unbothered.
"Get out of my face right now or I'll smash your face in," He says, almost politely.
"Nah," The bloke says. "Don't think I will." He actually prods Vyv in the shoulder, which Rick knows from experience is tantamount to signing his own death warrant. Vyvyan's eyelashes flicker and his jaw pulses with tension, and then the bloke makes everything a hundred times worse. "You say you hit him but you won't. He your boyfriend or what?"
Vyvyan's expression is unreadable. For one mad second when he glances back at Rick, Rick's heart drops, certain he's about to get the shit kicked out of him.
Then, in a move that's almost elegant, Vyvyan smashes his head into the bloke's nose, and chaos erupts all around them.
Rick is dimly aware of the bright flash of blood and a cacophony of yelling. Someone grabs his shoulder from behind and he flails out and hits them, which ruddy well hurts his hand a lot. He gets kneed in the stomach for his trouble and crumples, all of the air choking out of him. Part of him wants to curl up and protect his soft bits, but he's too aware of the whirlwind that is Vyvyan, getting punched in the gob like it's nothing and turning and flooring a bloke with a thump and a kick in the balls. Rick scrambles to his feet, hearing someone shouting something about the police. Vyvyan must've heard too, because he rushes over to Rick, his lip split, and grabs him by the coat collar.
Then they're running, the cool night air a balm on their faces. Rick's knuckles are aching and he thinks he cut his knee when he hit the ground but he feels like he's flying along the pavement, cutting down smelly back alleys and through a deserted car park, only stopping minutes later in the stifling quiet of a sleeping street.
"That was bloody brilliant," Rick manages to wheeze out, after a moment. "Those fascists! Wait 'til the guys at the student union hear about this! A proper fight! Right on!"
Vyvyan just looks at him, expression inscrutable. Rick looks back for a moment, somewhat mesmerised by the rise and fall of his chest, of the fag hanging out of the corner of his bloody mouth. He offers Rick the pack and he takes one with unsteady hands.
They stand there for a little while, the only sound their huffs of breath in the quiet. Vyvyan's slouched against someone's privet hedge, the glow of his fag-end like a star in the gloom, periodically flaring then dying. Rick feels jittery, like he's had twelve coffees, and sort of like he might throw up or start laughing hysterically.
The street they've ended up on is more well-kept than theirs, with neat front gardens and well-trimmed hedges and utterly mad, blissful silence. Back home it feels like there's always someone yelling somewhere - if not Vyvyan or Mike or Neil then someone else, banging and crashing reverberating through the walls, people arguing in the street. It's nothing at all like this. Rick and Vyvyan stand in companionable silence and smoke, their shoulders brushing, the hedge rustling behind them. There's a backdrop of illuminated curtained windows in well-to-do houses, people indoors getting ready for bed or watching telly, those miserable losers, completely unaware that there's a whole life beyond their terribly bourgeois four walls of pure anarchy, of punk shows and loud music and disorder, of getting into fights in the street like proper hard men, of -
Of the look on Vyvyan's face just before he'd headbutted that thug, the flat blankness of his stare, the bizarre beauty, almost, no matter how poofy it is, in the violence of his body.
Rick looks over at Vyv, feeling hot. There's something unbearably unselfconscious about his posture, about his entire being. Vyvyan flexes his hand, wincing, blood dark on his knuckles, before he brings his hand up to his mouth. For one mad second, Rick thinks he's kissing it better, the way Rick's mum used to do when he was little. It takes him a breathless second to realise that he's sucking his knuckles where they're split and bleeding.
For some reason it's this that seems to cut through Rick like a knife. Vyvyan is something of a vision in the dim light, forgotten fag in one hand, soothing his bloodied knuckles with his lips and tongue. Rick has to chuck his own fag-end God knows where and snog him, really, and he doesn't think anybody could blame him under the circumstances.
Vyvyan tastes like smoke and beer and blood, metallic like coins. One hand cradles the back of Rick's head, keeping him close, and Rick's grasping hands find Vyv's waist in the dark, privately obsessed with the hidden softness there. He ends up crowding Vyv into the hedge, the smell of leaves all around them, kissing and kissing him, only pulling back when Vyvyan makes a noise of discomfort right into his mouth.
"What-?"
"My lip, you bastard," Vyvyan says. "Hurts."
But he hauls Rick in for another snog anyway, like it doesn't matter a bit.
Time has yet to dull the sharpness of the feelings Vyvyan awakes in Rick, a lethal knife-blade of wanting, deadly enough to slice him wide open. It's utterly mad, seriously terrifying, the way Rick wants him all the bloody time, how much even just snogging Vyvyan drives him completely barmy, needing to grab and hold, needing to be close, even if it hurts.
It's the line of his jaw and the strength of his shoulders and arms and the way he sneers, like he's so much better than everyone else.
Rick hates that about him.
Rick hates that he doesn't hate that about him.
His useless fumbling fingers scrabble at Vyvyan's belt, unfastening it with a clink. Vyvyan's mouth drags along his cheekbone, then the shell of his ear, making Rick shudder.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting in your pants, bumwipe, what d'you think I'm doing?" Rick snipes. Vyv's belt might have been easily conquered but his jeans aren't cooperating in the slightest. The material's all stiff, and it's on the tip of Rick's tongue to make a really great joke about other things that are stiff, but then Vyvyan kisses him, bloody bastard spoilsport, and he loses his train of thought.
"We're outside someone's house, you daft prat," Vyvyan says, hoarsely, a moment later, his exhale as hot as a brand against Rick's mouth.
Rick wants to say, so bloody what? He wants to point out that as an anarchist getting his hands on Vyv's willy right ruddy now, hypothetical watchful eyes through curtains be damned, is exactly the sort of thing he should be doing with his Friday night. He wants to see the stupid pained look on Vyvyan's face that he gets when he forgets himself.
Rick wants so much that he feels like he might bloody well pop like some horrible manky old boil. His hands are still at Vyvyan's button and fly, stubbornly sealed against him.
Gently, Vyvyan eases Rick's hands away, fingers tight at his wrists for a moment. He softens the blow of rejection with a kiss, then another, then another, shoving Rick back into the hedge 'til there's a twig poking him right in the back of his head. Rick grumbles right into Vyvyan's mouth, grappling with him 'til it's Vyv getting attacked by twigs, cornered in the hedge. The brief flash of Vyvyan's closed eyes Rick gets before he crushes their mouths back together cuts him deeper than any knife ever could.
He's just thinking that they might be back on again after all when Vyvyan pulls back and gives him this little shove backwards, sending him tottering off the curb, swearing under his breath. He's about to give Vyvyan a piece of mind, he really is, but then he grabs hold of Rick's arm like it's a threat and starts all but frogmarching him through the mercifully quiet streets towards home.
They're oddly silent on the walk, the pair of them in some quiet agreement, walking quickly and getting faster and faster, like they're still fleeing the fight.
It's when they get home, hurrying down the path and up the front steps, that it's like a dam bursting. They spill through the front door in a rush, Vyvyan kicking it shut again behind them before grabbing Rick by the lapels. He pulls him in for a snog the exact same way he headbutted that bloke, with absolute single-minded determination. Rick pulls and pushes at Vyvyan's stupid vest, fingers catching on studs and buttons, choking on desperation. Vyvyan grabs his bottom and squeezes, pretty bloody hard actually, and if Rick had the presence of mind he'd slap him away and sneer something about not being a piece of meat. As it is he arches close and gasps and-
"Oh no," Neil says.
They break apart, all spit strings and gasping breaths, Neil's stupid hippy drone as effective as a bucket of cold water.
"Neil," Vyvyan says, in a tone of forced calm, letting Rick go so suddenly that he stumbles. "Piss off."
"Oh, that's really great, Vyvyan," Neil says, scowling at the pair of them. "Listen, I know it's not actually in the Charter, right, but I don't think you two should, you know, downstairs, and I think Mike would agree with me actually."
"Oh," Rick says, moving far enough away from Vyvyan that he can think again. "Homophobia, is it, hippy? Typical fascist attitude. Peace and love! Yeah, except when things get a bit poofy, is that right?"
"No," Neil says, defensively. "I just don't want to see you guys getting it on, that's all."
"Getting it on? Oooh, hark at Mary Whitehouse!" Rick says. "You're so hypocritical, Neil. Clutching your pearls about a harmless snog like you didn't show your entire shaft to the neighbours the other day."
"You know I was covered up, Rick," Neil says. "And that's not the same thing at all, I was communing with nature, it was totally innocent!"
"Ha!" Rick says. "I don't call putting your bare bottom all over the grass innocent, Neil. I bet it'll all die now. Not very vegetarian of you, is it, killing the grass with your bottom."
"I didn't kill the grass," Neil says. Behind Rick, Vyvyan's hands find his waist, making him shudder. "And besides, I - oh, Vyvyan, do you have to?"
"Have to what?" Vyvyan asks, absently, nosing at the sensitive spot right under Rick's ear.
"You know what," Neil says, making a big show of shielding his eyes. "We're having a house meeting about this tomorrow."
"Yeah, yeah," Rick says.
"Whatever, hippy," Vyvyan says, and grabs Rick's wrist to drag him up the stairs.
"I'll just put some music on really loudly, shall I?" Neil calls up after them. "If I'm really lucky for once in my life I'll spontaneously go deaf! Or maybe I might just die, how about that?"
Rick couldn't care less about Neil, deaf or dead or otherwise. He lets Vyvyan lead him up the stairs, even though he's been known to give him a piece of his mind about that - about being dragged about like any old bin bag, like a piece of property, Vyvyan, which is very fascist of you, actually - but he doesn't care today. He keeps thinking about the sneer of that horrible bloke and his ugly friends and Vyvyan's strength and the blood on his knuckles, the metallic taste of his mouth.
Rick ends up abandoning his clothes God knows where, laying a breadcrumb trail for himself to follow when he's of more sound mind. Later, he'll retrace his steps, red-faced, collecting the puddle of his blazer from the landing, discovering a shirt button or two on the stairs with Vyv's vest and t-shirt. Now, in the safety of Vyvyan's bedroom (and God, what a notion that is, Vyv's bedroom being safe - a haven of fag ends and explosives and SPG lurking in the general debris), Rick kicks off his shoes and laughs at Vyvyan's struggle with his boots until Vyv snogs the smile right off his face, and then the boots are launched across the room, hitting the wall with a crack and the hiss of falling plaster. It's on the tip of Rick's tongue to make some comment about Mr Balowski and their deposit, but then they're both naked and who honestly, truly cares? That's real anarchy for you - Rick doesn't give a hoot about their deposit. He'll make Neil give him the difference, it's only what he deserves.
"You would've done this in the street," Vyvyan says, when they're crammed into bed together and everything's pleasantly breathless and squishy. "You big daft pervy."
Rick can't even protest. He can't find any words beyond Vyvyan's name, muttered then gasped like a plea, a prayer.
Later, Vyv lies there prodding at his lip and wincing. Rick's curled onto his side, sleepily sneaking looks at him. There's a bruise blackening Vyv's jaw, rapidly growing more livid against his pale skin.
Rick feels like his tongue's too big for his mouth. He feels simultaneously wrung out and raring to go, which he's coming to realise is just how things are with Vyvyan. He wonders if this is something specific to him or if Rick had actually got his act together and actually slept with a girl - so he hadn't, alright, ok, ever, but it hardly matters now when he and Vyvyan are at it all the time - if it would've felt the same. He looks at girls in class and on the bus and on the telly, Felicity bloody Kendal, and he likes them, and breasts are pretty bloody great, but it feels like nothing hooks him right under the ribs and yanks quite like Vyvyan, even when he's picking his nose or spitting gunk off the back step after a fag or itching his balls in the kitchen, the unhygienic bastard.
"What's Vyvyan like?" Rick's mum had said over and over and over. Rick imagines saying, well, mummy, he smells and he eats dead rats and likes blowing things up, and most of the time I want him to shut up, but the rest of the time I just want him, even though he's a horrible fascist bastard.
Rick's sure that would've gone down a treat. Oh, that's brilliant, darling, his mum would've said. My precious boy, a bonafide poof! And with the thing from the swamp! Take this tenner as a symbol of my pride and love - Rick doesn't bloody think.
"Jesus Christ," Vyvyan says. "Can hear the cogs turning in your brain from here. Are you trying to do maths again?"
Rick jostles him with his knee.
"I'll have you know I did excellently on my maths O Level, Vyvyan. Miss Carter said-"
"I don't give two shits, Rick."
"-She said she'd never known anyone improve so much, actually, so shows how much you know, doesn't it, smarty pants?"
Vyvyan just looks at him for a moment, much too close to argue. Rick struggles in these moments of limbo, these peaceful vignettes after a shag and before the next fight, when they're almost friendly.
"What's up then, if it's not maths? Not another poncey essay, surely."
"Oh, that's very nice, isn't it," Rick says. "Standard practice for you, isn't it, to - to sleep with someone then immediately insult them. No wonder you never had any luck with girls."
"I did bloody so," Vyvyan says.
"Did not!"
"Did so!"
"You were a virgin before me," Rick reminds him, smugly.
"So were you," Vyvyan grumbles.
"Irrelevant," Rick says. "You're the one going on about girls, like you ever got near one."
"I nearly did," Vyvyan says, mildly. "Almost. But it's too much work, you know?"
"Oh! And I'm easy, is that what you're implying?"
"I'm not implying anything, I'm saying it outright. Rick, you're easy," Vyvyan says, unrepentant. He looks down at Rick's mouth, his gaze heavy, and Rick is suddenly painfully aware of their proximity, the warmth of wanting rising up and threatening to drown him all over again. "All it took was trying to bite your fingers off. Kinky sod."
"That's not how it was and you know it," Rick protests, weakly.
"Yeah it bloody was," Vyvyan says.
Quick as a striking snake he grabs hold of Rick's wrist, nosing at his bitten fingernails. Rick's fingertips brush his bottom lip, the heat of Vyvyan's breath blooming on his skin. There's something unbearably vulnerable about the look on Vyv's face - Rick almost wants to look away. He almost wants to put his fingers right in Vyvyan's mouth, like one of those mad bastards who stick their head in a shark's jaws.
Instead, he watches Vyvyan kiss his fingertips, his cheeks pink, feeling like his heart's sitting right in his throat. It's almost unbearable, the tenderness of it, right up until Vyvyan opens his mouth and makes a big show of snapping his teeth, laughing like an idiot when Rick shoves him off and slaps him.