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Sunday is much the same as the week before...and the week before that. A routine of far too many portions of lentil-related meals, back-and-forth insults, subsequent violence, an object or two launched and smashed across the room; all resulting in much more tension than an average British Sunday should call for. It's not something Rick necessarily hates, though he'd be loathe to admit it; more an exercise in clockwork, one he's more than used to by now.
For one, it's nice to keep to a routine, all the lifestyle mags always said that. Great for the brain and body. Nice to know exactly how many days it'd take for the weekend bruises to heal, especially now he's drawn up a chart in his room, not that he particularly wants the bruises to begin with.
The most bearable part however - some may say almost enjoyable - is when the tenseness between himself and Vyvyan takes a different turn (a very fine line at the best of times), where more often than not they end up shagging on whichever of their beds happens to be the cleanest at the moment of violence shifting to snogging. And as they lie there in the aftermath they're both at the calmest they'll ever be, until the next time - a day or two later perhaps - when the cycle will repeat.
Vyv chain smokes the remaining cigarettes from the packet left on the bedside table, the acrid smoke curling around them and making the room stink like it, as if it didn't already. If he's in one of his better moods, he'll ruffle Rick's hair, sort-of pat him or stroke him on the shoulder closest, and Rick will try not to smile contentedly as the stained pillow sags behind his head, and the smell of sex is quickly replaced by nicotine.
The contentedness of the situation gets to him this particular afternoon where he decides to brave asking Vyv something that had been rattling around his mind for the past ten minutes.
"Vyvyan?"
"Hmm?" The punk replies, not really listening.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"...Depends if it's going to be another one of your girly extended ramblings." He glances over at Rick, still holding the cigarette between his grimy fingertips. "...And I'll bet it is."
Rick is inclined to be offended, and under normal circumstances he'd voice that without hesitation, but he really did want to ask Vyv without another argument getting in the way of the few minutes of near calm. So instead he ignores it, rolls over to look at him.
"Why do we still fight? I mean, we're in a relationship Vyv-"
"We are?"
"-Yes, unless there's something you've been meaning to tell me?"
"Nah." Vyv smirks, taking another lengthy drag of the cig. "This'll do for now. Do we really need the girly labels though?"
"Well it adds meaning, doesn't it? Makes it more real. And there's nothing girly about meaning. You're just a misogynist, Vyvyan, really backwards."
The punk just shrugs, putting his free arm behind his head, the very image of nonchalance.
"Anyway, as I was saying," Rick repeats, testily. "Why do we still fight?"
"Cause it's fun."
"But it's not exactly how proper, healthy relationships are meant to be like."
"Says who? An article in one of your poofy magazines?"
"No! Well, maybe. But it's true though, violence isn't exactly conducive for long-term happiness."
"Yeah, but none of those bastards writing them have met you." He says, jabbing at a spot on Rick's shoulder with a finger. "An' fighting's fun, nothing wrong with that. Plus it helps get rid of the weird itchy feeling in my arms."
"Doesn't that sort of thing require rash cream?"
"Nah, you girl, like the energy buzzing kind." He says, blowing a plume of smoke into the already stagnant air of the bedroom. "Like, if I didn't use it to whack you around, I'd end up doing way worse."
"Like what?"
"I dunno, blowing up the bloody house or something, doesn't matter really. Point is, all that energy's best used on you, an' anyway, it's not like you'll be offended or anything,"
"Oh and why's that then? Hmm?"
"'Cause you know it's just play fighting. I hit you, you attempt to hit me, I pin your scrawny arms back, you try to kick me, and I knee ya in the bollocks and win." He grins. ""An' then we fuck. It's great! What's not to like?"
"...Yes, well, it might be fun for you, but I can't say I'm a fan of it!" At Vyv's raised eyebrow, he quickly backtracks. "...the -err, fighting part, that is."
"You're not? S'pose I'm just imagining all those girly erections then when I pin you to the floor."
Rick blushes, scowling. "Fascist." He eventually replies, because he can't exactly dispute it, not when Vyv is grinning at him like that, all smarmy and bastard-like.
So they go back to lying there, contentedly for a while, the fag being passed from one grimy hand to another after repeated elbowings from Rick; Vyv relenting just to get the bastard to shut up for a while. The packet eventually runs out, inevitable on early weekend evenings such as this, and crushed when it's launched at the bedroom door when Neil dares to knock, asking if either of them want to eat dinner while it's still lukewarm.
They don't. It's no better lukewarm than cold.