By The Versatile Scarf
A/N: Yeah. This came from bowling. ... 8D;
Warnings: Allusions to slashy things. Just a normal day in the life of the Young Ones. Maybe someday I'll write something that isn't just an allusion. Lawl.
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It wasn't clear where the football had come from originally, just as many other things about their life weren't clear. Perhaps some benevolent force had decided that Travel Scrabble ceased being amusing after the first four minutes of staring vacantly at the board. Or perhaps Bill had left it behind in the house when he'd left. Or perhaps Vyvyan had nicked it.
How does one nick a football, though? It was rather large to be sneaking out under one's shirt. But Vyvyan had a way with these sort of things, and it had merely been accepted that there was now a black-and-white ball in their midst. You see, Rick had known that he didn't own a football, so there wasn't any of the usual 'You took my (insert item)!' squabbling, and for that Neil was grateful.
You see, when Vyvyan got angry with Rick's prattish ways it often extended to the other members of the commune. Such as Neil himself. ... well... always Neil himself. He never hit Mike. In fact, the worst he'd ever done to Mike was call him a poof. When compared to sending Rick's bed or Neil's head through the ceiling, that was nothing.
It was with these thoughts in mind that the hippie stood at the back door of the house, gaze just as uninterested as it always was, lips pulled down into a deep frown, hands in the pockets of his pants. He'd been standing here for a good thirty minutes now, just.. watching the others outside. Not all the others. Mike was upstairs, saying he had a 'friend'. Neil wasn't going to say anything about it because no one ever listened to him anyway, but unless Mike had managed to sneak a girl up to his bedroom through his window using rope and whatever else it took, and it was the same girl it was every time who said the exact same things and cried out the exact same way, then he wasn't entirely certain he could believe Mike.
So, in reality, he was watching Vyvyan and Rick outside. It was a warm day, sunny, and he was almost completely sure they couldn't see him through the clouded glass in the door(which actually made it difficult to see them as well.. but that was to be expected because Neil always got the cloudy window). It wasn't so much the watching he was doing, though he soon left the backdoor and moved for the window through which he could see them. They were distracted anyway.
"Vyvyan, this is a stupid game." It was likely he was saying this simply because every single time the ball was coming his direction the punk shoved him out of the way and caught it with his own foot.. or head.. or whatever body part happened to be in its way at the time. Rick hadn't been saying that a few minutes before.
'Vyvyan, have you got a football? Here, let me play!'
But, as was to be expected, as soon as he started losing his entire attitude turned around. Actually, it wasn't even clear if he was losing. They hadn't laid out any rules in the beginning, so it was entirely possible that whoever hit the fence with the ball the least amount of times was the winner. In this household it was possible.
"Bored, are you? Here, I'll make it more interesting." The punk bent, picking up the ball with both hands, and held it in front of his face, to where he could just see Rick over the top of it. The anarchist had resumed his usual pose, hands on his hips, thumbs in front (the feminine version of a very put out stance), lips pursed, eyes wide.
Vyvyan grinned. "Imagine, Rick, that this is Cliff Richard's head."
It was dropped before Rick could protest against it, and kicked with as much force as Vyvyan could manage.
The football slammed against the fence, bounced back, and smacked Rick full across the face.
"VYVYAN! YOU BASTARD!"
"Wasn't that fun, Rick? It was almost like snogging with Cliff Richard!" Strained, though obviously amused laughter followed as he watched the other wriggle about on the ground, hands to his face, looking as though he were attempting to kick out at his flatmate, who only continued to laugh at him, picking up the football once more and making to repeat the action.
"Hello Cliff Richard's Head!" He dropped the ball, leg swinging back to repeat the action.. but when he kicked forward he met nothing but air, which caused him to stumble forward, head snapping around.
There sat Rick, legs crossed, cradling the ball in his lab, murder in his eyes.
"Vyvyan, that is totally and utterly barbaric!"
"You're such a poofy girl, Rick." The disgust was evident in his voice. Rick had ruined his fun. He could, of course, just rush forward and kick the ball out of his lap. Hey, he might even catch Rick's face again in the process. That would be like a two for one deal. He'd get twice as much pleasure out of it.
"I'm not a girl. I'm a boy. Just ask my parents."
"If you're not a girl, then why do you have little girly braids? With little yellow bows in them?" The punk had walked forward, then around the anarchist, leaning down and giving one of them a swift tug. Only one hand bat at his--the other was still protecting 'Cliff Richard's Head'.
"They're a statement of gender equality, Vyvyan. I wouldn't expect a chauvinist like yourself to understand."
Vyvyan sneered. "All right. But I've never seen another anarchist wearing a girly dress."
This caused Rick's eyes to widen further, and his head snapped over his shoulder to glare at the other. "I already told you! It's not my dress!"
"But it had your name on it, Rick!"
"That was someone's idea of a sick joke! It isn't mine!"
"But it was your size!"
A pause. Both of them seemed to comprehend what Vyvyan had said at the same time. The punk's expression remained defiant, as thought challenging, while the anarchist looked completely caught off guard, and a bit wary.
".. How do you know what size I wear, Vyvyan?"
There wasn't an answer. Well.. there was. Rick's answer was having the ball kicked out of his lap and a Doc Marten in his face, which thoroughly distracted him from the question. With a yelp he clutched at his mouth, muttering obscenities at the punk while he resumed kicking the football against the fence.. and then over it. Rick had already crawled back inside, so Vyvyan was left standing, alone, slouching with his hands in his pockets, upper lip pulled back as he seemed to just stare into space.
Shame that Neil had found it. Rick really would look nice in that dress.
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