Title: Bollocks

Prompt: 41 – Shapes (believe me, I used this one veerrryy loosely)

Rating: PG-13, because they are boys with dirty mouths.

Cye was cooking dinner for them all, whistling something in a key Rowen couldn't fathom as Rowen himself was seated at the dining room table surrounded by textbooks. He had gotten used to the way Cye sang or hummed while he cooked and Cye wasn't a bad singer (unlike himself), so it had generally come to be white noise to Rowen. That was, until Cye added something new to his repertoire.

The boiling pot spit scalding water at him and he hissed. "Bollocks," he swore quietly and sucked his finger.

Rowen stopped and put down his book.

"What was that, Cye?"

Cye looked up at him and released his pink finger from his mouth. "Sorry, force of habit."

Rowen looked at him strangely. "Repeat what you just said."

Cye blinked. "What, 'Bollocks'?"

A peculiar expression settled on Rowen's face. Finally, as if he'd been taking his time to choose great and profound words, he said: "What the fuck, Cye."

Cye looked mildly offended. "What?" he demanded, using a potholder to shift the pot on the burner. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothin'," Rowen grinned, "I just didn't think you could possibly get any gayer."

Cye huffed and put his hands on his hips, then realized what he was doing and dropped them. "It's not gay, Rowen, it's British. Slang. I'm British, we know this. You're American, you can't help it. You're just jealous because everything we do or say is more elegant than your crude Yankee mannerisms. Besides, without us, there wouldn't even be an America."

Rowen very patiently closed his book and gestured philosophically with his pencil. "What is Progress but the improvement of that which came before?" Cye rolled his eyes and stirred their supper. "Seriously," Rowen continued, "I want to perform a social experiment, a cross-cultural societal linguistic mélange, or some bullshit."

Cye spared him a level look over his shoulder. "Wasn't that classy," he said dryly.

Rowen flashed his pirate smile. "C'mon, man, humor me."

His friend let out a long suffering sigh – a rather delicate one, Rowen thought. "If I must."

"Say 'balls'."

Cye blinked. "I beg your pardon."

"Pardon not granted. Say it. C'mon, it's not hard. One syllable. 'Balls'."

Sniffing disdainfully, Cye gave a shake of his auburn hair and went back to making supper. "No. I will not debase myself to satisfy your vulgar American quirks."

Rowen slid out of his chair and sidled up behind him, leaning over his shoulder like a predator. "Say it," he grinned, "Or I tell everyone that you sing songs from 'Yentl' in the shower."

Cye flushed deeply. "That means you stand outside the bathroom door listening to me do it."

Rowen's grin widened. "That's not all I've heard you do in there, either."

"Rowen!" Cye choked, and at the same time Rowen laughed and said, "Say it, Cye!"

"No!" he tried to dance away from Rowen and avoid the stove at the same time, but the archer was faster than him and caught him around his very sensitive waist. He squeezed gently, and Cye blurted, "Balls! Okay, Rowen? Balls! Are you happy? Stop – stop tickling me!" He was laughing and embarrassed and Rowen was crowing in triumph when Sage walked through the door.

All movement stopped as Sage looked them up and down with his one very cool, very collected eye. After a long moment of both boys waiting to be snidely put into place by a condescending Sageism, the blonde considered them and said, "I prefer the term 'Family Jewels'. It has such a Medieval ring, don't you think?" Then he left.

Cye and Rowen exchanged a glance, and simultaneously cracked up.