He had stomped a few heavy steps towards his own room when Rick came cannoning violently into him, grabbing his neck chain from behind and yanking it hard, pushing him face-first into the wall. The anarchist was screeching in fury as he hauled on the heavy bike chain, before Vyvyan elbowed him savagely in the ribs, spinning round and seizing a fistful of Rick's greasy, wild hair and slamming his head against the wall, pinning him there with his superior strength and whipping out a small, razor-sharp knife.
Rick struggled, panting and seething, an expression of agony and rage on his face. He gasped sharply as the tip of the blade dug under his ribcage, piercing the skin and drawing blood. Vyvyan's hands were trembling, and he heaved for breath, his nose centimetres from the anarchist's, their exhalations hot and damp against each other's mouths.
The punk fought to control himself, shivering with anger. "I won't miss you, Rick," he hissed venomously.
Rick whimpered in pain, his head pounding and dizzy, the knife tip cold and brutal under his skin, his own warm blood trickling out and dripping down the blade.
"I…I think we both know…that that's not true," he replied in a tight groan, a nervous smile flickering fleetingly across his lips. He winced as the punk's vicious grip in his hair tightened menacingly, and the knife tip jabbed warningly deeper.
"Vyv please," he begged desperately, tears of pain shimmering in his pale eyes.
The punk eased back his knife, taking with it a prize of hot blood, but kept it hovering at Rick's stomach. His hands still trembled.
"My life would be a lot easier without you around, Rick," he murmured, a torn, helpless honesty in his cold blue eyes.
"…Vyvyan…you don't really want to hurt me, do you?" the anarchist asked quietly. He sighed in silent relief a few moments later as the punk let go of his hair and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Rick's relief was short-lived, however. He looked down and sobbed in panic at the small but growing wet, red stain on his grey shirt, bitter-smelling and warm. Breathing fitfully, he palmed madly at the damp slit in his shirt, almost hysterical.
Vyvyan hastily pocketed his knife and took one of Rick's sticky, red-stained hands in his own, pulling him quickly to his own bedroom. Sitting the anarchist down on the edge of his bed, he rummaged in a drawer and located a first aid box from among the myriad materials from his medical course.
Kneeling on the floor in front of him, he lifted Rick's shirt, dabbing at the small wound with an antiseptic wipe, smudging away the darkening smears of blood, and applying a dressing. Feeling quite sick, he slumped back onto the floor, breathing hard. His face was as drained and pale as the anarchist's.
"I thought you liked me, Vyvyan," Rick said helplessly, eyes still shimmering tearfully.
"I do, Rick. A lot," the punk admitted, eyes on the floor, expression miserable. Sighing, he picked up another cleaning wipe and took Rick's hands one at a time, smoothing away the blood on his palms and fingers.
"…Sorry," the punk muttered, as he awkwardly touched Rick's fingertips with his own. The anarchist looked uncomfortable at this, and gently pulled his hands away.
"…No more knives," Rick said bluntly, crossing his arms. When the punk didn't reply, he reached for Vyvyan's left wrist and tapped his studded leather cuff meaningfully. "No more knives, okay?" Vyvyan pulled his arm away moodily, but his face was bright red, and he got to his feet shakily.
"Look, Rick – you'd better go. I've got packing to do." Pale-faced, he picked up a half-full black bin bag from one corner of his room and tossed his hair gel inside.
Rick looked up sharply, frowning. "What! Where are you going, Vyvyan?"
The punk replied distractedly, bundling T-shirts in his bag. "…Going to stay with my friend Tommy 'Bloodbath' McKray for a few days."
"Whatever for?" Rick asked indignantly, glaring at the flame-haired student with something approaching panic.
Vyvyan seemed to ignore him. "Get Neil to look after SPG while I'm gone. He's on a diet, so no more than three takeaways a day."
"ANSWER ME VYVYAN!" The anarchist spat irritatedly.
The punk sighed wearily and responded in quiet tones. "I've just got to get away from this place for a bit. Oh," he added, settling his bin bag by his door and rummaging through his set of drawers. "I know your birthday's months away, but…you might as well have this now." Blushing bright red and looking more uncomfortable than Rick had ever seen him, Vyvyan hastily pushed something into his hands, seized his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stomped from the room.
Rick glanced down and gave a shallow sigh of surprise. Holding the new black notebook in his hands, he flicked through curiously and paused at the last page, where Vyvyan had written something in surprisingly neat and legible handwriting. Closing the notebook quickly, he decided not to read it until the punk was safely out of the house.
Looking, and indeed feeling dispirited, Vyvyan clomped to the front door, glancing into the kitchen and seeing Mike in a bright yellow suit and sunglasses.
"See you in a few days Michael!" he called through, raising one hand in salute.
Mike replied without raising his eyes from his newspaper. "Ta-ta Vyv. If you end up killing anyone, there's plenty of room in the cellar, but I ain't cutting up cadavers for free, savvy?"
Not bothering to look for Neil, the punk opened the front door, wincing at the bitterly cold breeze, and plodded off into the bright afternoon.
Rick had exited Vyvyan's room, and now went to his own, after hearing the front door slam. Flicking through to the words in his new notebook, he read with increasing disbelief.
Cage of gilded pain release me
Why do your bars encase a flighted freedom so revered?
Must he wrench my innate passion to light
Helpless I am sweetly tortured
Mouth hanging open, he silently closed the notebook and swallowed, deep in shocked thought.
That evening, Vyvyan stood in the scrubby back garden of his friend's house, staring into a large bonfire that had been lit, crackling noisily and blustering in the cold, clear, black night. He shivered a little despite his proximity to the fire, and swallowed lager, feeling depressed. Music was pumping out of a stereo at an ear-shattering volume, and about twenty punks were yelling, fighting and laughing in the small garden. He scuffed the dry grass with one heavy boot, feeling dismal despite the party atmosphere.
A heavy hand slapping his back startled him, and he glanced round at his friend Bloodbath, who had an impressive black mohawk and two lip rings. Taller and plumper than Vyvyan, he was a fearsome sight.
"Why didn't you bring that bird you've started seeing? We all could have had a go on her," the other punk chuckled nastily.
Vyvyan blushed slightly, eyes stinging from the searing heat of the bonfire, and shrugged. "Oh, you know…" he muttered vaguely, having to raise his voice over the deafening heavy metal music, whose bassline pounded through the air and ground in shuddering reverberations. As he had another sip of lager, a tussling pair of female punks, screeching at each other, bumped into him roughly, and he sighed and made his way back into the house, through the lively, noisy crowd.
Stomping through the kitchen, where a group of punks were getting drinks from the dozens of bottles of spirits, he went upstairs to the spare room where he would be staying. Closing the door, he slumped onto the unmade, grubby bed, and noticed for the first time a telephone on a small table beside him.
He couldn't deny that he was already pining for Rick. For months he had felt sick to his stomach, dwelling on his growing attraction to the anarchist, and now that his feelings were known, he felt no sense of relief at all. He also felt terrible for cutting Rick earlier – but his frustration at Rick's indifferent attitude towards him was such that a punch wouldn't have sufficed. Even before he began to have feelings for the anarchist, Rick was the person he spent the most time with – and long separations would cause him to grudgingly miss him –even if he did just need a punching bag. Now it was ten times as bad – especially as he couldn't even claim to himself that it was a merely physical attraction. The poof was an obnoxious, annoying, arrogant, smug, self-important, loud-mouthed, delusional bastard, but he wouldn't know what to do with himself if he wasn't around.
Rubbing his cold blue eyes, he snatched up the phone impulsively and began to dial.
Rick was half-asleep in bed, wearing only his pyjama bottoms and hugging his teddy bear close to his bare chest, when the phone rang jarringly downstairs. Groaning, he pulled the covers over his head and sighed sleepily. Neil's footsteps were heard hastily going past his door and downstairs.
Just as he was drifting off, there was a timid tapping on his door, followed by Neil's nervous voice.
"Rick? Rick? Vyvyan's on the phone for you…"
The anarchist hesitated for a second, before getting out of bed into the chilly air of his room, his teddy bear held loosely in his hand. He opened his door and nodded briefly at Neil, before slowly going downstairs to the wall-mounted telephone.
Ever since reading the frankly mind-boggling poem that Vyvyan had left in the notebook gift, Rick had been doing a lot of thinking. He had clearly been judging the book by its cover all the time that he had known the punk. There was seemingly a lot beyond the surface of violence and antisocialism.
He had never considered himself attracted to the medical student, but then again, he had never really thought about it. He himself had fancied males before now, not least of all his sociology lecturer, but then again, he liked girls too.
He had to admit to himself, that the things Vyvyan had done to him had been mind-blowing, even the kissing was far more pleasurable than his expectations. He wondered where the punk had learnt it all. For all he knew, Vyvyan had gone to bed with dozens of blokes.
Getting to the phone in the hallway, gloomy and cluttered, and lit only by the streetlight outside the front door, he picked up the phone and cleared his throat.
"Vyvyan?"