Vyvyan stalked breathlessly back to his room, slamming the door, and hauling his heavy chest of drawers in front of it, barring it, SPG complaining as his cage wobbled precariously.
He had no shortage of knives, and from the display rack on the dreary wall, he plucked a short, slightly curved hunting knife with a devastatingly sharp blade. With slightly shaking fingers, he undid the studded leather cuff from his left wrist and exposed the ghost-white skin, criss-crossed with ugly pink and white scars. The freshest was thick and red, made only a few months ago with this same knife, at about the time that the punk had had to accept that he was attracted to Rick.
It was hardly the first time he had taken a blade to himself, but after a long hiatus, the frustration and resentment he felt at his unwanted connection with the anarchist, had driven him to start again in earnest. His high pain threshold simply meant that he had to do himself more damage to feel the buzz of relief, no matter how fruitless or temporary it was.
The relentless patter of cold rain against his window was a mere dream as he sat on the edge of the bed, breathing in deeply and slashing the blade across the underside of his wrist, gasping quietly. Above him, the dim, bare lightbulb flickered a little.
He gazed down at the white skin, at the thin red line, barely birthing a few tiny beads of blood.
Grimacing with frustration, he drew the razor-sharp blade once more over the cut with furious force, this time splitting the skin wide, hot, dark blood spilling over his chilled wrist and down his forearm, and dripping onto his lap with shocking speed. Tossing aside the knife with a shaking hand, he stood and rummaged for tissues in the drawers that blocked the grimy door. Blotting the warm, red liquid, slowly stemming the flow, he smeared the excess from his forearm, leaving it pinkish-looking, and as bitter-smelling and coppery as the now saturated tissue.
The punk breathed heavily for a few seconds, before deftly replacing his studded cuff, wincing a little at the rough material on the open wound. He never bothered to clean the cuts. The blood on the knife was already congealing into a sticky, scarlet mess, as he knocked it carelessly to the floor and laid back on his bed, one arm thrown over his head, his left hand pulsing painfully on his chest. A numb kind of calm settled over him, and he closed his eyes.
Back in his room, Rick sulkily licked at the cut on his bottom lip, tired-eyed and feeling dismal as he stared down at his sparse sociology notes. He had just about gotten over the shock of Vyvyan's actions that day, and was almost over the shock of having had his first orgasm that hadn't been brought about by his own hand. Well – to tell the truth, he was just trying not to think about either of those things.
He had convinced himself that anybody who found themselves in the situation that he had, would naturally become aroused – it was the body's instinctive and unavoidable response. He had never considered Vyvyan as anything other than an almighty thorn in his side – although, there had been rare occasions that could almost be described as amicable between them – usually when they were both ganging up on the bloody hippy. To see something other than psychopathy being displayed by the punk – something practically human, was so bizarre to him as to be downright disturbing.
The anarchist sighed heavily and licked his lips once more, the flesh still slightly sore from Vyvyan's enthusiastic nipping and biting earlier. Before today, he had never been kissed, and somehow his first had been a drunken, clumsy smooch from a sociopathic male medical student.
Shifting his papers and textbooks from the desk, his hands wandered to his pockets, and he came up with the crumpled note that he had intended the punk to read earlier. Hesitating for a moment, he proceeded to squash the note into a ball and fling it into his bin.
A half-hearted brainwave flushed into his consciousness, and his pale, watery eyes widened. Not only was Vyvyan presumably a poof (and a virgin poof at that), there was also the weird matter of the wounds on his arms. In a few short hours, his entire perceptions of the punk had been turned upside down. And whatever the truth was, Rick intended to make it his business to find out.
It was past 2am, and Vyvyan was still lying on his back, bold blue eyes stinging with tiredness, but his body unwilling to sleep. The weak, bare bulb buzzed quietly, the corners of the cell-like room practically in shadow. The tumultuous rain had ceased, leaving a clear, black night and cold, weightless air.
The punk glanced over to the wall, and realised with some irritation that at some point during the day, Neil had taken it upon himself to seal up the hole that had been punched into the bathroom.
There was a loud rap on his door, and the punk groaned.
"Vyvyan! VYVYAN!" Rick's sing-song voice sounded out beyond the punk's door.
"PISS OFF RICK! IT'S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!" Vvyvan yelled, rubbing his eyes wearily.
"LET ME IN, VYVYAN!" The anarchist hollered, pounding agitatedly on the door.
The medical student got to his feet, stormed to his door, and shoved the barricading dresser aside in annoyance, yanking open the door. "WHAT DO YOU WANT, POOF?"
"OH, THAT'S BRILLIANT, COMING FROM YOU, VYVYAN!"
The flame-haired medical student tore open the door, fuming. The self-righteous anarchist strode into his room, still in his badge-covered blazer and jeans, hands on hips.
Vyvyan sat down heavily on his bed, too tired to start a proper fight. He stifled a yawn and waited for the brunette to say his piece.
"I've been thinking about your actions today Vyvyan! You absolutely fancy me, don't you? I suppose you want to snog me, and make love to me?" Rick spat teasingly, a gleam of opportunity in his eyes.
The punk sighed, shoulders slumped and eyes on the floor, silent for a moment before replying quietly.
"Yes."
The anarchist sneered, trying to hide his surprise. "Well…well don't think you're going to get a chance! And what are these all about anyway..,?" He carelessly seized the punk's left wrist and yanked at the fastened cuff.
Out of nowhere, Vyvyan produced a flick-knife, grabbed Rick's collar and pulled him close, jabbing the deadly blade's tip none-too-gently under his chin.
"I'm warning you Rick," he murmured darkly, eyes cold and hard.
Rick tried to stay cool, swallowing nervously as the tip nicked his skin. Recklessly batting aside the knife, he shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't really care anyway Vyyvyan." He sat heavily beside the bemused-looking punk, and looked at him expectantly, pale eyes wide and hair wild and messy as always.
The flame-haired punk frowned, baffled. "What?"
Rick rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically. There was a faint colour in his cheeks, and he smiled a little awkwardly. "…No biting this time," he instructed randomly, before kissing the punk on the lips, sucking softly.
Vyvyan flinched in shock before sighing helplessly, eyes closing and resisting the urge to nip at the anarchist's lips. Dropping the knife to the bed, he clumsily brought both his hands to Rick's waist, trying to reciprocate the kiss as gently as possible. He could practically feel the heat of the anarchist's blushes against his skin as the quiet sucking noises of their lips seemed somehow deafening in the dead silence of the late hour. Likewise, the sound of Rick shifting slightly and leaning harder into the kiss was impossible to ignore, and, already desperately excited, Vyvyan sped up the kiss, breathing fast and heavy between smooches.
Rick opened his mouth a little and coyly flicked his tongue against the punk's, who groaned in pleasure, his tongue beginning to copulate with the brunette's, the lack of friction delightful and the heat and wetness of Rick's mouth thrilling him. Hands trembling, he blindly felt for Rick's hands, and brought them urgently to his hard-on, forcing the anarchist's palm roughly against his jeans.
Rick disconnected the kiss sharply, pulling his hands from Vyvyan's insistent grip. He huffed a nervous laugh, face bright red, chest heaving. The punk looked dazed and powerlessly aroused. Rick tried not to look at the tent in the punk's jeans as he stood up, grinning clownishly.
"Night Vyvyan," he said quietly, as he exited the room quickly, with a small, silly grin still on his face.
The overwhelmed punk remained silent as he sat alone, his face exhibiting disbelief.
A few minutes later, he had finished himself off with one damp hand, his strangled gasps and groans of ecstasy restrained with difficulty.