Vyvyan awoke late the next morning, feeling refreshed and a lot lighter in spirit than he had in a while. With an ease born of repetition, he scooped hair gel from a half-empty tub on the windowsill and re-spiked his fiery orange hair, before wiping his sticky palms on his jeans.
Cautiously exiting his room, he glanced out into the grimy corridor and saw no signs of life. The window at the top of the stairs illuminated everything with cold, but bright, milky sunlight.
He stood awkwardly outside Rick's door, ostensibly adjusting his belt and neck-chain, debating whether to wake him, or at least wait for a minute to see if the anarchist emerged. He tried not to let himself think about the motivations behind this idea. He could always give the sociology student a punch or two just to let him know that he hadn't gone completely sissy.
He jumped a little as Neil emerged timidly onto the landing, lank-haired and grim-looking.
"Oh, morning Vyv," he greeted with a cheery wave, upon noticing the punk.
"Neil," Vyvyan replied in a dark, non-committal voice, arms folded and head down. He waited till he heard the tall hippy's footsteps disappear downstairs, and took a deep breath, face beginning to burn a little as he tapped quietly on the anarchist's door.
Scratching his forehead tentatively, avoiding the silver star studs, he stood silent and self-conscious, listening to faint groans and rustling from inside the room.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and licked his lips as the door opened, Rick peering out sleepily in his white vest and jeans, his hair scruffy and unclean.
"Vyvyan," the anarchist nodded, a smirk on his face, white teeth flashing.
The punk nodded, hair almost painfully vibrant and eyes pale and clear in the bright light of the corridor. "Rick," he replied feebly, fingers shoving further into his tight pockets as he cleared his throat, cheekbones faintly pink.
Rick gave a brief, predatory grin, thoroughly enjoying the punk's discomfort, and planning to milk it completely. Leaning casually against the doorframe, hand on one hip, he looked at the punk expectantly, fighting laughter by biting hard on the inside of his cheek. He saw Vyvyan's pale blue eyes glance down at his shoulders and biceps and then flick away guiltily, and he almost wriggled with cruel delight.
"What's the matter Vyvyan?" Rick asked as though nonplussed, his face innocently curious.
The flame-haired punk glanced down the corridor, totally discomfited, and he shrugged vaguely.
"Just…morning," he murmured, his usually ghost-white face a definite coral colour now.
Rick couldn't hold his laughter any more, and he broke out in barely-restrained giggles.
Glowering, the punk stared at the mocking anarchist, drew back his arm, and promptly slapped him stingingly hard across the face. Rick gasped in pain, one hand flying to his reddening cheek.
"Oh, that's FINE behaviour! I made you hard if you'd forgotten VYVYAN!" Rick spat, pointing an accusing finger.
"I made you come," the punk retorted coolly.
Rick's intended comeback was silenced as his mouth snapped shut, before he stuttered a reply.
"Well…well never mind about that now," the anarchist muttered, looking highly uncomfortable.
It was Vyvyan's turn to smirk, and he folded his arms across his chest, the chains on his denim jacket tinkling faintly.
"I'm off to college. Dissection class. I'll bring you back a spleen," the punk announced, before stomping off along the corridor and downstairs.
"VERY FUNNY VYVYAN!" Rick screeched after him, huffily going back into his bedroom and slamming the door.
After class, Vyvyan lumbered off with his medical student friends to the Kebab and Calculator, still in high spirits, the air cold and weightless but the sky bright, the watery yellow sun doing its' best to shine.
The group got a collective suspicious glare from the other patrons that afternoon as the leather-clad, spike-haired, heavily pierced students strode into the gloomy pub. Nursing half a brain in a small jar, the flame-haired punk ordered Babycham all round, thanking God that his mum wasn't working today.
Settling down, the group prepared to enjoy an afternoon of boozing and civilian harassment.
Rick was painfully bored, and after pottering around the flat for an hour or so, he wandered out into the scrubby back garden, shielding his eyes against the surprisingly bright winter sun. Capricious, stiff breezes toyed with dead leaves littering the grey ground, teasing them up into the air before letting them drop in crisp, dismal piles. Settling down on a chilled, grubby lawn chair, he pulled out his notepad from the inside of his badge-covered blazer, and a half-empty biro, and sighed thoughtfully. He almost welcomed the refreshing cold air after the stuffiness of the house. Shivering slightly, grateful for the weak sunlight on his face, he crossed his legs and balanced the well-worn notepad on his lap, beginning to write slowly.
Vyvyan returned to the share-house later that afternoon, still lovingly clutching his specimen jar, and holding two wallets that were patently not his in the other hand. A little tipsy, he stomped heavily upstairs, his steel-cap boots punishing each step. He glanced at Rick's bedroom door as he passed it, noting that it was open and the room unoccupied. Both hands full, he viciously kicked his own door and made his way in through the now splintered threshold. Carefully setting down the jar with the brain that floated gently in yellowing preserving fluid, he deftly pulled the cash from the stolen wallets, stuffing the notes in his jeans pocket.
Making his way down to the kitchen, he pulled a beer can from the fridge and opened it easily, taking a swig and sighing contentedly. Sipping the cool, frothy liquid, he peered surreptitiously out of the window, seeing the anarchist looking uncomfortably cold but deeply engrossed as he sat in the patchy garden, writing in that godforsaken notepad. The left-handed sociology student looked awkward as he scribbled across the page – probably another shitty poem, the punk thought.
There appeared to be no sign of the other two housemates, and Vyvyan opened the back door, stepping heavily out into the garden and approaching the oblivious anarchist silently. He got within a few feet of the brunette, and stood sipping his beer casually. Without evident emotion, he watched Rick shiver as a particularly sharp breeze picked up and buffeted them both.
Moving behind the anarchist, he suddenly slid his hand to Rick's face, clamping it over his mouth. The brunette jumped and groaned in shock, before slapping away the punk's hand in irritation. Bright red, he hastily secreted his notepad back inside his blazer.
"What do you want, Vyvyan?" he spat, folding his arms huffily.
The flame-haired punk dragged another chair from the edge of the lawn and plonked it beside the brunette, sitting down leisurely, sipping his beer. Swallowing, he wordlessly offered the can to the anarchist, who eyed it with distaste, before relenting and taking a quick swig, wincing slightly.
"Where's Mike and the hippy?" Vyvyan asked, his unusual croaky voice mellow and calm for once.
"Mike's got a date," Rick shrugged, eyes on the sparse, cold lawn. He took another gulp of beer, sighing moodily.
A little wobbly from the drinks he had consumed, Vyvyan shifted his chair closer to Rick's, until they touched. "What are you writing, girly?" the punk asked, blinking dizzily. The anarchist ignored him, so he extended his hand to Rick's chest, about to slide his fingers under his blazer for the notebook.
Rick frowned and grabbed his wrist, steadying him and glaring daggers at him.
Unfazed, the flame-haired punk placed his other hand on Rick's denim-clad thigh, and slid it up to his crotch, kneading gently.
The anarchist let out a faint, surprised little noise, his grip on Vyvyan's wrist loosening, then tightening hard. Breathlessly, he watched the punk massage him firmly.
Vyvyan watched Rick's face with fascination as he palmed the anarchist's crotch hard, squeezing slightly. Rick was still shell-shocked, eyes fluttering as he half-heartedly resisted the punk's attention.
Neil's distant voice was heard coming from inside the house, and Vyvyan pulled away from Rick as though he had touched fire, folding his arms tightly over his chest, staring at nothing. The hippy got to the open doorway and called out to them.
"Guys – there's some lentils in the kitchen if you want!"
The two pink-faced students simultaneously flicked two fingers up at him, and he soon disappeared.
Rick took a long swig of his beer, leg tapping agitatedly. Face set in a stern frown; he decided to down the beer in one. Vyvyan watched his throat bob with every swallow. For once, the anarchist's skin was clear, though it had a pink tinge at the moment. Licking his lips, Rick crushed the empty can.
The alcohol gave him a sense of warmth as a sharp, bitter breeze assaulted them. He glanced at Vyvyan's ghost-white arms, seeing them covered with goosebumps. Tutting, he sneered at the punk.
The flame-haired punk met his cold, pale stare coolly. "What, poof?"
Rick rolled his large, watery eyes in disdain. "Forget it." He stood up on chilled legs and stretched, fussily adjusting his unclean, messy hair and the myriad political badges on his blazer.
The punk followed suit, hands in pockets, waiting for the anarchist to finish preening.
Rick eyed him suspiciously, before making his way back to the flat. A few steps from the door, he halted sharply, rounding on the punk angrily.
"STOP FOLLOWING ME VYVYAN!"
The medical student looked unperturbed. "If you'd rather finish yourself off…" he shrugged.
"HONESTLY VYVYAN, DON'T BE SO FOUL!" Rick yelled back in indignation, blushing heroically.
The punk pushed past him, going to the fridge once more and pulling out an armful of beers. "Come on poof," he instructed, and an almost apoplectic Rick stormed after him, screeching.
"DON'T THINK YOU'RE GOING TO GET ME INTO BED WITH YOU, VYVYAN!"
There was an awkward silence and Neil, sitting inconspicuously at the table, stared oddly at the anarchist. Vyvyan had already made his way upstairs, and Rick dashed after him, red suede boots thumping loudly on each step.
Vyvyan had already settled on Rick's bed, popped open another beer, and offered it to the anarchist as he stormed into the room. The brunette snatched it from him and took a long gulp rebelliously.
"YOU'RE NOT STAYING VYVYAN!" Pale eyes already slightly hazy from the alcohol, the usually sober anarchist sat down heavily at his desk, sneering at the punk reclining on his bed, luxuriously glugging beer.
"You might want to close the door if we're gonna shag…" the punk said, grinning fiendishly.
"NO, WE'RE ABSOLUTELY NOT, VYVYAN!" The punk winced at the deafening volume of Rick's enraged screams, but couldn't help smirking. Getting up calmly, he shut Rick's bedroom door himself, locking it.
"Relax Rick," he commanded, settling back down on the bed.
Practically wriggling with fury and indignation, the anarchist moodily drank his beer, his head swimming a little, his temper subsiding slowly as he drained the amber liquid.
He tossed the empty can in the wastepaper bin under his desk, and glared at the flame-haired punk, who was poker-faced and quiet, just staring back at the anarchist with cold blue eyes.
"I don't want to sleep with you," Rick muttered darkly.
Vyvyan finished his beer and scooted nearer to Rick, who huddled on his desk chair, scowling. Head buzzing from booze, he pulled off his denim jacket, chains and studs clinking. Moving deliberately, his hands shaking only a little, he undid his studded belt, and pulled his black T-shirt, emblazoned with a metal band logo, from the waistband of his tight jeans.
Rick stared in disbelief as the ghost-skinned punk removed his T-shirt, revealing very smooth white skin. The heavy bike padlock swung on its chain, clunking noisily against his sternum.
Rick felt his half-hard cock twitch, and he shifted on his chair, hazy-eyed and horny.
He didn't bother resisting when the flame-haired punk took his hands and dragged him up onto the bed, kissing him hard.
Rick planted both hands on the punk's cool chest, shakily smoothing them up and down the skin as their tongues mated wetly, their kisses getting harder and rougher by the second. The anarchist's hands blundered up to the punk's face, both students gasping passionately and nipping gently at each other's lips. Vyvyan blindly yanked Rick's blazer off, tossing it to the floor, and clumsily picked open the buttons of his shirt, the anarchist already sighing needily.
The punk pulled back for a few breathless seconds to look at Rick's bare chest, then lunged back into the kiss, knocking the anarchist backwards onto the bed, both students writhing inelegantly, hands groping and squeezing indiscriminately. Lying heavily on top of the anarchist, the slim punk fumbled one hand down to Rick's flies, popping them open and pushing his fingers inside, taking hold of Rick's shaft and pumping energetically, thrilling at the hard, warm flesh, and the keening noises the anarchist was making, his hips thrusting weakly into Vyvyan's fist.
It was over in a less than a minute, Rick's face pink and damp, his hair slick on his forehead. The punk watched, mesmerised, as the anarchist orgasmed, his chest heaving, his fingers clawing at Vyvyan's shoulders, his voice ragged and desperate with pure pleasure. Wasting no time, he grabbed one of Rick's trembling, wet hands, and pushed it encouragingly into his own jeans, sighing in ecstasy as the anarchist began to obediently, if weakly, work at his shaft. He barely noticed the cooling semen running down his wrist and under his cuffs, as the sleepy-eyed brunette took him over the edge with aching fingers.
"Ugh…fuck, Rick," he wheezed, grinding powerfully against the anarchist, deliriously kissing the heated, damp skin of Rick's chest as he ejaculated. Collapsing heavily onto the boy below him, they both heaved for breath, ribcages fighting against each other for warm, sex-scented air. It was some time before either of them made a move to disengage from each other, and they spent several minutes recovering, bodies sweetly tangled.