A/N: Okay, first things first - so sorry I've been shite at updating and replying to reviews. My internet connection has been cutting out on a regular basis, and things IRL have been pretty awful lately, so yeah. Lame excuse, admittedly, but the apology is there.

Secondly - I am fully aware that this is a ridiculous length for a oneshot. Like, really. But I don't think it would work if I split it up, and I spent bloody ages on it - the most effort I've ever put into any standalone fic, so I hope it's okay. Just so it's clear, flashbacks are written in italics.

Disclaimer: The Mighty Boosh and all affiliated characters belong to Julian Barratt and Noel Fielding. Lyrics used are 'Falling Away With You' by Muse, which presumably belongs to Muse. It's a gorgeous song - listen to it. The song 'Pretty Vacant' belongs to the Sex Pistols (who belong in a skip) and 'The Stranger' is a real book, by the real French philosopher Albert Camus. I haven't read it, but I figured it was the kind of deeply pretentious thing Howard would pretend to understand.

- - - - - X - - - - -

Boundaries

Staying awake to chase a dream
Tasting the air you're breathing in
I know I won't forget a thing

Promise to hold you close and pray
Watching the fantasies decay
Nothing will ever stay the same

'Falling Away With You' - Muse

The sun is slowly creeping over the jagged 'scraper skyline in the sprawling city of London. Violent oranges and dusky pinks bleed into the grey monotone of the labyrinth below with its water-beetle taxicabs, bright hues dominating the almost-forgotten ink of the night. The last few smog-obscured stars wink out one by one as though God himself has flipped a hidden switch, hiding their faces until their next curtain call.

Beneath the grand auditorium where this everyday magic is conducted, a lone crisp packet tumbles humbly down a street, over and over itself, egged on by the soft, teasing whispers of the wind. It passes by grimy storefront windows with barely a second glance, snubbing Davidson's Electrical Goods before finally completing its migratory path in front of the next one along; 'Nabootique'.

The red paint adorning the wall of the building is flaky and peeling; the closed shutters bear brightly coloured smears, as though graffiti of some sort has been hastily cleaned away. It is unclear what, exactly, the shop is supposed to specialise in - the inside is a conglomeration of mismatched merchandise, racks of dusty jazz LPs stacked up next to rails of flamboyant clothing, shelves crammed with assorted knick-knacks and objets d'art that are of no real use to anyone but those with the most specific needs. A lone barber's chair sits empty by the window. The luminous green counter is unmanned.

Stairs at the back of the sales floor lead to the living room of the flat above, adorned with psychedelic décor. The stifling, immediately recognisable aroma of marijuana hangs in the air, pungent and cloying. A small man in a blue turban and matching robes is unconscious on the black-and-white sofa (a throwback to the 60s), head drooping onto the shoulder of the large, hairy gorilla sleeping beside him. A hookah lies abandoned at their feet, while the neglected television set casts flickering shadows of an early-morning quiz show only ever watched by those with acute insomnia over the walls.

Faint noises can be heard from the corridor beyond. The second door along is ever-so-slightly ajar, the space behind it just barely illuminated by a combination of the rising sun and streetlamps melting through the window. This room contains two beds - the first is empty, metallic blue covers thrown back as though its occupant left in haste. By comparison, the second bed - a muted beige in colour - is full of movement and sound.

Two beings reside between its covers.

Alternating whimpers from the smaller, younger, prettier one and groans from the bigger, older, handsome one punctuate the silence. Covers slip down over a broad back splattered with freckles, and chipped silver nails rake over the flesh, marking their territory. Black hair fans out against a white pillow in abundance, creating a starkly contrasting photograph - an angel in negative.

Limbs tangle together, torsos push against one another, friction building between flushed bodies. Sweat is shared, foreheads touch, lips brush together. The temperature in the flat is cold enough for rolling clouds of vapour to be visible as they mingle together before dissipating - evidence to the harshness of their breathing. Their murmurings increase in pitch and decrease in coherency, until -

"Howard!"

The euphoric cry spills from kiss-swollen lips as the lithe body underneath writhes and convulses in the throes of le petit mort. Lashes flicker open, closed, open, closed with the effect of a strobe light. The other follows almost immediately, going completely rigid before uttering his piece;

"Vince…"

Somewhere, in the outside world, a dog barks, a car backfires, curse words are shouted as reality casts an ugly shadow over this cosmic scene. Silence reigns again, but for the rapid panting gasps that gradually even out as those whose lungs expel them slowly but surely return to their senses…

And that's how it all begins.

Kind of.

- - - - - X - - - - -

"Howard?"

"Hmm?"

Howard feigns indifference, glancing over the top of the book he's been pretending to read for the last forty-five minutes - Camus' 'The Stranger'. It's particularly hard-going (not that Howard would ever admit to such a thing), and he finds himself half-wishing that somebody had thought to write a guidebook instructing mere mortals on how to understand these works of literature -'Existentialism for Dummies'.

Though even if such a thing did exist, Howard would still be having difficulty concentrating right now. Vince is seated in front of the mirror on the other end of their small hotel room, studiously applying make-up while clad in nothing but that stupid bowler hat he insists on wearing, teeny-tiny electric blue underwear and one of Howard's shirts - which absolutely drowns him. Howard has literally no idea why the younger man has taken it upon himself to 'borrow' from his rather limited supply of garments when he's always been so vocal about his distaste for them. There's something rather suggestively intimate about the gesture, but then Vince has always liked to push the boundaries. Particularly where the tumultuous and often deeply confusing dynamic of Howard-and-Vince is concerned.

"You do know your book's upside-down, don't you?"

Howard jumps and blinks rapidly, startled out of his increasingly dangerous musings by Vince's irreverent drawl. He glances blankly down at the page the volume is open at, and realises, much to his embarrassment, that Vince is right - when is he ever not? He coughs and hastily turns it the right way up.

"I - well - how can you even see, anyway? You're facing the wrong way!"

"I can see you in the mirror, idiot."

Feeling even more foolish than before, Howard looks up hesitantly. Vince's reflection stares right back at him and pulls a face, as if to prove a point.

"Yeah, well… For your information, this is how all us intellectual types read," he snaps back pointedly, though there's no real malice in it, and that makes a nice change. "Helps to assimilate the information better, you know? Get it deep inside your mind cogs. Not that I'd expect you to know about any of that."

Vince snorts disbelievingly. "What're you readin', anyway? Looks well dry."

"Oh, you know, just the works of one of the many great French philosophers -"

"The what?"

"You know - Camus, Sartre -"

"Oh, don't start goin' on about bloody Sartre -"

"You should really start researching more about these people now that you're in their country, little man. When in Rome, do as the Romans do."

Vince looks at him quizzically.

"We're not in Rome, Howard. We're in Paris."

"Yeah, it's an idiom."

"Oi! Watch who you're callin' idiot!"

Howard unleashes his patented long-suffering sigh. "Idiom, Vince. You know; a saying, an expression, a turn of phrase, a figure of speech. You really are beyond hope, you know that?"

"Sticks an' stones, Howard. And anyway, you're wrong."

"Oh, am I now?"

"Yeah. France ain't the country of all them manic-depressives you like to read about. It's the country of art and fashion designers, and pretty girls in hats."

Vince tilts his own titfer back with a self-satisfied smile and turns his attention back to the mirror, lower lip caught between his teeth as he painstakingly constructs whatever masterpiece he's working on. Howard watches in fascination - nothing more than that - as he shades the angles and contours of his face in much the same way he would use acrylics on canvas. Ever since they arrived here, he seems to have been going for 'shock effect' - wearing far less make-up than he normally would, but using it in a more theatrical way than ever before. He draws smooth, fluid lines across his skin in liquid eyeliner - fragile spiderwebs and delicate butterfly wings weaving over his visage.

Howard tells him he looks ridiculous.

Howard thinks he looks beautiful.

This happens every day.

"Whaddaya think?" Vince asks after what seems like an age, turning away from the mirror to give Howard the full effect of his creation.

"You look ridiculous," Howard answers on autopilot.

Vince's face falls for about a-tenth-of-a-tenth-of-a-second, a blip so brief and momentary that anyone who wasn't so finely attuned to every fluctuation in his mood as Howard would have missed it. Then that familiar, crooked smile that's at once sweet and just a little bit wicked breaks across his strangely pointed features.

"Cheers, Howard," he says simply, and stands up, stretching contentedly.

He looks stunning, Howard's mind points out before he can shut it up.

But it's true, all the same, though he's gone for a more understated look today, as though simply to prove Howard wrong. A silver-grey, powdery substance the colour of gunmetal clings to his eyelids. Glitter adorns his cheekbones - God, those cheekbones - and catches the light when he tilts his head, sparkling like a thousand tiny suns implanted under his skin. He's a good deal shorter out of his wretched boots, and his hair is tousled and softer-looking than usual. Though he still takes an awful lot of care with it, he's not been quite as obsessed with getting it perfect since being out of Shoreditch. Standing there in Howard's shirt, he seems simultaneously ethereal and entirely human, and if it weren't for the lack of breasts and copious amounts of dark hair covering his legs, he could easily be mistaken for the kind of woman Howard would very much like to take out to dinner. Not that he's ever taken a woman out to dinner, but the point remains.

And Howard still remembers, no matter how much he tries to put it from his mind - when he sees Vince parading himself around like that with such shameless abandon, he still remembers that incredible body trapped beneath him, those legs wrapped around him and entwined with his own, that pale skin flushed and glistening, that head thrown back with wanton desire, that glorious hair falling over his face until he's choking, drowning in it… and those eyes, those big fucking blue eyes, looking at him - looking through him - fixed on him, and only him, as though he's some sort of all-powerful God that can do anything, be anything, give life or take it with just a flick of his wrist. All feeding his ego exquisitely…

No. Howard won't allow himself to go back there. It was just a brief, temporary moment of sheer insanity, that's all, and now it's over. He isn't going to let it destroy them like it so nearly had done - not when they've gotten so far in piecing their friendship back together since.

It's astounding really, how far they've actually come since that night - that appalling, fateful night upon which Howard had been quite sure that it was all Over - and it really just goes to show how strong the bond between them is. After that last, screaming argument, Naboo had suggested that they go away together for a while in order to reconnect - so now here they are in Paris three weeks later. The city is well-suited to the both of them; full of promise and culture, intellectualism and fashion, music and art. And pancakes.

To most people, living out of a hotel wouldn't exactly sound like a pleasant experience, but Howard and Vince haven't exactly become accustomed to fine living over the years - Howard remembers with a jolt of nostalgia their ramshackle hut in the Zooniverse, where they'd slept on the hard floor in sleeping bags, and in the winter the wind would slither through gaps in the woodwork and they'd have to huddle together to avoid hypothermia…

But they were together, and that was all that had mattered - just as they're together again now, and it's still all that matters. So really, there's no point in dwelling on the circumstances that led them to be here in the first place, because they are here, and that's what matters. The here and the now, that's what matters. That's what matters. That's what…

No. It's not. Things aren't the same - and after what happened, how can they ever be?

- - - - - X - - - - -

It takes Howard a good sixty seconds to realise what he's just done - and more importantly, who exactly he's done it with. The second that realisation hits, however, he's leaping away from Vince like the other man is somehow toxic. He's never felt more ashamed, more disgusted, more humiliated - which is saying something, because the whole of Howard's life so far has just been a series of humiliations. In the space of less than an hour, they've managed to fuck everything over completely - 'fuck' being the operative word.

He stumbles out of bed, trying to locate his clothes - they're everywhere. He can't even remember how it happened, now - it just seems like a colossal blur, an unstoppable chain of events like a line of dominoes falling into one another, each one sending the next crashing down.

They were arguing about something, he does remember that - though what exactly it was escapes his mind. Something stupid, no doubt. They argue about stupid things a lot these days. Then… what? Then, somehow, they were kissing, lips and tongues clashing as violently as their words had only moments before. Then they had started tearing at each other's clothes, and then…

And then it had all changed. As soon as eye contact had been established, the atmosphere had changed, becoming less electric and more… tentative? Was that the right word? And that's the one thing Howard absolutely cannot handle. Maybe if it had just been a quick, passionless fuck, he wouldn't be freaking out so much, but the sheer depth of emotion and feeling he just can't deal with. And he can't even make it impersonal, because he'd used Vince's name…

"Howard…? Where're y'goin'?"

Vince sounds half-asleep, tiredness slurring his words together, and Howard founds himself hoping he doesn't snap out of his post-coital daze anytime soon. He can't bring himself to look over at the bed, though he isn't sure why. Instead, he concentrates all his attention onto getting his shirt back on as quickly as possible.

"Howard."

This time the younger man's voice is sharp as a knife edge, not a trace of exhaustion to be detected. Lady Luck, it would seem, is not on Howard's side tonight.

"Don't you walk away from me, Moon."

Howard does look back at Vince then, simply because he can't help himself. It's a feeling similar to the one most people get when driving past the site of a horrific crash: every atom of your being knows that you shouldn't look, but somehow you can't quite tear your eyes away. It's morbid fascination, pure and simple. His friend - now his lover, Howard realises with a jolt - is half sitting in the bed, holding the sheets up to his chest as though Howard hasn't just seen… as though Howard hasn't just seen everything. His hair is adorably rumpled, and though his tone of voice had been angry, his eyes belie his true emotional state - they're big and round and unsure, almost frightened-looking. Vince is like a wild animal in that way - he uses anger as a shield, lashing out at those closest to him when he doesn't understand something or feels threatened or scared. It's perhaps one of the many reasons why, in spite of his natural charm, Howard is the only person who's ever really gotten close to him.

"I'm sorry," Howard says, because he doesn't really know what else to say. The words are empty as he turns away. Vince doesn't say anything else, which is somehow worse than if he had decided to rant and scream, and the weight of guilt almost crushes Howard as he leaves.

He spends most of the day aimlessly wandering the city, spending a few hours with Lester but not really acknowledging the other man. He doesn't return until late evening. When he does, he is greeted by blank, accusatory stares from Naboo and Bollo, and the wholly unpleasant feeling he has just entered a house in which he is entirely unwelcome.

It's a Friday night, so he half-expects Vince to be out, but upon pushing open the door to their joint bedroom, Howard finds him sat on the edge of his bed staring into space, eyes red-rimmed and hair unstyled, wrapped up in a dressing gown. He can't even look at his own bed - not with the memory of what they did in it still playing a continuous loop in his mind's eye.

"Ever heard of knockin'?" Vince snarls immediately upon the realisation that he's not alone. There's that animal instinct again - a frightened dog backed into a corner, unable to see any other option but to bite. Howard knows he shouldn't rise to it, but he can't help himself.

"Not in my own bedroom."

Vince snorts disdainfully but doesn't say anything further, so Howard takes this as his cue to enter the room. Vince's side is just as much of a mess as ever - clothes and trinkets spilling all over the floor, old plates stacked high around the sides - but Howard's own, usually strictly regimented area is almost as bad. His bedclothes are still rumpled and disorganised from That Night, and several of his jazz posters are hanging in shreds from the walls, as though somebody had clawed at them in a fit of rage. Howard swallows.

"Vince -"

"Why'd you run?" Vince interrupts. Cutting straight to the heart of the matter as ever, but his tone is blunt, flat, resigned, lacking the curiosity and enthusiasm he normally draws from everything. Howard doesn't quite know how to respond, finding himself caught off-guard. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this. Not this flattened, dead, exanimate Vince-robot interrogating him in monotone. He draws himself up to his full height and summons his most pompous tone.

"I was not running, sir, I merely decided to take a leisurely stroll. I didn't realise I needed your express permission to leave the flat."

Suddenly Vince is on his feet, leaping from the bed to pace at the foot of it like a caged lion. His fists clench at his sides, and the effect is somewhat terrifying, but Howard is almost glad for it, because the passion and fury is somehow so much easier to deal with than the emotionless indifference of moments before.

"See, there you go again! Why can't we just have a serious discussion -"

"I wasn't aware we were."

Vince looks very much as though he'd like to hit Howard. Instead, he settles for hurling a plate in his direction; Howard manages to duck out of the way just in time, and it hits the wall where his head had been just seconds before, shattering on impact and spraying shards of porcelain across the room.

"Coward!" Vince shrieks. "You always run away, always!. Even when you're not actually runnin'. Every time someone tries to get close to you - every time I try to get close to you - you just run away, lock yourself inside that head of yours and shut the world out. Every time it looks as though somethin' good might actually happen, you go out of your way to make sure it doesn't! You think I'm shallow, but you have the emotional capacity of a shelf!"

Howard can do nothing but stare. He's never seen Vince lose control like this before - he looks quite mad: eyes bulging, hair in disarray, breathing heavily through his nose. Perhaps a gentler approach is in order.

"Vince," Howard holds up his hands in what he hopes is a placatory manner, "I didn't mean to upset you -"

"Upset me?!"

" - I didn't expect you to react this badly. To be honest, I didn't really expect you to react at all. But 'something good'? Last night - what we did… it was a mistake, surely you must see that."

"Mistake, was I?"

Now Howard is fast becoming irritated. "Look, don't try to play the victim, okay? Don't act all wounded, don't try to pretend that it meant anything to you when we both know it meant nothing. For some reason - God only knows why - but for some perverted reason you decided to manipulate me into sleeping with you. Probably so you can have a good laugh about it with all your mates tomorrow -"

This time it's not a plate that Vince throws, but one of Howard's records. It breaks apart like a vinyl bomb as it ricochets off the wall, and the sight induces a wave of boiling rage within Howard . He is painfully reminded of being held back and forced to watch as the person who was supposedly his best friend took a bite out of his one-of-a-kind pressing.

"You fucking idiot! Do you get some kind of sick pleasure out of systematically destroying the only things that actually matter to me?! What, don't you think you did enough damage the last time?"

"Why don't you just go an' hide in the store cupboard an' give yourself Chinese burns again, then? You care more about your stupid jazz than you do about me, anyway."

But Howard isn't listening; he's still staring at the broken pieces of his twelve-inch on the floor. It's not the only thing shattered in this room; it casts a sad reflection of their relationship. He can still feel the anger pulsing hotly through his veins, and wonders vaguely if this is what hatred feels like.

"Well?" Vince demands. Howard looks at him numbly. "Aren't you gonna 'come at me' or something now? Isn't that how it works? Oh no, I forgot - you already did that, didn't you?"

"Shut up."

Howard's fists clench and unclench in rhythm. He's never, ever laid a finger against Vince before, but right now the prospect is sorely tempting.

"Still, I was good, right?" Vince sneers. "The best you ever had? Oh, wait, my mistake - the only one you ever had."

His manner is wholeheartedly different to how it was earlier - no longer hysterical, but haughtily superior and eerily calm. His Hyde is coming through, the side of his personality that Howard detests - cruel, calculating and condescending, infinitely smarter than the sweet, sunny simpleton that comprises his Jekyll, but a million times more hateable. Through the red haze that seems to have descended over his brain, Howard wonders where he went wrong - what exactly he missed that could have made Vince turn out like this. He feels somewhat like a disappointed father who failed to bring up a rebellious child in the correct way.

"Tell me Howard," Vince continues blithely, smirking all over his face, "how does it feel to be such a pathetic loser that you're nearly forty by the time you lose your virginity to your flatmate - ow!"

The 'ow!' slips out as Howard grabs his arm, fingers sinking into a thin bicep. A sadistic part of his mind revels in the exclamation of pain, and the desire to hurt flares up again. A well-aimed punch should get rid of that smirk; break his nose again, that'll put him in his place. The fist that isn't holding Vince in a vice-like grip tightens convulsively; Vince notices, eyes darting down nervously.

"You gonna hit me now?"

He aiming for nonchalance, Howard can tell, but it doesn't quite work. His bravado is fading fast. Howard has never reacted to Vince's insults this strongly before, and the one thing Vince needs Howard for is grounding, a sense of stability. Now that Howard has shaken up the status quo, he's effectively turned Vince's world upside-down. He half-raises his hand, and Vince cowers slightly. Then he lowers it again. He can't hurt Vince, not ever, and they both know it. No matter what Vince does to him, that's the one line he'll never, ever be able to cross.

For a few lingering seconds, the only sound is of their harsh breathing as they stare at each other: a silent face-off. Then Howard realises he's still holding onto Vince's arm and releases his grip, shoving the smaller man away so violently he stumbles and nearly falls.

"Howard -"

"Just get out of my sight.

"Howard, I -"

"Just GO!"

Vince looks at him a second longer, bottom lip wobbling, then turns and all but runs from the room. Howard sinks to his knees on the floor, completely drained. He picks up a shard of his record, gripping it so tightly that his hand starts to shake and the fragment slices into his palm. Blood begins to trickle down his wrist, but he barely notices.

He can hear Vince sobbing from the living room. He supposes he should feel guilty, but at the moment summoning any kind of emotion is simply too much. At least Vince won't be alone - Bollo will no doubt be comforting him right at this very second. Who does Howard have?

- - - - - X - - - - -

"Would you keep still? Honestly, do you need the bathroom or somethin'?"

"I'm sorry, it's just that I'm not used to having to sit completely still for hours on end, you know?"

Vince shakes his head fondly but declines from commenting, and sets about filling in a moustache-shaped swathe of canvas. It's weird - he hasn't painted in so long - not since the last time he attempted to paint Howard, in fact - and the brush feels clumsy and awkward in his hand, the canvas stretching out in front of him an alien landscape. And yet it still comes so naturally - like riding a bike, it's not something you ever really forget how to do, and he hadn't realised how much he'd missed it until now.

Of course, an added bonus is that doing Howard's portrait gives him the opportunity to simply stare at the other man for lengthy periods of time without raising suspicions. The trouble is that he's so in awe of the vision before him that he's starting to seriously doubt whether it's within his capabilities to mimic it in his art.

Howard is gorgeous - there are no two ways about it. Sometimes Vince feels dizzy just from the sight of him, and he's all the more irresistible for the fact that he just doesn't have a clue. Vince drinks in his every feature, stroking the brush almost lovingly over the rough weave of the canvas as he tries somewhat futilely to recreate a masterpiece. His keen artist's eye picks up on all the subtleties that might otherwise be overlooked: the way in which, small as they are, Howard's eyes still twinkle with unknown mirth; the way his messy hair falls just so over his face; how surprisingly soft-looking his lips are beneath that ever-present mocha stain… Or maybe that's not so much the artist's eye - just the unique perspective of the eye whose owner has been utterly besotted with him for the last ten or so years. He is handsome, though, and Vince doesn't understand why more people can't see it. If Vince is a caricature, with his bright colours and exaggerated features, then Howard is a Renaissance painting: subtle, refined, understated, and astoundingly beautiful.

Only now looking at Howard is somewhat bittersweet, as painful as it's enjoyable. Vince always used to think that if he had the choice, he would rather have just one night with Howard than die not knowing what it felt like to be with him. Now that he has the luxury of hindsight, he realises how dismally wrong he was. Because now he does know - he's had a little taste of heaven, and it's not enough. He wants it all, but he can never have it. And it hurts, more than he could ever have imagined. There's not much that affects Vince, but when he does feel things, he feels them deeply, and the pain of this is almost too much for him to handle.

He can't look at Howard anymore without remembering the way he'd stroked his hair, kissed his neck, rocked against him like the world was about to end and they were the only two people left in it. Sometimes Vince would swear he can still feel Howard's hands on his body, big and strong and powerful, possessing and tentative at the same time. Howard might have been a little nervous at first, but he'd been good - surprisingly good, considering his inexperience. Though maybe Vince was biased. But he'd been so… so careful with him, as though Vince was a china doll he was terrified of breaking. Not that Vince would have objected if he'd been rough - Howard could hold him down, pull his hair, slap him about and he wouldn't care in the slightest, which really only shows how pathetically far gone he is. But Howard had seemed reverent of him, had worshipped him in a way he'd only dreamed of before. The feel of them together was perfect - it just felt right. Or at least, that was what Vince had thought. Evidently Howard didn't agree, for the second it was over he'd successfully shattered Vince's heart into a million pieces.

But even that wasn't the worst of it. No, the worst part was the way in which Howard had seemed so repulsed by Vince during their argument afterwards, as though he couldn't stand the sight of him. Vince is terrified to meet Howard's eyes these days, remembering the way they had had looked then, regarding him with utter loathing. Howard had truly hated him in those moments, he knows, and he now considers the fact that they're even still on speaking terms nothing short of a miracle.

Sighing, Vince attempts to focus his attention once more on his painting. Something about it is bothering him, but he can't quite put his finger on what. And that bothers him more than anything else, because he should be better than this. Painting is the only worthwhile thing he's ever really been any good at. He has his gigs at the Velvet Onion, but he's not quite deluded enough to think he can actually sing. It's not really about that - it's about the posing and posturing, looking good on stage - the sex appeal. All things Vince does rather brilliantly, but they don't really give him any satisfaction - there's no joy to be had from it, just money. It's a bit like prostitution, but without the sex. He has a sudden, horrific mental image of Fossil dressed as a pimp - complete with velvet jacket and cane - and isn't sure whether the thought makes him want to laugh or hurl.

Back when he was at school - further back than he likes to admit - Art was the only class he never failed. It wasn't so much that he was naturally stupid, because he really wasn't - though Howard probably wouldn't agree. It was more that, due to certain circumstances, he never really saw the point investing any effort in subjects that were difficult and/or boring, which, sadly, most of them were. It's not as though it's ever been any huge desire of his to be some great intellectual - just occasionally he wishes that he could be a little bit smarter, if only so he could understand half of what Howard says, so that Howard would actually find what he has to say worth listening to and not look down on him quite so much. Then again, if he hadn't done so dismally in school, he might not even be with Howard now…

- - - - - X - - - - -

It's less to do with luck that Howard manages to track Vince down, and more to do with educated guesswork. He's been looking for his young friend in order to ask him a Very Important Question, and after checking the orphanage to no avail decides that the next logical step is to search all the trendy cafes Vince so loves to frequent.

They've been gradually building up this odd relationship for several months now, and Howard still has no idea how to define it. It feels unerringly strange to someone who has spent the last twenty-one years of existence as a bona-fide social misfit, wanting to be this close to someone - and indeed, having someone apparently wanting to be this close to him - but it's by no means a bad thing. In fact, it's the probably best thing that's happened to Howard in as long as he can remember.

He still can't figure out what exactly it is about Vince - only that something about the kid makes Howard want to be near him. He's just so alive, running on a constant stream of energy and enthusiasm like the Duracell bunny made flesh, and maybe when Howard's around him a little of that rubs off. To say that Howard doesn't form relationships easily would be the understatement of the century, yet being with Vince just feels natural, somehow.

Predictably, he spots his 'new bestest buddy' as he peers in the window of the most horribly stylish coffee bar on the street, a dishevelled head of dark blond hair bent low over the pile of GCSE textbooks that are spread out on the surface of the table. Howard steels himself, taking a deep breath; nerves seem to have suddenly grabbed hold of him, great pterodactyls flapping about inside his stomach. He knows that what he's about to ask will truly test the strength of friendship Vince feels for him. He wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers, hesitates, then pushes open the door and enters the joint.

He still can't see Vince's face, but it has to be him, because he's dressed in some of the most God-awful clothes Howard has ever seen: shiny plastic jacket in a subtle shade of lurid blue, screaming pink t-shirt, hopelessly baggy jeans. He can't see the shoes, hidden under the table as they are, but he's willing to bet they're every bit as offensive as the rest of the outfit. For some reason entirely unknown to Howard, it's vitally important to Vince that he keep up with current fashions, though his version of them always have a distinctly home-made feel, given that he's permanently broke. Howard can't for the life of him understand the appeal - the whole concept seems insane to him. What was it that Oscar Wilde once said? 'Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable we have to alter it every six months.' He'd thought that the last decade had been bad enough, but now the 90s have arrived, bringing with them a deluge of PVC and leopard print, and he suddenly finds himself yearning to see shoulder pads again.

Vince doesn't seem to have noticed Howard's presence, possibly due to the fact that he's listening to his battered old cassette player via a pair of those impossibly huge brightly-coloured plastic headphones that are all the rage at the minute. He looks ridiculous, as though he's sprouted luminous orange growths on either side of his head. The irony is hard to ignore, however - cassettes aren't that uncommon, as the year is 1993 and CDs have only just begun their revolutionary takeover, but Howard is still listening to vinyl. In reality, there are only five years separating Vince and himself, but he suddenly feels unbearably old.

"Vince? Hey - VINCE!"

No response. Well, not from Vince, anyway - several disgruntled coffee-shop patrons turn to him with looks of deep disapproval, which intensify when they realise whose attention Howard is trying to garner. It's not the first time he's experienced this reaction - the general consensus of opinion seems to be that it's simply not right for a man in his twenties to spend time with a sixteen-year-old schoolboy of his own free will. Never mind the fact that they could very well be related for all these people know. Never mind the fact that Howard is only just into his twenties, or that anyone who actually knew Vince would find it impossible to think of him as a child. Granted, he can behave in incredibly childish ways at times, but he also radiates a great deal of maturity and responsibility for his age. Vince gives the impression of someone who's been through far too much in a comparatively short lifetime, yet remains completely unchanged by it at the deepest core of his being. But all of that is by-the-by; people only see what they want to see, and what they see when they look at Howard and Vince's relationship is, on the whole, something decidedly dodgy.

Patience waning, Howard strides over to Vince's table and yanks the headphones off. Startled, Vince looks up, positively beaming when he finally spots Howard. That's something else that Howard can't quite get used to - the fact that Vince always seems so genuinely happy to see him. In his whole life, he's never had anyone else look at him like that before.

"Alright, Howard? What're you doin' here?"

Howard can't answer - he can only stare back in horrified fascination. Now that he can see Vince fully, he realises that his nose is swollen and misshapen, a dark bruise adorning the bridge and spreading to the edges of his cheekbones.

"What the hell happened to your face?!"

Vince's smile immediately becomes a scowl. "Oh, that's nice. You really know how to make me feel good about myself, you know that?" The grin falls back into place as he yawns and stretches, joints cracking. "Seriously, you should see the other guy."

Howard slides into the seat opposite him. "Vince."

"Oh, it's just some kids at school, alright? I can handle it."

"Evidently." A wave of protectiveness wells up inside Howard as his eyes flicker over Vince's face again. "You want me to talk to them for you?"

Vince looks taken aback. "No! God, no. Don't want to get beaten up any more, do I?"

"Fair enough." Howard shakes his head. He's only been out of school five years, and already he's forgotten the rules of the game. There's a moment of silence in which he wonders why the table is vibrating, before realising that Vince's earphones are still emanating awful screeching noises from where they lie forgotten.

"What're you listening to, anyway? Sounds dreadful."

Vince looks highly offended. "How dare you? This is the Sex Pistols, 'Never Mind The Bollocks' -"

"Now there's really no need for that kind of language, is there?"

Blue eyes roll. "It's the name of the album, y'jack of clubs."

"Well, that just says it all, really. Only a bunch of absolute cretins would consider such filth a suitable choice of title for their work."

"They weren't cretins, they were pioneers! Totally revolutionised the face of music! Here, listen."

And before Howard can object, Vince crams the ludicrous speakers over his head with no small amount of force, and he finds himself almost deafened by the volume of the caterwauling:

"We're so pretty oh so pretty VACANT

But now AND WE DON'T CARE"

It's not even slightly more bearable amplified - if anything, it's twenty times worse, and Howard rips the headphones off, grimacing his disdain.

"Dreadful stuff. You call that music?"

"Oh, like you'd know. Listen to any Mingle lately?"

"Mingus," Howard corrects automatically, because he's feeling pedantic. Then, because he's eager to change the subject: "How's the revision coming along, anyway?"

"What?"

"Your exams start in… what, a week, don't they? I assume that's why you've got all your books with you - you didn't just bring them out for a coffee."

"Oh." Vince's face falls. "God, Howard, what am I gonna do? I don't understand any of this - it don't even make any sense! I mean, look, it's got all these Chinese symbols all over the place, what's that all about?!"

"That's not Chinese - it's Greek, you berk! It's the symbol for Pi."

"Pie? M'not hungry, thanks."

Howard sighs, exasperated - not an uncommon feeling when trying to talk to Vince. "Not pie, Pi. You know - three-point-one-four? The constant ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter…?"

It's something like that, anyway. In truth, Howard was never that good at maths - but it would appear he certainly understands better than Vince, who is now staring at him with a totally blank expression. Suddenly the words 'pretty vacant' take on a whole new significance for Howard.

"Oh, it's no use!" Vince moans, tugging on the ends of his hair in frustration. "I'm gonna fail everything!"

"Hey, come on now, it's not as bad as all that, is it?" Howard asks gently, trying to console his companion.

"…It pretty much is. My entire future hangin' in the balance, y'know?"

"Oh, come on, GCSEs really aren't that important."

Vince snorts. "Easy for you to say, you already did yours. What did you get again, six 'A's?"

"Hmmm," Howard replies noncommittally. In actual fact, he achieved a much more humble mix of 'C's and 'D's, but Vince doesn't need to know that. For some reason, he's harbouring under the delusion that Howard is much smarter than he actually is, and Howard doesn't want to shatter that image before he absolutely has to.

"Look, I need five 'C's to get into art college - that's never gonna happen, and what do I do then? The orphanage kicks me out once I finish school - I'm going to be homeless, Howard!"

Howard takes a deep breath. It's now or never - Vince has just provided him with the perfect opportunity to jump in with his proposal.

"You know, Vince," he begins, suddenly hugely fascinated by a coffee stain on the table, "I was actually looking for you today. I… I need to ask you something."

"Go on then, I'm listenin'."

"Well… the thing is… you know the zoo where I work -"

"'Course I do, I came to visit you, remember? It is well genius there."

Howard clears his throat, still staring fixedly at his stain. It's quite nice, really, as far as stains go. "Yeah… you see… you remember my old assistant, Joey Moose - you met him, didn't you? Well, he just got promoted to Head of Marsupials, and now Fossil's saying that if I don't find a new assistant by next week, he's… well, he's gonna fire me. I don't think he's expecting me to find anyone; he'd love an excuse to get rid of me. I wouldn't be surprised if he's just made the whole thing up, actually…"

He lapses into silence as this rather depressing thought occurs to him. Vince waits patiently, cocking his head to one side like a curious Labrador.

"Sorry, what was it you wanted to ask me?" He asks politely.

"For God's sake, Vince, do you need me to spell it out?!" Vince looks a tad hurt, and he softens considerably. "Sorry. Look, I was just wondering… do you want to come and work for me in the zoo?"

For what seems like an eternity but can really only be a few seconds, Vince doesn't say anything; doesn't even move, in fact. Then, very quietly:

"Are you joking, Howard?"

"No, no joke. I mean, I need someone to work for me, and you're clearly not happy at school, and you seemed to love the place when you came to visit, so I just thought… and there'd be free accommodation, so you wouldn't have to worry about not having anywhere to live - mmph!"

Suddenly, in a blur of Technicolor and without any prior warning whatsoever, Vince darts across the table and plants a swift kiss on Howard's lips before throwing his arm's tightly around the startled maverick's neck. The crowded café explodes with disgusted whispers from the other customers; Howard is certain he hears the words 'cradle snatcher'. He reluctantly disentangles himself and pushes Vince gently but firmly back into his seat, hating everyone else in the room for stealing that one small moment of happiness from him.

"Don't touch me."

"Whoops. Sorry, forgot."

Howard studies Vince closely; he's beaming ear-to-ear, smile stretching wide enough to show every one of his crooked teeth. He doesn't appear to have noticed the muttering, but then that's typical of Vince. All of that goes over his head, because he simply doesn't understand why people would assume that there's anything sinister going on in his relationship with Howard. Howard thinks it's partly that innocence that makes Vince so refreshing - kids seem to be getting wise and cynical far too early on in their lives these days. He can't help feeling slightly envious - what he wouldn't give to have Vince's naiveté sometimes.

"Oh, this is gonna be so genius, Howard, you an' me workin' together! When can I start?"

"As soon as possible, I should think. You're sixteen now; you can leave school whenever you want."

"Can I start tomorrow! I can't wait! Do you think the boss'll like me? Can I share your hut? Which animals do I get to work with? Ooh, I wanna see the lions again, they told me they were Adam Ant fans the last time I was there, imagine that! Do I get one of them green jackets, like you've got? Can I customise mine…?

Howard tunes out as Vince jabbers on, talking excitedly at a hundred miles a minute, but his enthusiasm is infectious, and in spite of himself, Howard allows a small, secret smile to slip through his guard. Really, his little mission couldn't have gone better if he'd planned it. Somehow, he has the feeling that he and Vince are going to be together for a long time, rest of the world be damned.

- - - - - X - - - - -

Vince is restless.

Admitting defeat, he swings his legs out of bed and gets up, pacing the confines of the small hotel room. He doesn't sleep well at night generally, but it's always worse when he's somewhere other than his own bed. The problem is down at least in part to the amount of rubbish that goes into his body - years of copious sugar, caffeine and alcohol have undoubtedly taken their toll.

But that's probably not even half the story. The real reason for his sometime-insomnia lies within his own insecurities, rooted deep in his subconscious. During the daytime, he is a constant whirling dervish of energy and speed, exploding with bright colours, happiness and fizzy sunshine. At night, it's not quite that simple. At night, he has no choice but to lie still and listen to the torments of his own demons, the thoughts he works so hard to keep at bay chasing each other round and round the inside of his skull and driving him slowly insane. Vince exists purely as a walking window display, or at least that's how it seems at times; he's something to be admired and desired, coveted, worshipped. If no-one's looking at him, does he still exist? During the daylight hours, he's constantly trying to outrun all the bad things in the world - if he just keeps moving, they'll never catch him up. Once night arrives, all of his vulnerabilities are laid open and he's just as weak, just as helpless as any other victim - if not more so.

What happens to the Sunshine Kid when darkness sets in?

He gets eclipsed.

Sighing, he opens the window and leans out, the cool night air moving his hair about his face, the strands tickling his neck. The city is still wide awake below him, the hustle and bustle of traffic keeping up a constant stream of noise. The atmosphere here is so different to that of London, yet oddly similar. The stars are only marginally clearer - beautiful as it is, Paris is still a city, and comes with the same problems that every city does. The place undeniably has something about it, though - even the smog seems cleaner. Vince is surprised by how little he actually misses home. Oh, he misses the flat, Naboo and Bollo and Leroy, but London itself? Frankly, it's a relief to be away from the clubbing scene, the hordes of rabid admirers - what are they admiring, exactly? He hasn't done anything, he's not famous - he's a shopkeeper. They even all dress like him, where's the originality in that? Admittedly, it had been fun to begin with, but before long the novelty had worn off and he'd just started to find it tiring. He loves the anonymity of a foreign city - no-one knows who he is here, so he doesn't have any reputation to uphold. He can just be himself.

It's ironic, in a way. Vince is all about image, supposedly - his popularity depends entirely on what the Camden elite happens to think of his outfits. Half of his 'friends' would ditch him in a heartbeat if he was caught out with a single hair out of place. Yet for all that, there's only one person whose opinion actually holds any bearing with him. He would happily take a proverbial sledgehammer to his carefully built-up public persona and smash it to bits if it meant a chance at happiness with Howard.

Too bad he knows exactly what Howard thinks of him - that he's a slacker, a drunk, a cheap tart who'll go with anyone who so much as looks at him. A 'futuristic prostitute'. He's not entirely sure what he's done to deserve that label. He likes touching people, and he needs to be near them - that's just the way he is. He's free and easy with his affections, and he'll grant kisses to anyone who asks for them, but when it comes to actual sexual encounters, all of his so-called 'expertise' is pure myth. He's no virgin, but he's nowhere near as comfortable with the concept of casual sleeping around as he's made out to be by all and sundry.

In truth, Vince has always found the idea of sex a little intimidating. His uber-confident façade is really just that - a façade - and he's much more insecure than most people realise. The thought of being committed enough to anyone to lay himself completely bare in front of them, flaws, imperfections and all, is truly terrifying, and nearly all of his past sexual experiences have been half-drunk, rushed, messy, fumbling and awkward. And barring his little tryst with Howard, he hasn't actually had any for about a year now.

In fact, if he's being completely honest with himself, he has to admit that all of his past flirtations since meeting Howard were merely temporary distractions to take his mind off the real object of his affections for a moment or two. The panda, the electro girls, the goth girls, Ruby, the bouncy castle girl - he never really wanted any of them. He'd gotten carried away with the panda after doing a favour for Howard, in the hopes that the other man would be grateful to him for it - though in actuality Howard had forgotten about him while chasing after Mrs Gideon, a married woman who never even remembered his name. The electro girls and the goth girls had both been safe bets, given that they obviously weren't interested in him in the slightest. Ruby had been an attempt to make Howard jealous, though that plan had backfired spectacularly, and the bouncy castle girl was simply to restore his wounded pride after Howard had declared undying love for him and then promptly ditched him not a minute later.

Howard, Howard, Howard, Howard, Howard, Howard. Everything has always been about Howard. Vince hates him at times - hates Howard with every fibre of his being for making him into this pathetic mockery of a man, so different to everything he always wanted to be. He's supposed to be strong, independent, but every decision he's made since he was fifteen years old has centred around Howard. He teased Howard for being Fossil's bitch all those years ago, but if anyone's the bitch here, it's him. He's Howard's fucking lapdog. He'll do anything Howard asks of him - go to the ends of the earth, to hell and back. Actually, he's already done that one.

He sits down on the edge of Howard's bed and gazes down at the other man. His head is turned to one side on the pillow, profile bathed in bluish moonlight slanting through the window. His hair is getting too long again - an errant strand falls over his face, and Vince is gripped with the overwhelming urge to brush it away. He goes so far as to reach out a hand, but he can't quite bring himself to do it, and hovers awkwardly before drawing back, afraid to touch.

There was a time, long ago, when on sleepless nights like this he would wake Howard for words of comfort and perhaps a hug if he was lucky, but the thought of doing so now seems so absurd that he finds himself wondering whether it actually happened, or if those instances are in fact just a figment of his wistful imagination.

- - - - - X - - - - -

Vince wakes abruptly, all twisted up in his sleeping bag on the hard floor of the Zooniverse hut, the faded Kinks t-shirt he wears to sleep in plastered to his body with sweat. His heart hammers wildly in his chest, breath coming in short gasps, and he's still fully disoriented for a good thirty seconds before he realises exactly where he is. That he's safe now.

He runs a hand through his hair and grimaces at the slight dampness he finds there, not to mention the big knotted clump at the back of his head, like a small cushion. He feels weak and shaky, almost feverish, a bit like that time Naboo the kiosk vendor shared those cakes with him. He still isn't entirely sure what was in them, only that Howard went absolutely mental over it. Naboo should probably count himself lucky he didn't wind up in hospital. Or the morgue. He might be a powerful shaman, but he's pretty small, really, and Howard is a big, strong Northerner who can be rather intimidating when he wants to be, especially when he's in 'protective' mode.

Speaking of Howard… Vince wrestles with his sleeping bag, finally freeing himself from it and crawling across the few feet of floor space to where the other man is still slumbering away contentedly, probably dreaming sweet dreams of Mrs Gideon. Vince pushes down the irrational jealousy that stirs inside him at this thought and sits back on his haunches, deliberating. He really shouldn't wake Howard - he's always unbearable the next day if he doesn't get his sleep, and Vince is nineteen years old now; it's about time he stopped being so pathetically needy and clingy. But his nightmare refuses to go away, images of not-quite-forgotten faces screaming and on fire playing in his mind's eye. He knows he won't get back to sleep, either way.

Fortunately, he's saved from making any kind of decision as Howard stirs, possibly sensing Vince's presence, and opens his eyes blearily.

"Vince? Whu…?" He blinks hard, apparently trying to get his thoughts in some kind of workable order. "What time is it?" He manages finally.

"Um… half-past-three?"

"Half past… Jesus Christ, Vince! What the hell are you doing up? And why are you hovering over me in the dark like some kind of creepy voyeur?"

"S'nothin'. Nightmare."

"Oh." Howard visibly softens, unzipping his own sleeping bag and struggling into a sitting position. "What was it about? Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, it's fine, honestly," Vince lies. "I… sorry I woke you."

"Vince. Don't be silly. Come here."

Vince looks back at Howard warily. In the dark, he can just about make out the bigger man holding his arms open slightly. He hesitates, wondering whether Howard is relaxing his 'no-touching' rule, just for this night. Cautiously, he puts a hand against Howard's chest before leaning his head against it. He feels muscles tense beneath him, and goes to pull away, disappointed, but Howard merely puts an arm about his shoulders, tightening his grip and lying back down so that Vince is resting on top of him. Vince sinks into him, sighing contentedly. As he's learnt from rare occasions such as this one, Howard makes for a particularly comfortable pillow. He feels a hand begin to pat the top of his head awkwardly, and he can't help but smile. Howard might be bumbling, withdrawn and clueless, but he means well. He can be a little tactless at times, but ultimately his heart's in the right place.

"Where are your parents, Vince?"

Now it's Vince's turn to tense as the unexpected question cuts the silence in the room.

"What?"

"You were in an orphanage when I met you, and it just occurred to me that I never even thought to ask."

"Oh." Vince contemplates this. "Well, I ain't got any. Y'see, I was brought up in the forest by Bryan Ferry. That's where I learned how to talk to animals - 'e used to leave me with 'em when 'e went off to gigs. Aw, I 'ad some brilliant times with Bryan and the gang - I'll have to tell you about 'em some time. We lived in a house made of bus tickets, imagine that! Anyway, one day Bryan told me that he'd taught me all 'e could, that I 'ad to go out into the real world and interact with other kids, so… here I am."

Vince is somewhat surprised by the readiness at which the lie slips from his mouth, as though he's been planning it for months, and he isn't even sure why he's bothering. It's not exactly as though he expects Howard to believe him - the story is utterly ludicrous. But what is he supposed to say? That his biological mother had him at fifteen and gave him up for adoption? That his adoptive family burned to death in a house fire when he was eight years old? Howard doesn't need to know any of that. Better to stick with his lie. Better to remain in his fantasy world than accept reality.

"That must have been interesting," Howard remarks mildly. Vince is surprised; he'd expected a good deal more pushing than that. But then, maybe that's the mark of a true friend - someone who'll let him cling to his delusions rather than have him face the ugly truth.

He yawns widely, suddenly overcome with tiredness again. Already he can feel his eyelids begin to droop, consciousness slipping away.

"Mmm… m'sleepy now, Howard."

"Go back to sleep then, little man," Howard murmurs, chest rumbling beneath Vince's cheek. "I promise I'll stay right here with you."

Vince nestles his head more securely into Howard's shirt before allowing his eyes to drift shut. His last thought before sleep takes hold is that if they mean he can have moments like this, maybe the nightmares are worth it.

- - - - - X - - - - -

"Vince! That's not fair; you have to let me have some, at least!"

"I don't think so, Howard. We both know you can't hold your drink, and I don't think the other guests in this hotel need to hear your rendition of 'Lovecats' at this time of night."

Grinning, he raises the bottle of red wine to his lips and takes a long pull from it. A stray drop escapes and runs down his throat, standing out starkly against the paleness of his skin. Howard has to battle with every muscle in his body to stop himself from darting forwards and licking it away.

Vince sets the bottle down on the little table in the corner of the room and collapses on his bed. Howard sits down next to him, silently relieved; they're both painfully aware of the fact that getting drunk would not be a stellar idea right now. He turns his head to look at Vince, and is somewhat startled to see the almost thoughtful expression on his face. Howard knows that look - it's the look that normally means Vince is concocting some kind of deranged plan that will inevitably land them in mortal peril.

"You wanna play 'Truth', Howard?"

Howard eyes him warily. "That depends… what exactly does this 'Truth' entail?"

"Oh, Howard, you haven't lived, have you?" Vince shakes his head sadly. "It's pretty much the same as 'Truth or Dare', just without the 'Dare' part. We just ask each other questions, and we 'ave to answer honestly. It's dead easy, really - even you can't mess up something that simple."

Howard frowns. He's sure Vince must be going somewhere with this, but he can't quite figure out his M.O. at the minute. The premise seems innocuous enough, and if it starts to go in a direction he isn't comfortable with, he can always stop playing, can't he?

"I… yeah, okay. Let's give it a go."

"Excellent!" Vince grins again. "Go on, then - ask me a question!"

"What? Oh… um… What - what's your favourite film?" He improvises, somewhat lamely.

"Rocky Horror Picture Show, and that was a bit of a wasted turn, since you already knew the answer. They gotta be proper questions, like. Stuff you don't already know."

"Vince, I'm fairly sure that by now we know pretty much everything there is to know about each other."

"Oh, I guarantee there's lots of things you don't know about me, Howard," Vince replies enigmatically. "Right, my go!"

Howard's stomach clenches in anticipation. What on earth possessed him to agree to this? He's basically just given Vince an excuse to grill him over every tiny little detail of his life. He tries not to think about all the sordid happenings of the past Vince could choose to torture him over, such as that fateful magazine photoshoot, or -

"You and Gideon," Vince decides on finally, pointing a lazy finger at Howard, "what was all that about?"

Howard exhales in relief. Really, it could have been a lot worse than that. He's half-surprised Vince even remembers that period of their lives - it's not something they discuss very often.

"I don't know…" He begins slowly, unsure of how to phrase his answer without giving too much away. "She was everything I should have been looking for in a woman, everything I knew my perfect partner should have been - intelligent, cultured, mysterious… But looking back on it now, I don't think I ever really felt anything for her."

"Never felt anything for her?!" Vince echoes incredulously. "Then what was with the obsession? The stalking? The…" he wrinkles his nose, "… cream poetry?"

Howard hesitates, choosing his words carefully. "I think I talked myself into believing I had feelings for her because she was… safe, I suppose. I wanted people to think I was some kind of tortured, romantic poet, but I didn't actually want a relationship - I don't like to be touched, for one thing. The best solution to the problem was to spend all my time pining for a woman who couldn't even remember my name."

Vince remains silent for several seconds, eyeing him with the strangest of looks. "…Wow. You're actually insane, you know that?"

Howard glares at him. He'd known this stupid game was a bad idea. But at least now he's off the hook for a while, because -

"Go on then, you ask me a question now. A proper question this time."

"When did you lose your virginity?"

The question tumbles from Howard's mouth without his consent or permission, and the second it's out in the air he's left to wonder where in the hell it came from. Vince doesn't say anything, but two pink spots of colour appear in his cheeks and he begins to twist his hands together in his lap.

"Sorry, Vince, I dunno where that came from," Howard apologises, cringing internally. "I mean, I - it's too personal, forget I asked."

"No, s'okay, Howard, really. They're supposed to be personal questions; that's kinda the whole point of the game. Much better than your last attempt." He grins, albeit a little shakily, then sighs. "I was twenty-four."

Howard's eyes widen to almost-normal size. "Really?"

"Surprised?" Vince asks wryly.

"No! I mean… yeah, I suppose I am, a little. I mean, I knew you then!"

The other man raises an eyebrow sardonically. "Howard, I was fifteen when I met you. I know you think I'm a tart, but really."

Howard stares at him. He's never really considered Vince in those terms before, never thought of him in the context of timid, unsure first-times. As far as Howard is concerned, Vince has always been an impenetrable force of brazen sexuality, so he's more than a little surprised by this impromptu confession. Maybe he doesn't know his friend as well as he thinks he does. But that's okay - he's got more than a few secrets of his own.

"I don't think you're a tart," he says, because it's the only suitable response he can think of.

"Yeah, you do. But it's okay, I'm used to it. For the record, I think you're the biggest prude ever to walk the planet, so I reckon we're more or less equal."

"Oi!"

"Sorry, Howard," Vince smirks, looking like he doesn't mean it in the slightest. Then he sobers. "Anyway, yeah. I was twenty-four. And don't look at me like that; s'not like I didn't have offers before then. I'm not quite as desperate as you. Just, I dunno, I wasn't that interested. Didn't really need anyone else, 'cause I 'ad yo - I 'ad my friends," he amends hastily, but Howard knows what he was about to say and smiles a little.

"Then one day I wound up at this party an' this guy was checkin' me out. I was drunk, he was drunk, we danced a bit, one thing led to another an' 'e ended up takin' me home. Cooked me breakfast an' called me a cab next morning, sweet as you like, an' I never saw 'im again. An' you know what I felt afterwards?"

"What?"

"Nothin'. Just relief, really, that I'd gotten it over an' done with an' it wasn't gonna be hangin' over my head anymore."

"…I'm sorry."

Vince rolls his eyes in what can only be exasperation. "Fucksake, Howard, would you grow a pair? There's nothin' to be 'sorry' about. I'm not, I don't regret it. It weren't perfect, but that's the way things happen, innit? What, did you think it was gonna be some epic summer romance, frolicking in the meadow? Real life ain't like that."

Well, this is certainly a role-reversal. "And what would you know of 'real life'?"

Vince snorts. "I know a good deal more'n you do, Howard Moon, scribblin' meaningless poems for women you've never even spoken to in your little booklet; harpin' on about love but not even lettin' anyone touch you. Still clingin' to all those childhood dreams of fame that somehow never came true."

"I don't really think you've got an awful lot of room to talk on that score. What happened to 'Vince Noir, Rock 'n' Roll Star'?"

"I think the name has a cool ring to it," Vince mutters, almost to himself. "Look, all I'm sayin' is, most of the time things don't work out the way you want 'em to. I mean - look what happened your first time!"

Their eyes meet for a long moment. It's the first time either of them has acknowledged What Happened since coming out here. Then Howard drops his gaze, blushing guiltily.

"Actually Vince, I, erm… I have a bit of a confession to make, there."

"What?"

"When we… you know… well, that - that wasn't my… wasn't my first time."

He has to force the words out; he can't bear to look at Vince. He feels ashamed, tainted, and he has no idea why.

"Oh," Vince utters quietly. "But you said - at your party -"

"My party was a long time ago, little man. It was - when I was filming in Denmark with Jurgen. This woman just kept coming on to me, and I - well, I didn't really know what to do. In my defence, she was very persuasive."

"I bet," Vince says, with a laugh totally devoid of humour.

"I'm sorry." Howard doesn't really know what he's apologising for, but he feels it needs to be said anyway.

"Don't be. It's not like you owed me anything."

Something in the way Vince says it - soft and sad, with so many different possible inflections - makes Howard look at him, really look at him, for the first time in what feels like years. It's when Vince says things like that he wonders whether friendship really is all the younger man feels for him. Most of the time, the possibility of there being something more seems so absurd that it doesn't even bear thinking about, but occasionally something will happen to make him start to question it again. For his own part, there are definitely some feelings there, though he's only recently been made aware of them - they seem to have crept up on him over time, so the day he woke up and they were there he barely even noticed - but he's never liked to explore them deeply. For fear of what he might find.

"Hey."

He puts a finger under Vince's chin and tilts his head round until he has no choice but to meet Howard's eyes. For some reason, it's vitally important to him that Vince understands.

"It didn't mean anything, okay? I didn't… feel anything for her, and if I could take it back I probably would. It was stupid, but it happened, and there it is. Anyway," he grimaces, "once it was over she asked me to leave the money on the table, so the joke was on me, really."

Vince's eyebrows disappear into his fringe. "You slept with a prostitute? Classy, Howard. Very classy."

"Well, I didn't know she was a… prostitute at the time, did I? Or I might have thought a bit harder about it."

"You idiot, Howard," Vince admonishes, but there's affection in his tone, and a smirk playing about his lips which soon blossoms into a full-blown smile, which becomes a giggle, and before long Vince is laughing hysterically about nothing at all, and Howard quite can't stop himself from joining in. He laughs like he hasn't laughed in years; loud, throaty and genuine, until his eyes are streaming and he's gasping for breath.

"I needed that," Vince admits, once the fits have subsided. Then he falls silent again, chewing his thumbnail in that way that means he has something he needs to say and isn't quite sure how to come out with it.

"Howard…?" He begins, almost shyly. That can't be a good sign. Vince is never shy; it just doesn't happen.

"Hmm?"

"Do you still think it was a mistake? What we… what we did?"

"Do you?"

"That's not what I asked. But just for the record, I never did."

Howard isn't sure what surprises him more: what Vince said, or the fact that he believes it. This game of 'Truth' seems to have gotten vastly out of hand.

"I don't know, Vince. I just…" He trails off, unsure of how to finish. For all his self-proclaimed skill with words, the right ones always seem to escape him when he needs them most.

"Yeah. I know."

Vince sighs and leans his head against Howard's shoulder - but tentatively, almost as though he's afraid. Howard's throat tightens. Vince being afraid of him must surely mean that something has gone terribly wrong somewhere in the world. Before he can over think it and chicken out, he places his arm around Vince's shoulders, and the smaller man relaxes slightly, seeming to melt into his side. Howard is vaguely surprised by how easy and comfortable it is, now that he's gotten over the technicalities. That's the story of Howard's life, really - he spends so long hung up on the details that he often fails completely to see the bigger picture.

"We really fucked up this time, didn't we, Howard?"

"Yeah, we pretty much did. We're getting better though, aren't we?"

"I don't know. Are we?"

"I thought we were."

"…I'm scared."

This time Howard can't hide his surprise. He appreciates exactly how much this must be costing the other man; that little admission goes so far against the Vince Noir Manifesto, it's not even funny. Rule number one: never, ever show any signs of weakness, no matter what the situation.

"Why are you scared, Vince?"

"I can't lose you, Howard. You're all I have, really. An' I know I can be a right little tit to you at times, but that's partly 'cause… I dunno, really. Partly it's just to get back at you, because you ain't exactly been a saint to me over the years either, y'know? But I think it's also 'cause maybe it'll make it easier to cope with when you finally do leave for good. Only it doesn't really work, 'cause every time you say you're goin' I panic a bit that I'm never gonna see you again. But you will do, Howard; one day, you'll get bored of me, and you'll walk out that door and you won't come back."

Howard tightens his grip. "Don't be stupid - we're a double act, me and you. I'm not going to leave you."

"Everyone leaves, Howard."

There's no self-pity or indulgence in the statement - it's just a simple truth, put across very matter-of-factly. And yet it still manages to make Howard depressed, perhaps because it's Vince saying these things. Vince Noir, the eternal optimist, spouting imagery bleak enough to make Haabermaster himself jealous.

"When did you get so cynical?"

"I learnt from the best."

Vince squeezes Howard's wrist in what is presumably supposed to be a comforting gesture, only he catches a particularly sore spot and Howard flinches before he can stop himself. He can't see Vince's face, but hear can almost hear him frowning.

"What?"

"It's nothing, honestly -"

Vince isn't having any of it. He lifts Howard's arm from around his shoulders and brings it to his eye level, pulling back his sleeve and studying the offending wrist intently. The flesh is stretched and broken and burnt raw, bruised in shades of purple and angry red. Vince grasps it again, but more gently this time, running his thumb soothingly over the abused skin. He turns his head and looks up at Howard with big, sad eyes.

"You know I hate that you do this to yourself," he says quietly.

Howard has no answer for him. He hangs his head, feeling strangely exposed, as though he's sitting there completely naked in front of Vince.

"Is it me?" Vince presses. "Is that why you do it? Am I really that bad?"

"No! Well… it's not just you, anyway. It's just…" he sighs. "Look, Vince, you know what your problem is?"

Vince laughs somewhat ironically. "Enlighten me."

"You always want to help people. Ever since I met you… I remember at the zoo, no matter how many times I told you not to get too close to the animals, whenever one of them was close to passing away, you would just… sit with them for hours, talking to them and making sure they were as comfortable as possible before they went. None of the other keepers would do that, but you… you saw it as your duty or something. And all these insane things you do - like inviting that crazy fox into the house because you felt sorry for it -"

"Alright, I already apologised for that! But 'e was homeless, Howard, what was I supposed to do? 'E asked me to kill 'im!"

"But that's just it! You do all these stupid, mad, dangerous things that end up nearly getting us killed, but more often than not it's because your heart's in the right place and you're trying to help someone out. God knows you've saved my life more times either one of us can count. I mean… I don't know. It's sweet, and I wish I could be more like that sometimes, but… You can't save people from themselves, Vince. Maybe you just have to accept that people sometimes can't be fixed. Maybe you need to concentrate more on fixing yourself every once in a while."

"Never thought I'd hear you say I need to think more about myself."

"I'm serious, Vince. You're living for other people - you're doing anything but actually living. When was the last time you actually did something for yourself, not just to please me, or Naboo, or Fossil, or your adoring masses?"

"I like making people happy."

"And that's good, but it shouldn't be a full-time job. What do you want, Vince, really? If you could have anything?"

"Would it seem awfully forward and just a little bit clichéd if I said 'you'?"

Howard's heart is in his throat. He can't have heard Vince right, but he has done, he knows. He doesn't think they're playing a game anymore, but if they are, it certainly isn't one he knows the rules to.

"Possibly. I'm not sure. All these boundaries are starting to get a bit blurred, to be honest."

"Howard…?"

Vince's voice is little more than a whisper now, low and husky and shaking just a little.

"Yeah?"

"Howard, I'm… touching you."

Howard looks down and is almost surprised to see that Vince is right; his hand is still holding onto Howard's wrist loosely, thumb running over the delicate skin in little circular motions. Now that all of his attention is focused upon it, the touch seems electric; the hairs on his arm stand up on end, raising little rows of goosebumps. With no small amount of effort, he drags his gaze back up to Vince's face.

"So it would seem."

"Don't you mind?"

Howard pretends to consider this, though he already knows the answer. Deep down, he thinks he's probably always known it; it's just been buried deep in his subconscious where he hasn't dared to look before.

"I… I don't know. Maybe you'll just have to do it some more. So we can be sure."

Vince's sharp intake of breath is audible. He shifts round so that he is facing Howard on the narrow bed, eyes locking together. Then, very slowly, he moves his hand, sliding it along the length of Howard's forearm, leaving the skin tingling and sensitised in its wake. It rounds the corner of his elbow, skimming lightly over his bicep and shoulder, the curve of his neck, and finally coming to rest at the side of his face, cupping his cheek. Howard leans into the touch. This is all too intense. He wants this moment to end, and he wants it to stretch on forever.

"How about this?" Vince whispers.

"Yeah… yeah, that's good," Howard just about managed to choke out.

Vince's other hand comes up to join its partner, light fingers moving over the lines and contours of Howard's face as though he's trying to commit every detail to memory. There's still a nervousness in the actions, though, as if he's fully expecting to be shoved away at any minute. He traces the overhang of Howard's brow, the slope of his nose, smoothing his moustache and then probing at his lips, gentle as a puff of air.

"And this?"

"That's good too."

Now Vince shuffles even closer to Howard and leans forward until their faces are less than a centimetre apart; Howard can feel every one of Vince's soft exhalations, count his eyelashes, make out every individual shade of blue in his irises…

"What about… this?"

This time Howard doesn't bother with a reply; he simply shuts his eyes and closes the rest of the distance between them, pressing his lips to Vince's. Vince immediately responds in kind, sliding his hands behind Howard's neck and interlocking them as he moves his mouth against the other man's, the slow pace not quite hiding the underlying tones of need and passion beneath the surface, just barely restrained, like a dam that's about to burst. He hums slightly, and Howard feels the noise vibrate against him, tickling his moustache.

Howard is rather getting the hang of this kissing malarkey now, so when he feels Vince's tongue slide against his bottom lip, hot and wet and insistent, he knows what to do and gladly opens his mouth to let him in. Vince lets slip another one of those blissful sighs and his hand finds its way to the base of Howard's skull, winding the curls round his fingers. Howard strokes his own tongue over Vince's and pushes his hands under the thin cotton of his shirt to grip his bare shoulder blades, ignoring the voice in his head telling him that this is a very very bad idea, because kissing Vince like this is the best feeling in the world and he wants it to carry on forever.

The kiss grows more intense; they're pushing against each other more fiercely now, locked in some kind of strange mortal combat. Howard runs his hands down Vince's sides, feeling the bumps of his ribs, and Vince swings a leg over Howard's to straddle his lap, never once breaking the kiss. Howard can't quite help the moan that escapes him - he loves the feel of Vince's weight on top of him, his hips trapped between those powerful thighs. Long tendrils of dark, glossy hair fall forwards onto his face, and Howard reaches up bury a hand in it, revelling in the whine that escapes Vince's throat at the attention.

When the eventual need to breathe pulls them apart, they stare into each other's eyes for the longest of moments, waiting to see whether either of them will return to their senses. When neither of them does, Howard moves in again to kiss the side of Vince's neck, tongue flicking out to lap at his pulse point, lips moving over his larynx before exploring the dip of his collarbone. As he travels further down, he grabs the collar of Vince's shirt in his fist and pulls the stretchy fabric out of the way to allow him access to even more of the pale, silken flesh. Vince whimpers and squirms against him, and the little voice in Howard's head gives up and goes back to sleep, because anything that makes Vince sound like that must surely be worth the consequences.

Howard shivers as Vince gets to work on unfastening his shirt, one button at a time, running his hands over every new inch of skin exposed to him, as though he can't quite get enough. Howard's fingers drum against the waistband of Vince's jeans before sliding underneath and squeezing the soft roundness with just enough pressure to make Vince gasp above him.

"Howard…"

It's the first either of them has spoken since the kiss was first initiated, and it seems to break whatever spell it is they're under. Vince's hands still and he leans back, shaking his head slightly as if coming back to reality after a particularly vivid hallucination.

"Howard, what are we doing?" He looks panicked; his voice is all high the way it gets when he's distressed. "We can't do this, not again."

"Why not?"

"Because…" Vince's eyes dart from side to side as though he's desperately searching for an escape route. Evidently he doesn't find one, because a second later his shoulders slump in defeat.

"Because I love you."

Howard blinks. That's the last thing he expected to hear, and yet… and yet it doesn't surprise him in the slightest. Because he realises that it's always there - that it's always been there, in every look, in every touch, in Vince's smiles - his real ones, not the cold sneer he seems to have been favouring lately - and in his eyes when he looks at Howard like he's the only other person on earth. Even in the way he vandalises Howard's possessions and besmirches his good reputation, like a little boy trying to win the affections of the prettiest girl in the class by stealing her Barbie dolls.

"I know."

As he says the words, he realises that they're true. Perhaps he's always known; he just hadn't realised it until this precise moment. He feels rather like he's been clubbed over the head as his brain tries to assimilate this new information.

"It's okay, really," Vince rushes to reassure him. "I know you don't feel the same, I don't mind. I'll still be your friend - I'll always be your friend. Haven't I already told you how much I need you? But I can't… I can't be your - your fuck buddy, or whatever else this is. I can't do 'best friends with benefits', because I'll always be wanting more. So yeah - I love you, Howard, but unless you can say it back, I can't be with you… not like this."

Howard considers this. He knows what Vince is asking of him, knows it's not something to be taken lightly. It's all or nothing - Vince wants his total commitment, or his friendship, but absolutely nothing in between. He thinks about the unacknowledged feelings formerly buried deep within his subconscious, and what exactly they might mean. He's obviously very physically attracted to Vince on a sexual level - that much is a given. And he loves him deeply as a friend, when he's not being a massive bitch. But what about the other stuff? Can he see himself waking up next to Vince every morning? Doing all that domestic stuff, calling each other names like 'sweetheart' and 'darling' (rather than 'jazz freak' and 'electro ponce')? Can he picture them being couple-y in front of their friends, in front of Naboo and Bollo and Leroy and Lester? To put it in a nutshell; does he, in fact, want to spend the rest of his life with Vince?

If Howard is being completely honest with himself - which, in a rare turn of events, he is - he has to admit that the answer to all of those questions - and particularly the last one - is undeniably 'yes'. Just those two weeks he spent in Denmark without Vince had felt like hell, and not just because of humiliating ad campaigns. He thinks back over all the 'man and wife' comments they've been on the receiving end of over the years and smiles to himself. Apparently they're just about the only ones who didn't see this coming.

As this last revelation slowly sinks into Howard's mind, he feels as though there might just be another 'shouting from the rooftop' moment coming on. But that can wait. There are more pressing matters at hand right now.

"I love you, Vince."

He says the words slowly, testing them out. He's said them before, but never with this inflection behind them. He's surprised at how natural it feels, as though he's been saying it for years.

Vince closes his eyes, as if he's battling some kind of great internal pain.

"Howard, please… don't say things like that if you don't mean it. It's not fair."

Howard grabs Vince by the arms - possibly a little harder than he intended to, as Vince yelps and nearly falls backwards off his lap. He's not entirely sure what's come over him, only that it's imperative he make Vince understand before he loses this chance forever.

"Vince, listen to me. I… I've been a bloody idiot. I've spent so long chasing after people I never really wanted - and who certainly didn't want me - when you were there all along. I don't know how I didn't notice before, because you're brilliant. You… you make my life worth living, to be honest, because when I'm with you I don't feel like such a sad, tired, miserable old bastard anymore. You make life fun. And everything I said before was a hundred percent true, about you always wanting to help people. You try to hide it, but you're a good person; the best person I know. And I still can't quite get over how beautiful you are now, because to me you'll always be the sparkly little oddball in the second-hand clothes I met all those years ago. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that… Vincent Noir, I love you. I think I always have, I just needed a… a push to make me realise it. And I would very much like to give the whole relationship thing a go with you. If… if you'll still have me, that is."

Vince doesn't answer, just launches himself at Howard with so much force he nearly unbalances them both, burying his head in the other man's neck. Howard wraps an arm around him and holds him close, surprised to realise that Vince is shaking slightly, and there's a suspicious wetness seeping into the collar of his shirt.

"Vince… are you crying?"

"No," Vince mutters, a reply which would have been a whole lot more convincing were it not for the very obvious tremor in his voice. Howard laughs.

"You big girl."

Vince draws back, and Howard courteously ignores the fact his eyes are watering and his eyeliner is smudged around his face. He leans in to kiss him again, but Vince pulls back further, out of reach.

"Howard, I was thinkin'… Maybe we ought to take this slow, y'know?"

"Is that… what you want?"

"No. But I think it's what I need. We both do."

Howard frowns, uncomprehending. Vince obviously notices and takes pity on him, proceeding to explain patiently, the way in which one would do with a particularly recalcitrant child.

"Look. Last time, everything happened so fast, and it nearly tore us apart. I don't want it to be like that again. I want to do it right, this time."

Much as Howard doesn't want to, he concedes that Vince probably has a point. It's odd - the situation isn't really one he's given a lot of thought, but had he have done, he wouldn't have pictured it this way around, with Vince taking the more mature, cautious angle. Just goes to show that people really can change.

"Yeah, okay. Slow. Shit. I can do that."

Carefully, as though handling something delicate and easily broken, he lifts Vince up and places him back down on the bed, brushing his hair back behind his ear and kissing the top of his head.

"Night then, Vince. I'll see you in the morning, yeah?"

He goes to move back towards his own bed, but Vince stops him, grabbing his hand.

"Howard wait. Stay with me. Please?"

"Thought you wanted to take it slow?"

"I do. I'll be good, I promise. I just want to sleep next to you."

"I think I can just about manage that."

Vince smiles his gratitude. "Thank you. Just let me get changed, yeah?"

They both strip down to their underwear before climbing into the small, made-for-one bed. Vince cushions his head on Howard's chest, clinging tightly to him as though to prevent him from running away again. Howard's left hand rests lightly on the small of Vince's back, while his right gently strokes his hair in slow, soothing motions. It's another one of those new things that feels oddly familiar. Howard suspects there'll be a lot of them.

"Howard?"

"Hmm?"

"I think I'm ready to go home soon."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Good. Then you can take me on a date, make this thing official."

Howard raises an eyebrow, not that Vince can see it. "Date?"

"Yeah, a date. You know; just the two of us, doin' something romantic, sharing intimate conversation. I know you ain't been on any, but I assume you know what they are."

"Smartarse. Haven't had the opportunity to go on one before, have I?"

"Plenty of opportunity now, Howard."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Don't care. Anywhere. Surprise me."

Vince yawns and snuggles in closer to Howard, sighing contentedly.

"Think I'm gonna have to go to sleepy now, Howard."

"Night night then, little man… Love you."

"Mmm… love you too."

Breathing slows as two bodies begin the slow descent into sleep. The bed they lie in is identical to the other forty-nine beds in this hotel. In the room on their left, an elderly couple snores in unison while the news carries on in the background, unnoticed. On their right, a businesswoman rants into a phone in rapid, angry French. Downstairs in the foyer, the concierge sleeps sprawled across his desk; another uneventful evening on the nightshift. The doorman outside watches impassively as a gaggle of American tourists goes by, gaping at the sights in spite of the obscene hour. He's seen it all before.

The first hints of orange light break on the horizon as the sun begins its slow climb into the sky over the city of Paris. A city of promise and culture, intellectualism and fashion, music and art. A city of pancakes. But above all - and especially on this day in particular - a city where magic can happen, patching together broken friendships and making them into something so much more. A healing city.

The city of love.

So I'll love whatever you become
And forget the reckless things we've done
I think our lives have just begun
I think our lives have just begun

'Falling Away With You' - Muse