I will update Dancers Of The Night soon, promise, probably this weekend. I would blame the lack of writing on having started a full-time job at last but it's basically still down to pure laziness. :P But here's something I just writ as a stress outlet last night. Just because. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

He does a double check to make sure he won't be disturbed. He tiptoes up the stairs and peeps up to make sure either the flat is empty or his boss and gorilla flat mate are comatosed on the sofa.

When all is as he hopes, he comes back down, turning the 'Open' sign to 'Closed.' Not that it will make much difference. The only reason why anyone would enter the shop has gone for his daily ritual at the nearest Topshop.

The coast is clear. He enters the stock room.

It doesn't happen at first. It's difficult to do something that you discipline yourself to hold back so much. But it doesn't take long for the memories, the insults, the neglect and the abuse - all presented in sepia tone flashbacks - to come flooding to his mind. And that's it.

He slumps to the floor in his usual spot and makes himself as small as he can. The smaller he is, the less likely he is to be stepped on. Unfortunately, that's not the case most of the time. For someone so generic and forgettable, he seems to be fate's biggest target to throw shit at constantly. He knows that he brings a lot of it on himself. But there's a lot that no one would say he deserves. It's always him and it's never ending. There's no escape, no safe haven, and even the musical past times he loved could turn against him in the form of a creepy, smooth-talking humanoid virus.

This is all he has. Twenty minutes a day, sometimes more, where he's alone in the cupboard, and it all comes out.

The tears move swiftly and silently down his cheeks and the shame of crying only brings on more. He never cried as a child. Whenever his lip would so much as wobble because of a bully at school or one of his father's outbursts, his mother would always remind him, softly yet firm, that big boys didn't cry. And all Howard wanted was to be a big boy. A strong boy. A man of action. Someone to be proud of.

But as the years flew by like the pickets of a fence caught in a hurricane, Howard found it less easy to keep things bottled up, without the occasional cry when alone. After all, like a tree falling in a forest, it didn't count as weakness if nobody saw it. And the more 'nobody' was around, the more Howard was free to let it out. For a few moments a day, he was safe to be weak, where no one could hurt him again.

His head snapped up at the sound of heels clicking on the floor outside of his sanctuary. He hadn't realized he'd been wailing until it hit him that he hadn't heard the bell of the shop ring.

"H'ward?"

His heart seems to clench and shake to mimic his fists. He's not stupid enough to believe that staying quiet will make Vince believe he isn't there. Yet he's afraid to speak in case the pitch and scratch of his voice gives him away like a siren. As it happens, he fails to think of a reply, and a reluctant sob arises to make it for him.

The door clicks open and Howard buries his head in the crevice of his knee-caps drawn up to his chest. He waits for the inevitable.

"....Wassa'matter?"

No. That's not it. C'mon, where is it?

".....Howard, please, tell me what's wrong." Vince edges closer, and through the worry in his voice there's a tiny touch of demanding.

Howard knows this is all wrong. Is he doing it to tease him? He shouldn't be worried. He shouldn't care. This is the perfect opportunity Vince, or any of them for that matter, any of them need. He's let his guard down and been caught out so why the fuck isn't Vince taking advantage of it?

Why is it he gets down on his knees before him? Why is it his fingers tuck a loose chocolate-brown curl behind Howard's ear and a soothing 'shh' invades his circle of distress?

He lifts his head up slightly and the trademark smirk he'd come to know of late isn't painted across Vince's face. Instead, his eyes are bigger than usual and shimmering in the light of the flickering light-bulb with tiny, welling, tears of concern. For a while he says nothing, waiting with out of character patience for Howard to reply, before his instincts kick in and he tries to coax once more;

"C'mon, trouble, I can't sort it out unless I know what it is, can I?" He says it as if addressing a small child.

His sweet touch is too unnerving. There are many things Howard's learned to put up with. Lazy Vince, narcissistic Vince, distracted Vince, stubborn Vince, even somewhat spiteful Vince. But Vince being this close to him? Vince wanting to fix him by invading his boundaries so much? That's something he's never been able to tolerate, and he thought that ship had long since sailed away.

He shouldn't need Vince. He should be able to save himself, to succeed on his own, to not be so fucking sensitive.

Vince sits opposite him and pulls his legs to his chest, copying Howard's pose as if it's a game. He just sits there and all of a sudden Howard is glad he's no longer alone. After all, maybe that is for the best that Vince is so constantly 'there'. Whenever he was left alone to his own devices seemed to be when most of the trouble would happen. If he'd always been alone, would he even have still been alive today? Maybe he really would have ended. But Vince is there. He's still there after all this time. Perhaps he wasn't always there. Maybe he wasn't there when, if he had been there, a lot of heartache would have been avoided. Maybe he could have saved him like he usually does.

But he's here now. He's here and he's not laughing at him. He's here and that's all that matters.

"Is it something I've done? If it's about that thing with the coco pops this morning, I weren't meaning it to be 'orrible, it's just your eyes are similar-"

"Vince."

"But I like coco pops, they're my favourite chocolate milky treat! Other than choco shreddies maybe but no one's got eyes like that-"

"Vince, it's nothing to do with that." Howard croaks and silences Vince before he digresses too much.

"Oh," Vince pauses; "But..it is a bit to do with me, ain't it?"

Howard can't hide from that one. Of course Vince isn't to blame for all of his problems. In fact, he's arguably prevented more than he's caused. But he'd be lying if he said he hadn't made some contribution to Howard's recent secret cries.

"It's just.....sometimes you speak to me or treat me like you wish you didn't have to put up with me. You do, don't you?"

"As if." Vince scoffs as if on auto. There's not the tiniest waver of doubt in his reply; "Is that what's caused this? I'm sorry, Howard, if I'd had any idea it made you this bad..."

"You mean crying like a pathetic little girl."

"I didn't say that, did I? We all need to cry sometimes, it ain't something to be ashamed of. Remember how much I bawled my eyes out when I lost my blue studded Chelsea boots?"

Vividly. Howard doesn't dare make any comment about the difference in situations; he knows how emotionally attached Vince is to his fashions just as he is to his jazz. And after having known Vince better than anyone for the past insert amount of many years that he wasn't as shallow as a puddle. Perhaps a pond at the least.

The proof of which is crystal clear even at the moment as, just when a few more tears slip from Howard's eyes, Vince catches them on his sleeve. Luckily for Howard, he's wearing his least favourite jacket. A sweet smile accompanies it and Howard's freezing heart feels just that tiny bit warmer.

"No one's ever gonna really love me, are they Vince?"

"C'mon Howard, you don't know that. You just 'aven't found the right girl. I'm sure there's a bookmark loving jazzy she-freak out there somewhere - even if we have to get Naboo to send us to another universe to hunt her down for you."

"I don't mean that, Vince." Howard shakes his head. He then looks at Vince, revealing the heavy dark shadows beneath those tired eyes. Slow forming bruises of the brutal years past. "I meant....just someone....anyone who actually cares. Who is willing to take me, creepy Howard-ness and all."

To his surprise, the side of Vince's mouth stretches up in a small sided-smile; "As it 'appens, I already do know someone like that."

"....No you don't."

"You callin' me a fibber?"

Howard narrows his eyes suspiciously; "Who are they then?"

Vince grins that ever-knowing grin. He scrambles to sit beside Howard and smooshes right up close to him. Howard is too weak to attempt any complaining of boundaries in risk of being broken.

"Well 'e's probably the last person in the world you'd expect. 'E 'ates jazz and can't stand those boring documentaries you watch like they're the equivalent to M&S adverts. 'E likes everything that gets on your wick and 'e ain't that clever. You'd probably describe him as an annoyin' little titbox. But he knows you probably as much as he knows himself and seein' you actually cry is as bad to him as his best Jackette neck-scarf being torn in two. 'E's the only one who knows that your two greatest fears are flying and transsexual nymphomaniacs who look suspiciously like Fossil, and that you 'ave four splashes of milk in your tea. 'E knows that you're far from perfect and that you ain't as strong as steel, that in fact you can be a right thoughtless coward at times, but he doesn't give a toss about that because it's all those little Howardy 'faults' that 'e finds so bloody adorable. And that sometimes, when you ain't puttin' on some show, you can actually be the sweetest man in the world. And 'e wishes that you'd look at him the same way you look at any beautiful woman who passes you and gives you a smile but at the moment 'e's just 'appy you're still with 'im to make every day another stupid, crazy adventure. 'E's also incredibly gorgeous and has the most genius hair in all of London."

Howard blinked; ".....Naboo?"

"Me, you twat."

"Oh." He nods. Then he realizes. "...Oh!"

Vince smiles along with the newborn stars in his eyes. Before Howard can truley absorb what's been confessed, his lips are met with Vince's. To his shock, there is no disgust or instinctive flinch in his body. Instead he melts like warm nutella against Vince and it's only then that he realizes he's been subconsciously waiting for this for god knows how long. But then, he didn't have any of those feelings on that night on the roof. In fact, everything he felt in that momentary lapse that hadn't been spoken of in too long was now crashing in upon upon just as his tongue was met with Vince's. The smaller man is just as gentle and tender as before only this time without the help of slow motion. His fingers stroke Howard's jaw again and his once crumbling heart is now soaring.

When they finally pull back, he hangs onto those feelings, refusing to let them fly off into the wind like before. They just stare at each other, eyes brimming with ten plus years of longing met and feelings acknowledged at long last. There's no question of whether one feels the same as the other. All Howard does is meet Vince's smile and that is enough to please Vince even more. He continues to hold Howard's face for as long as he needs for his tears to finally dry. Then he tucks that same misbehaving curl behind his ear once more.

"Alright small eyes, that's enough time on the floor. C'mon, let's get you home." He stands up and leaves his hand down for Howard to take. And for once, Howard doesn't ignore the help and he clutches it tight as he's pulled to his feet.

Their hands barely part for the rest of the day. Even when the night comes and they're curled up close on Vince's bed, fitted together perfectly, fingers locked together, Vince's arms tight around Howard's middle with his head tucked beneath his chin. And Howard holds him close, wondering how he coped with all those years of crying in the dark and hiding away from the one person who wanted to save him. He should've known the truth by now.

That in the end; no matter where they're hidden, they always find each other.

Yes, the bit about sepia tone was an imput from my alter ego, RoseNoir90. She had to add something in eventually. Reviews would be love. Thanks for reading.