A/N: This is risky to write, but I'm hoping it'll pay off.
As the description says, this is my own Booshy take on the Oscar Wilde classic. (I own neither the Boosh or Dorian Gray, by the way. As if that needed to be said.) It's not meant to be an exact reproduction. But, for those interested, Vince is representative of Dorian, Howard of Basil, and Leroy of Lord Henry.

The chapter title comes from the Hole song 'Doll Parts.' I don't own the song or the band.

ONE

They Really Want You- And I Do, Too

"Vince! What the hell are you doing in there?" shouted a very irate Howard Moon as he incessantly hammered at the bathroom door with his fists. After thirty seconds had passed with the continual hum of a hair dryer as his only response- like the hundred other times he'd asked that same question in the past twenty minutes- he tried again. "Vince, come on! It's half eleven at night!" Thirty seconds… going once, twice, gone. Sighing in frustration, Howard accepted defeat and attempted to wait patiently outside the door. Three hours locked away in the bathroom? That was a bit excessive even by the standards of his younger companion.

Fortunately, he didn't have to wait much longer. "Alright, cool ya boots!" defended Vince nonchalantly as he emerged from the room in question. "I was just gettin' ready."

Howard eyed his friend quizzically. "Ready for what?" he asked, already dreading what was sure to be a disheartening answer.

"Ready for what? You mean you haven't heard?" cried Vince incredulously. When his question was replied to with a look made up of equal parts sarcasm and blankness- a look Howard had mastered in dealing with Vince over the years- he barreled on. "It's only the grand opening of the biggest nightclub this side of Dalston!"

Howard sighed again. There it was. He was used to his friend's evenings of debauchery and superficial affairs in the night life of nearly all of England's greatest cities, but lately they seemed to be happening more and more frequently. Normal people slow down as they age. But not Vince. In the past month or so, his nights out had changed from a Friday and/or Saturday deal to a whenever-the-hell-it's-possible kind of thing. And Howard didn't like that at all. He'd always figured Vince would realize one day that there was more to life than an endless string of parties and one-dimensional club characters, but the renowned electro prince was too caught up in his life in the fast lane. He'd been speeding down the freeway so furiously and absent-mindedly that he'd missed any opportunity of taking the exits; now it seemed he was stuck, and he'd be racing down these freeways until the breaks were rendered useless, and he'd crash into a vehicle much bigger and fiercer than his own. What that vehicle represented- alcohol, violence, drugs- Howard wasn't sure of. But it was a black, ominous figure whose break lights seemed redder, brighter and closer than ever. Snapping himself out of this metaphorical reverie, Howard asked, "Another nightclub? What makes this one different than all the others, hm? The bartender an android sent from another dimension? The DJ actually a land-shark meant to deliver a message to King Poseidon's chosen one?"

"That'd be genius!" exclaimed Vince, his 1000-watt smile lighting up his defined face and showing absolutely no registration of his friend's biting derision. "But, no. Leroy knows the owner, yeah, and he says she's an absolute lunatic! She was arrested back in 2005 for stealing a hundred ferrets from a local pet store, training them up as pick-pockets and setting them loose in a children's primary school for their lunch money. Imagine that!"

Howard looked disgusted. "And that's good, is it?"
"Yeah! The lady's absolutely nutters; imagine what kind of club she'll run! It's gonna be complete insanity!" The smile didn't fade at all, as he genuinely tried to get the man before him as excited as he was.

"I worry about you, Vince," commented Howard, dolefully and earnestly. "You're nearly thirty years old; when are you going to stop all this?"

"Yeah, well, I'm not yours to worry about, am I?" shot back Vince, with a bitterness not usually found in the self-proclaimed Sunshine Kid. "Like you said, I'm nearly thirty. I know how to take care of myself."

"I know, Vince, I know," Howard backed off, taken slightly aback by the man's outburst. "So… tell me more about this club, then," he added, trying to mollify him.

"Well, m'not sure how much there is to say, really," started Vince, clearly relaxing. "Except I heard that there are three bartenders, identical triplets of different genders, who act out scenes from Clint Eastwood films as they take orders, and there are…"
Instead of correcting his information by telling Vince that multi-sex identical triplets are a genetic impossibility, Howard simply tuned out his words, but kept nodding every so often when he heard a particularly important sounding intonation. He instead focused on what Vince had done to himself during those three hours of primping and preening in the bathroom. His raven hair was piled high above his head- Joan Jett meets Marge Simpson, he laughed to himself- and yet still managed to frame his face impeccably. The undying sparkle in his sapphire eyes was accentuated by a thin layer of dark eyeliner- Crepuscular Haze, Howard decided he'd dub the color- and a hint of mascara. His clothing was flamboyant, as always; his jet black shirt bore waves of rainbow sequins and hung off one pale shoulder; his skin-tight jeans were ripped sporadically, revealing an even tighter set of neon pink pants underneath; his ankle-high boots were white, new, and undoubtedly yet to be customized. Endless amounts of bright, sparkly jewelry hung off his body, and Howard shook his head in disappointment. Vince was beautiful- Howard was, like everyone else, very aware of that- but he looked much better without all the adornment. He was much more beautiful when he was… well, Vince, and not the Mayor of Camden.

There wasn't a night that Vince had gone out and come home alone. Howard had the routine down; he'd evacuate their room and crash on the couch. Not that he ever slept. He was too worried about Vince's well-being to drift off when he was out, and he was too jealous of whatever trash he'd brought home to give into any somniferous impulse when he'd returned. And no, Howard didn't miss the irony; he, a man of substance, a man of grand design, lacked the one thing that would make him complete, while the empty, vacuous cretins of the night life procured it and stayed just as hollow as they would've been without it.

"Howard!" Vince's voice awoke him from his mental veering.

"Yeah?"

"I said, 'do I look alright?'"

"You look like a tin foil tartlet."

Vince smiled, completely unaware of the mockery once again. "Cheers, Howard. I'm tryna get the attention of the owner, and-"

"What? The ferret lady?" asked the older man, caught as off guard as could be.

"Yeah! Like I said, she's absolutely nutters. So imagine what she'd be like in-"

"I beg of you, sir, do not finish that sentence."

Vince laughed, in an almost automatic way. "Alright, Howard. You'll be fine on your own, yeah?"

Howard nodded, more impulsively than honestly, upon remembering that Naboo and Bollo were due out this evening for a restock at Shamansbury's.

The sudden silence that had snuck up on them was broken by the abrasive, polyphonic tune of Gary Numan's 'Cars' emanating from Vince's phone in the bathroom, the owner of which rushed to answer. "…Yeah? …Alright, cheers! See you in a bit. Later." Howard had no doubt of the meaning behind the one-sided conversation he'd overheard, and it was confirmed when Vince returned to his sight. "Leroy's here to take us down. Later, Howard."

The older man nodded to hide his burgeoning sorrow and returned the salutation. "See ya, Little Man."

Vince flashed him a slightly affectionate- but predominantly melancholy- smile at the nickname, and then proceeded down the stairs of the flat and out to the streets to meet up with his beloved Leroy.

Ugh. Leroy. He and Howard used to be good friends, but at this point the only thing keeping them in each other's lives was Vince. It wasn't as if Leroy loved the charismatic, aspiring rock star in the same way he did. He knew that. But it didn't stop his jealousy from becoming bitterer and bitterer with each instance they spent time together. Howard was convinced that Leroy had corrupted his precious Vince. His sweet, innocent co-worker from the Zooniverse had been replaced by a lecherous partier, and it was not lost on Howard that this was the exact description he'd used in regards to Leroy since they were teenagers. Never had these changes appeared as obvious as they had in the weeks since he'd returned from his brief stint with avant-garde director Jurgen Haabermaaster, and he had a fairly certain guess at why: when Howard was gone, Vince had undoubtedly spent even more time with Leroy, warping his fragile little mind beyond repair.

Ugh. Leroy.

Howard knew that he'd need something to keep himself occupied, or he'd go insane with worry and envy. But he wasn't in the mood to do anything. Lately, the things he'd always loved seemed to be mocking him. Literature? It only served to remind him of his many failures at becoming a writer, poet and journalistic photographer. Film? It only served to remind him of his humiliating failure as an actor. Music? It only served to remind him of how he'd sold out his passion for jazz to become an electro composer- for the sake of Vince, to make matters worse- and failed miserably at that as well. Everything he loved had let him down- or was it the other way around, he wondered- and this left him with an uncomfortable emptiness. If only he could quell his overactive mind enough to get to sleep.

He retreated to his bedroom, deciding that if he couldn't beat his misery and self-aimed sorrow, he might as well wallow in it like a proper dejected social pariah. He'd close the blinds, immerse himself in darkness, lie on his bed, and stare up at the ceiling. Yeah. Take that, unreachable happiness.

Howard's plans for a night of self loathing were put on hold, however, as he glanced at Vince's side of the room. It was a mess, as usual. Clothes, cosmetics, cassette tapes and various unmentionables of blinding hues were strewn about his unmade bed; 1980s-style posters cluttered the wall, some of them peeling off at the edges from the flimsy, home-made, pink adhesive; drawers were left open at his small, childlike desk, which he'd painted himself, naturally.

The only time Vince ever used this desk was when he was creating artwork: something he hadn't done in much too long, something that Howard missed immensely. Vince would stay up 'til all hours of the night slaving over a blank paper or canvas, working with paints and oils and utensils, until he'd created something unmistakably imaginative and indelibly Noir. When he was satisfied with his work, he'd rush over to Howard's bed and pounce on his sleeping form, as excited as a young child on Christmas morning, shouting at him to wake up and look at what he'd created. Howard would always be impressed with his artistic abilities and never made an attempt to disguise that, which is why he'd ended up buying him a small easel to work on, as well as a professional-quality painter's kit. Vince had been thrilled by the gifts; he'd stayed in the entire weekend working on his art in unusual secrecy, amazed at how much more comfortable a proper easel made the process. That Sunday, he'd presented Howard with the reason behind his private work: he'd been slaving over a portrait of the man himself until it was absolutely perfect. He'd even sacrificed his sacred neon for the use of earth tones, to guarantee Howard's satisfaction. The older man had been rendered speechless, and he'd even welled up- although he'd never admit it, no, sir- at the signature in the bottom right corner: "To Howard, who's always believed in me. Cheers, and love ya. –Vince, xx." The portrait now hung framed over the subject's bed, but these days it seemed to inspire more depressing nostalgia than anything else.

The easel had grown dusty with neglect, as had the desk on which it sat. What a perfect way to describe their friendship, Howard thought: dusty and neglected. He unwittingly found himself sitting at the barstool in front of the small desk, glancing at all of the once treasured art supplies. Then an idea hit him: if Vince wasn't going to use them, why couldn't he? Sure, he'd never had much experience in the visual arts before. But they seemed to be calling out his name. 'Howard Moon: Artist Extraordinaire.' He quite liked the appellation.

And with such a tortured soul as his, what more inspiration could one have to produce absolutely breath taking artwork?