A/N: This is my first Boosh fic, so reviews (and just readings in general) would be fantastic. Anyway, as the title of FANfiction implies, I don't own this show.

Also, the title of the story is taken from the gorgeous Mumford & Sons song, 'White Blank Page.'
And the title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Casper' by Roz Raskin & the Rice Cakes.
I don't own either song or band.

ONE

Don't Empathize With the Young at Heart

Vince Noir sat idly in his chair by the window, his unofficial- and uneventful- post in the Nabootique, lackadaisically thumbing through the latest issue of Cheekbone. He didn't even bother to look at the print, for his albeit limited focus was intently on something else in the room: his longtime friend and co-worker, Howard Moon. The tall, self-proclaimed jazz maverick was perched where he usually was: behind the front counter, his right pen-bearing hand doing the dance of the writer, hurriedly skidding across and stopping abruptly over a single sheet of paper. Vince smiled warmly. As a team, they'd accomplished the most impressive and unpredictable of feats. They'd escaped the clutches a of hermaphroditic merman; they'd beaten a sociopathic, deformed Cockney with an eel obsession and an unnerving proclivity for hose-like urination; they'd faced death and even execution on all kinds of continents and planets and returned back virtually unscathed. But in the face of the unpredictability of their lives, Vince could always count on Howard being there at that shop counter a few feet away from his chair, poring over words that'd undoubtedly bore the living hell out of the younger man, and that comforted him.

"Hey, Howard?" Vince asked, breaking a silence that had enveloped them for at least the past forty-five minutes. He hadn't expected a reply, and smiled at the fact that his expectations had been met. When Howard was busy with something, he became absorbed and tried his hardest to block out any interferences… which, most of the time, came in the form of Vincent Noir. Undaunted, he tried again. "Howard?" He'd made progress this time; he saw his older friend flinch, as if Vince was literally chipping away at his concentration with a pick-ax. "Hoooooooward? Howard… Howard… Howard?"

The face of the man in question shot up from his paper, immense annoyance showing as clearly as his trademark mustache. "I swear to God, this better be vitally important…"

"How come I've never met a cartoon character?"

Howard slammed his pen down on the counter and exasperatedly cradled his face within his hands. "…You interrupted me for that? I've finally gotten into the rhythm of the words, I was on a roll, one with the English language… and you break me out of my literary trance to ask about cartoon characters?"

"Yeah!" cried Vince, not understanding Howard's incredulity. "I mean, there's clearly a lot of them, they're on the telly every morning, but I never see any out on the streets or anythin'. Where do they all live?"

"Don't ever speak to me again for the rest of our lives. And beyond. When we're dead and floating around as spirits, I don't even want you to talk to me then. Just let me write."

Vince chuckled at his friend's familiar verbal sign of irritation. He tried to oblige to Howard's wishes this time- he really did- but as soon as he saw that pen flutter determinedly along the blue lines of the paper, his curiosity beat out his respect. "What are you writing?" he asked.

"You wouldn't be interested, Vince," Howard replied, his eyes not leaving his work.

"Oh come on, try me!"

Sighing, Howard released his grip on the pen once more and looked up at his friend. "Alright. I'm writing an entry for a contest be-"

"A contest?" interrupted Vince, getting up from his seat and walking to where Howard stood. "No way, Howard. You've never finished a single thing you've ever tried to write!"

Howard looked physically wounded by the accusation. "How dare you, sir? I'm an avid writer! You can't keep me away from the written word. If you try, I re-capture it, eat it and spit it out in the form of art."

"Like that romantic poetry you always tried to write back at the zoo?" laughed Vince.

"Yes, exactly like that! If Mrs. Gideon had ever heard those sparkling stanzas, it'd be a very different life for Howard T.J. Moon, you can assure yourself."

"You mean you'd have been sent to the loony bin?"

For the second time, Howard asked in disbelief, "How dare you, sir?"

"Well, come on, now! You'd go on these strange, obsessive rants about her at the most unromantic of times, and always from a distance! It was well creepy, Howard, you were pretty much a stalker! And you always compared her features to dairy products… what was that all about?"

"That's my style! Unconventional, maybe, but it's revolutionary!" Howard thought a moment before adding, "And if they were powerful enough to infiltrate that thick head of yours to the point where you remember them three years later, then I'd go as far as proclaiming myself a poet laureate."

"A poet what?" Vince asked. This is why Howard never thought that Vince paid any attention when he spoke. He was always throwing out big words and conversational topics that far surpassed his own level of intelligence, and he'd wind up being too confused to keep listening. His single brain cell would tune the Northerner's voice out as quickly as he would a jazz station on a satellite radio upon hearing a word like laureate. Yet Howard's poetry- as confusing and creepy as it may have been at the time- was something Vince was never able to ignore. Not because it was by any means beautiful, but because he completely related to its messages of unrequited love and rejected affection. He knew how it felt to love someone so fully that it hurt, and to have that same person speak with condescending ignorance whenever the chance arose to make a positive impression. His poetry resonated with Vince as much as it bewildered him, and it was laden with a bitter irony that he knew Howard didn't quite grasp.

"Never mind," Howard dismissed.

Vince looked down at his Chelsea boots in embarrassment. It's not like it was his fault he was a simpleton, as Howard so often accused him of being. "So let's have it; what's this contest?" he asked, intentionally shifting the topic back into focus.

"The challenge is to write the best possible journalistic monologue. The winner will have their entry read by Jurgen Haabermaaster in his upcoming 7-part documentary on suic-"

Artfully dodging Howard's barrage of intellectual vocabulary, Vince interrupted by commenting on the one thing he understood: "No, Howard, not that guy again! Last time you tried to win something with Jurgen Häagen Dazs, you wound up dressed as a gassy crab."

"Jurgen Haabermaaster," Howard corrected, and not for the first time.

"Yeah, whatever. That was embarrassin', Howard! Why do you want to work with him again?" Vince asked, full of clandestine concern.

"Because, Vince," Howard began, very matter-of-factly, "Jurgen Haabermaaster is a cinematic vanguard. This piece that I'm writing for his contest is powerful! It'll blow his mind, move his soul! And when he sees me again, I'm sure he'll remember the stint with the crab, yes sir, but he'll also see the brooding, poetic side of me that will instantaneously grab his respect. We're a lot alike, Jurgen and I, and he's gonna notice that with this piece."

Vince rolled his eyes but couldn't quite mask a smile at how delusional his friend could be. "'Jurgen and I'… Are you two old mates?" When that sardonic comment earned him no response, he prompted, "So when am I gonna get to read this masterpiece?"

"Today's Friday, right?"

Vince nodded, a gleam of excitement in his sparkling blue eyes.

Howard feigned contemplating the days of the week before saying "Well, never."

"What do you mean 'never'?"

"I mean never! Whenever I do something I have the faintest bit of confidence in, people like you or Fossil or even Bollo tear it all down! I can't have it with this, no sir!"

"Awww, come on, Howard. That isn't true!" Howard shot him one of his patronizing looks, dripping with unspoken sarcasm, causing Vince to re-think and retract his protest. "Alright, maybe Bollo and Fossil. But what do they know about good writing? Bollo's an ape! And Fossil… well, he won't read anything that doesn't feature Charlie, yeah?"

Howard rolled his eyes. "Anything that isn't written by his precious Vincey, you mean?"

Vince smiled for a brief moment, unwittingly beaming with a strange pride, before turning back to the matter at hand. "Well… yeah. But it's me, Howard! You can trust me with this! I promise not to say anything too critical."

The older man honestly did want an opinion on his piece… but he didn't want to lower himself to accepting Vince's good-natured promise. "Sorry, Vince. Now can you let me finish?"

Vince sighed and childishly stuck his tongue out at the frustrated writer. When he'd turned back to his contest entry, the glam rocker began to stride about the room in grandiose, fluid movements, trying to gain the attention of his lugubrious-looking co-worker. He waved his hands, pulling shapes in a debonair way that would have seemed idiotic coming from anyone else, but gave up with a diva-like pout when Howard wouldn't so much as glance up. Vince had never seen him so engrossed in a task before. Whatever he was writing must have been incredibly important, and he felt more than a bit put off that he didn't trust him enough to let him read it. Sinking back into his chair by the window, he retrieved his issue of Cheekbone, already falling victim to the old, unwelcome boredom. "Howard?" No reply. No surprise.

He looked up at the clock; they hadn't long before they'd be closing the shop down for the day, and judging by the fact that Howard had put down his pen and begun reading what he'd been working on, he hadn't long before he was through with his task. With a wry smirk, Vince looked down at his magazine. That particular issue would go out of print in another hour, he reasoned, and it wasn't as if any of the features had caught his interest in the first place, so he eagerly ripped out a few pages, crumpled them up, and began tossing them at Howard. Surely this would earn him a reaction.

No, Vince soon learned, it wouldn't. Setting aside all tact, Vince hurled the entire magazine at him. Or at least he thought he had. His aggravation at being ignored quickly escalated to unmitigated horror and remorse as a sharp pain stabbed at his wrist, causing the magazine to veer far off course and strike Howard's beloved Stationery Village.

This certainly gained him a reaction. The man behind the counter let his pen and paper fall as he stared in dismay at the hectic scene in front of him. Paper clips, writing utensils, sellotape, staples and all of Howard's meticulously organized pieces of stationery were strewn about helter-skelter, a sight that made him feel sick.

Blue eyes open wider than seemed physically possible, hands covering his gaping mouth, Vince Noir cautiously paced over to where Howard stood. He swallowed hard, trying to think of just what to say, and wished he could be as verbally gifted as the man in front of him. "H-Howard," he finally managed to choke out. "I'm so sorry. I swear, I didn't mean for it to-"

"Please don't speak to me," Howard interrupted, not bearing to tear his diminutive eyes away from the haphazard pile of stationery.

"I didn't mean for that to happen, Howard, I promise! I know how much organization means to you, and I just wanted some attention; I was really bored! I'll put it all back, I swear!"

"Everything you do is for attention, innit? Like the time you destroyed my jazz record for a few laughs with all your little punk mates? Or the time you left me to be assailed by that…" Howard shuddered, and then continued, "Eleanor… just so you could run off and tag an elusive little pop star? You've no respect for people's boundaries, Vince, you never have!"

Vince placed what was meant to be a comforting hand on Howard's shoulder, shaken with sudden guilt. So he hadn't always been the greatest possible friend to him, but he'd always tried his best! He was just easily distracted. Surely Howard knew how much he meant to him. How much he loved him.

"Don't touch me!" the older man exclaimed, shrinking away from the touch as if it burned. Vince flinched. He hadn't heard that little outburst in a while. So they were back to this. The emotional walls that Vince had worked so hard to tear down were back up. Pangs of guilt deluged his naïve mind as he realized that with his long résumé of inadvertent betrayals, this was long overdue.

"Howard, please-"

"Don't talk to me! Don't touch me, don't look at me… I need a walk. A long, relaxing walk. Look after the shop. I don't know when I'll be back. Just… don't look at me." With that shaky declaration, Vince watched, heart breaking, as Howard stormed out the door. He knew protesting wouldn't make him stay. And he had every right to be upset. The man was just trying to write, for Jagger's sake, and he had to go and screw everything up, like he always did.

"And what was he writing?" Vince wondered aloud, picking up the forgotten piece of paper that had floated to the floor. He glanced over toward what used to be Stationery Village, and his moral side yelled at him to ignore the paper and make it up to Howard. You've mucked it up enough today, ya berk. He didn't want anyone but the Häagen Dazs man reading this. But the other side of him- the much bigger side of him- screamed to do otherwise, and that's what inevitably won out. Cautiously looking around to make sure he was really alone, Vince held the paper in his hands, knowing that he shouldn't, but being too curious to care. One sentence in, he wished he had never picked the bloody thing up.