"Home,
let me come home.
Home is wherever I'm with you."
Vince was singing in that tiny little voice of his he used when he was worried Howard would have a fit for sneaking back in the wee hours or he felt too ill to speak from all the alcopops.
It was a song he'd heard one night at Leroy's, off one of his American records. It wasn't much his taste but it stuck to him like a melted bit of Charlie caught in his hair. He'd even gone so far as to nick the album from Leroy that same night. Been playing it on low volume to fall asleep to now that Howard wasn't there to fill the empty with his big northern noise.
Vince was sitting on the roof again. Like he'd been sitting despite both Naboo and Bollo warning him he'd fall off and hurt his face. He didn't care. Why should he? Howard wasn't there to tell him off or catch him or join him or bloody well give a baboon's arse! No, Howard was off being a world-class actor with Jergen Lotion Hauser or whatever he called himself.
And those weren't tears in Vince's eyes. Just glitter. Bits of glitter that come off from his mirrorball suit and sequin scarves and blended with his sweat and tasted like the saltiest of crisps. He weren't crying since the day Howard left. No way. Them's allergies that first night that bled into the following weeks that turned into months. Howard was fucking gone and Vince was not crying and God did the moon have a pedophilic face.
"la la la
take me home"
It was well pass sleepytime, even for Vince Noir, King of the Mods, Prince Vince of the Camden Dollies who could stay up until lunchtime, have a jaffa cake or two then onto adventures with Howard. Who wasn't there. Who fucking left him. All alone. With a Shaman and a Gorilla too busy smoking, dj-ing and never giving a fuck about Howard in the first place and holy fuck was that weeping coming from the Crackfox?
But as much as Vince could deflect, the shuddering shivering breaths out of him couldn't have been a good sign. He weren't sad or nothing, just cold. Yeah. Cold. And this glitter was getting painful to his eyes. He might have to switch up his cosmetic choices.
"Vince, Bollo told me you'd be up…"
Howard doesn't finish his sentence nor does he finish opening the door that led to the roof of the Nabootique because Vince was on him. Sobbing. Shaking. Wailing. Digging his nails into his collar and making strange sounds similar to a mewling marmoset.
"Woah there little man, missed me didya?"
An awkward hand goes for Vince's back, the other attempts prying one of the hands from round his collar. This was his favorite roll neck sweater in an aggressive muffin that with all the sniveling Vince was doing surely it'd turn to a passive taupe. But Vince is gibbering or crying or mumbling or in some sort of voodoo trance because Howard can only understand the whispering murmurings with no particular melody of:
"Home is when I'm alone with you!"
AN: this ficlet, which I probably will regret posting seeing as a fic written at 2am is never really the best, is based on a lovely tumblr picpost
post/52558109969/man-o-man-youre-my-best-friend-i- scream-it-to