Hi. I've been nosing about the Boosh section for a while and have only just got my own account, started reviewing people's work and got to work on my own fic. I've had this idea for a while, it's a bit weird, and I know other characters can be really annoying, which is why this focuses on Vince more than her. It could be alright, but it could be TERRIBLE. Inspired by Alice in Wonderland and other weird stuff...

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Vince knows he's dreaming. There is detail around him, but not enough. It's blurred, like an impression of his surroundings. Like one of his paintings. He hasn't painted for a while. Shame really. He's in his and Howard's room, but it's a dream. He turns toward the window. Nothing. Just blackness, pressing against the glass, which has no reflection. He turns around. He feels nothing, yet he manages to get to the door without difficulty. But when he does open the door, there is nothing but a brick wall there. Apparently his dream is situated here tonight. Vince turns around to the wall next to Howard's bed. Except Howard's bed isn't there, and the wall is completely covered with television screens, about eighteen of them; the old fashioned kind with the glass screens that buzz and give you electric shocks. Most of the screens are fuzzy, but every now and then moving images flash onto one of them. Vince focuses harder when the next one comes up, and to his surprise it's him and Howard at the Zooniverse. It's the day he arrived; all excited about everything Howard had told him about it, and his hair's got blond bits in it and then he's bouncing about trying to hold Howard's hand and then-… The screen buzzes off again. Then another sharp buzz comes up on another screen and it's him screaming stuff at Howard in a drunken rage. He's got makeup and tears running down his face; "Y-you just stop t-talkin' Howard! You just-…" The screen buzzes off again, and then another one appears and it's him and Howard kissing…

Somebody coughs. Vince freezes. There is a sofa in front of the screens. He doesn't remember it being there. For some reason it makes his blood run cold. He knows there's someone sitting on it, but they're too low down for him to see. Then he sees a hand rise up, and he gets a glimpse of a golden bracelet with a half moon shape on it.

"Don't mind me," says an empty voice, and then the person clicks their fingers…

Vince wakes up with a start. But not with a finish. Not until the next time he falls asleep which won't be for some time. He has sweat dripping down his forehead like he's just run a mile. The bed sheets are stuck to him and he grimaces, peels them away from himself like a second skin then lies back down again. He is cold now, but that's to be expected and he needs to relax himself. He nearly cries out with fright when he hears a loud sigh. But it's only Howard; finally back from his jazz night; breathing softly in an ungraceful position across his bed. The bed's barely big enough for him without his limbs spread eagled all over the place. It was funny, he never used to stay that long at Lester Corncrake's but it seemed that jazz could keep them both going until about four in the morning; later even than Vince's own nights out. "In fact," thinks Vince, "Howard's been coming home late for nearly four nights in a row."

And yet although Howard's always tired when he arrives back home, he is only ever tipsy and seems very happy with whatever he's been doing. When Vince himself stumbles in he is usually hammered, with makeup smeared all over his face and his hair in a mess, only to wake up the next day with a screaming hangover. Although it's really his brain cell that does the screaming. Not the hangover itself. Jerk-off.

Vince shivers as he remembers the dream. That image of himself screaming at Howard. He never used to let himself get like that; he'd always had an alcohol limit so that he'd remain looking as beautiful throughout the rest of the night. He'd even had one year where he'd been ill and couldn't take alcohol, and Howard had teased him at first for being a weakling, but overall treated him like something precious.

That had been a while ago, when things were a bit different. Or a lot different. They don't work in a zoo anymore and fun, friendly conversations and crimps are getting fewer and fewer.

Vince rolls over onto his side to look at Howard properly. Howard looks younger when he's asleep. His face relaxes and Vince wonders whether Howard's awake frown is deliberate. It would be like Howard to do that; perhaps copying some actor who is 'sexily grumpy'. Now who on earth said that?

Since the equally embarrassing 'Windy Blast Fast' incident and Vince's expanding head, things are way worse between them. Well, technically it had been that stupid party that had set things off. Bouncy castles, jazzy chicks and Old Gregg had made a distraction for a while, but things really weren't okay between them after that. They don't really have conversations anymore; they just find more excuses to snap at each other.

But it isn't just that. Vince has always seen Howard as more than a best friend. Because Howard was always there. Most kids grow out of friendships, but he and Howard have stuck through it all. Vince had got it into his head, "No matter what I do or how I change Howard will still be here. I need him and he's always going to need me to get him out of trouble."

But trouble isn't really finding them at the moment. In fact it is really just squishing their relationship into the mud and adding some spit for good measure.

Howard shifts in his sleep, sighing again, and his face begins to frown lightly. His dreams must be bothering him.

Vince feels his insides twist in guilt. Just two weeks ago Howard found out that once again Vince had deliberately left him off a guest list, and at the time he hadn't really had the time to care about Howard's reaction. He'd mumbled to Bollo; "Just tell him there's no tickets left again, yeah?"

But when Howard did find out he hadn't even put on his pathetic act of "That's fine I'm okay really, I'll just stand moping around pouting at you and making jabs at you until you say sorry then we'll be okay again."

He'd done nothing. Vince had done his drunken; "I'm SO sorry Howard, but that's the way it works!"

Howard just stared at him until he'd finished and then said softly, "It's okay. I get you." Then he'd retreated to his room, and hadn't said another word. I get you. You.

Since then Howard has barely spoken to him. He stays around him to run the shop, occasionally cook and watch TV, is cold but not exactly unfriendly and hasn't once made any sly comments about Vince's latest fashion change. He still helps with things when asked by him, Bollo or Naboo, but he won't try to make any comebacks to them if they commented on his eyes or moustache. Even Bob Fossil hasn't gotten a "Yeah? Well your suit's too small!" out of him. Fossil left looking down, but not before adding "Note to self: I don't like these socks." into his talk-box.

And now this week Howard's been going out. Vince feels too stubborn to give in and ask him where and what he's been doing, he'd just assumed it was to Lester Corncrake's. Now he's not so sure. An evening of jazz always brings a very distinctive look of bliss to Howard's face. Whilst the past few nights he's certainly been happy, it just isn't the same kind of happiness as a night of two old jazz lunatics doing whatever they did best.

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I know it's short... just let me know if you want it to go any further. X