"Breccia."

"Bless you." Vince rolls on to his back to gaze up at Howard, gauging his reaction. They're lying on the floor in the darkened room on top of their sleeping bags, empty teacups resting next to their bare feet.

The corner of Howard's mouth twitches. "Your nose," he elaborates.

Vince's hand goes up over the lower half of his face. "What about it, then?" he asks, a bit muffled.

Howard laughs. "Breccia. It means fragmented, or broken, or summat." He reaches over to flick the hand over Vince's face. "It's Italian."

"Shit off," Vince laughs, "as if you know Italian." Uncovering his nose, he tilts his head and narrows his eyes. "Why're you thinkin' about my nose, then, anyway?" His mouth twists into a sly grin. "Writin' a poem about it, are you?" Howard rolls his eyes, and Vince slithers up next to him, walking fingers up his arm and giggling when he tries to squirm away. "Come on, then, let's hear it," he taunts. "Oh, Vince," he pouts, "you are a prince-,"

"Shut your mouth."

"—oh, how I wince," Vince continues, "when you don't kiss—,"

"Right, that's enough." Howard takes his pillow and bears down on his mate's face, snickering at the giddy shriek that follows. "Your nose'll be nice and flat when I'm finished with it, yes sir."

"Stop!" Vince cries out, quaking with laughter. He manages to shove Howard off of him, and they wrestle for a bit, kicking and smacking each other until Howard calls a breathless truce. Both flop face-up, catching their breath between bouts of residual wheezing.

Once they've calmed down, Howard sighs and turns to face his friend. "I bought a book," he states.

"Congratulations, that's wild."

"Shut it," Howard tries to glare at Vince, but he catches sight of the canine on the left side of Vince's grinning mouth, and the way it's sort of running into another tooth, and finds his tongue darting over his own teeth in a lapse of thought. "I bought a book on Italian. That's how I learned it."

Vince laughs in spite of himself. "You any good?"

"No."

"Oh, come on, now—,"

"Just," Howard cuts in. "M'not fluent, or nothing, I just know a bit, and no," he interjects, just as he sees his friend start to say something, "not ready to show it off to you, so come off it." He shakes his head, half at Vince's pleading eyes, half at the realization that he apparently has a tendency to mimic Vince's speech patterns. He wriggles into his sleeping bag, yawning. "M'knackered, at that," he mumbles. Maybe he doesn't care.

Vince rolls his eyes, but can't help yawning as well. "Whatever," he throws back. A beat. "I like it."

"Hm?"

"Breccia," Vince murmurs, "I like it."

"Oh." Howard's eyes are closed, but he can see Vince's face; the bright eyes, the odd cheekbones, the chapped lower lip. All angles, Howard thinks. It doesn't make any sense. Angles are measurable, precise, and Vince is blooming and impossible. "Good."

"Yeah. I mean," Vince coughs. "S' better than 'wonky', yeah?"

Oh. Howard huffs out a ghost of a laugh. "Goodnight, Vince."

A soft breath that might have been a sigh. Then, "'Night, Howard."

Howard listens for the rustle of Vince rolling over in his sleeping bag, and a slowing pattern of settled breathing. Once he's sure Vince is asleep, he slides silently off of the floor and pads over to his desk. Pulling out a half-full notepad and a pen, he begins to write. Il mio uccellino; volare su ali nere, polmoni blu…