A/N: As usual, you reviewers are the best. Seriously. Warnings for sexual comments, blatant drug use and language. The chapter title's from the song 'Big Me' by the Foo Fighters.
Also, if you're unfamiliar with the original Old Gregg ending to the 'Party' episode, go watch it! Not only because it makes the episode even more amazing, but because there's a few vague references to it in here.
EIGHT
But It's You I Fell Into
Issue of Cheekbone once againin his disinterested hands, Vince was sitting exactly as he had been the day before. And, just as the day before, he was focused on Howard who was, as expected, manning the counter. "Howard?" Vince asked.
"Yeah?"
"I'm bored."
"You could al-"
"And I'm hungry."
"How are you possibly hungry? We've just come back from lunch break no more than an hour ago."
"I don't know, Howard! But I'm not feeling so normal. Maybe we should close down shop early…"
The older man rolled his eyes, failing to think of a Saturday in the past that Vince hadn't tried to get the Nabootique to close prematurely. "Don't think so, Little Man. Try again."
Vince exhaled in a show of annoyance as he slammed his magazine onto his chair and strode over to his friend. "No, I'm serious this time! I'm really feelin' weird."
"Well, that's what happens when your diet consists primarily of Saturn Zingers and Raspberry Bootlaces," Howard said, unwilling to buy into what was surely another charade just yet.
"Yeah, I didn't even have those today, did I?"
"What exactly did you have today?"
Vince shrugged. "A few of those little cakes in the fridge and some of those pancake toppings from the morning."
"That's not very balanced, V- wait a second. What little cakes?" Howard asked askance.
"You know… the ones on the blue plate. The ones Naboo's always ravin' about."
"You've gotta be shitting with me, Vince…" Howard warned, suddenly not so worried about closing times.
"Relax, I didn't eat 'em all! There's still some up there if you want some; they're amazing!" he prattled on, clueless.
"Those were meant to be taken with Naboo on his stag!" Howard exclaimed. He rubbed his temples, not believing that at any time now, he'd be stuck one-on-one with the only thing more distracting than Vince Noir: a stoned Vince Noir. "H… How many did you have?" he finally brought himself to ask.
Shrugging perfunctorily, he replied, "Not too many. Three or four…? Maybe five, but that's at most."
Howard gaped at him in horror, his small eyes open as wide as they could physically stretch. "Five?"
"At most!"
The self-titled maverick slouched behind the counter, playing mental tennis with the plethora of possible ways to deal with what was inevitably coming for him. "Go upstairs," he at last directed, defeated. "We're closing the shop down for the day. You won't be able to function much longer."
Vince's face broke into a wide smile. "Alright! Cheers, Howard." Before he knew what he was doing, he'd planted a grateful kiss on Howard's cheek. Vince froze, his stomach fizzing with self-satisfaction, embarrassment and a growing lack of inhibition. "Er… sorry. I don't know why I did that," he tried to laugh off, although he was telling the truth.
"Luckily, I do…" the other man muttered. Five hash cakes in one sitting was bad news, real bad juju. But five of Naboo's hash cakes in one sitting… oh dear God, Howard cringed at the thought. "Now get up there, alright? Stay calm. Go watch some cartoons. …Nothing too exciting!" When he was sure Vince was gone, Howard thoughtfully brought his hand up to feel his cheek. Ignoring a slight shiver, he proceeded to take all of the requisite close-down precautions.
"Oh, dear," Howard mumbled as he reached the living room. Vince was sprawled out on the couch, stripped down to his red Y-fronts, with Naboo's old 'Peacock Dreams' tape showing on the television screen in front of him. "What are you doing? Put some clothes on, you berk!"
"Howard!" Vince cried, jerking upward in excitement. "This show is brilliant; you've gotta come watch it with me!"
"Vince, I'd really prefer it if you could put some clothes on."
Vince looked himself over, perplexed. "Oh, that's right! Sorry about that. I felt like I was on fire, so I had to take 'em all off. It's more comfortable this way!"
"I literally was on fire earlier, and you didn't see me peeling off my clothes," he rejoined.
"Kinda wish I did…" Vince said contemplatively.
"What?"
"Howard, look at this!" Vince cried, waving his hand in front of the older man's face. "Check that out."
"What… what exactly am I supposed to be checking out?"
"Look how slowly I'm moving! It's like I'm in claymation. Look at that… It's all shaky and slow. I wish I was in claymation. I'd meet loads of cartoon characters that way."
Howard pinched the bridge of his nose. This was only going to get worse.
"Come sit with me!" Vince invited, totally losing interest in his claymation sight. With a heavy sigh, Howard hesitantly took the seat next to his friend, who was busy bouncing around and rattling on about God-knows-what. After a few minutes of Howard's uncomfortable reticence, Vince whispered, as if letting him in on a deep secret, "I think those cakes might've been Naboo's special cakes, if you know what I mean."
Howard shook his head in disbelief. "You've figured that out all by yourself, have you?"
"Yeah! It's alright, though. It's well freaky, sure, but I'm havin' loads of fun!" Vince laughed giddily before taking a more relaxing turn, lying his head down on Howard, using his lap as a pillow as he stared up at the ceiling. "I love you, you jazzy freak. Did you know that?"
Howard shifted uncomfortably, desperately looking around for a possible- any possible- exit. That window looked awfully tempting…
"Well, if you didn't, now you do," Vince continued. "I love you a lot."
"You're not well, Vince…"
"Oh, I'm very well!" he yelled, sitting himself upright again. "I've never been more well! Look at me! I'm free, I'm young, I'm unstoppable!"
"Are you watching this… this retard-inspired dreck?" Howard abruptly asked, gesturing toward the television set. "Or can I change it to something a little more intellectually stimulating?"
"Oh, by all means, do what you want! Just stay out here, yeah? I like spending time with you, Howard. We don't spend enough time together."
"Vince, we spend nearly every waking moment together. We share a bedroom, for God's sake," he replied, flicking off the VCR.
"Yeah, well, that's not enough! Ooh, Howard, look! It's your commercial!" Howard turned as red as the crab he'd been dressed as upon seeing his own image come up on the screen. Vince was hysterical. "Look at you! Trapped wind, oh no!" He kept laughing and making inane comments until Jurgen Haabermaaster graced the commercial with his pompous presence, causing Vince's mood to take a plunge down for the worse. "Aw, fuck him!" he cried out.
"Excuse me?"
"Fuck him! Look at him, with his… with his director's chair and his… beret… and his… his… little sunglasses thing on one eye!"
"His monocle?" Howard asked tediously.
"Yea, fuck that too! He doesn't deserve to have you movin' around inside of him."
Howard seemed to choke on the air he was breathing. "Don't say it like that, Vince."
"He doesn't! He's a fuckin' tool, and you slaved your ass off to work with him! He should be honored to have you inside him! If you were inside me, I wouldn't kill you off with that… Windy Blast stuff!"
"That's perverted."
Vince sighed heavily, throwing his bare back against the couch. "You know what I mean! Haven't you learned from that? Now you're off entering something to work with him another time!"
"Look. I happen to have very strong opinions on the subject of his current contest, okay? I have a feeling I could win this, and I want to get my work out the-"
"Then why don't you just show me your work? I'd love it if you were able to share all this with me!"
"You wouldn't be interested in this kind of thing."
"Come on, Howard!" Vince practically pleaded, turning to face his friend. "I love you. I love you! Why don't you see that? I'd never go out and intentionally hurt you, and I'd never go out and intentionally waste your talent."
"My what now?" Howard asked, dumbfounded. Through his friends intoxicated ramblings, this was something he hadn't expected to hear.
"Your talent! You're an amazin' writer, Howard. You have to know that! You're so smart and you know all these fancy words, like… like… fuck, what was it… like requite! You taught me the meaning of the word requite! You can write and you're… you're a musical genius! The ice cream man wasted all of that in his commercial!"
"For the last time, Vince, it's not Häagen- wait. What have you read of mine?" Howard asked, growing increasingly concerned.
Vince saw this and covered up his steps. "That… that sentence back at the zoo! Remember that? When the publisher came?"
Howard fell back against the couch, dejected at the memory. "How can I forget? You got the limelight as a writer, and I ended up punching my soul mate in the face. Great night for Howard T.J. Moon!" he seethed.
"Soul mate? I thought you said that girl from your birthday party was your soul mate!"
"Yeah, well…" Howard shuddered, and then continued, "she didn't quite turn out to be what I thought she was, alright?"
Vince's drug-induced smile was further widened by the revelation that the girl from the party was out of his beloved friend's life. "Hey, Howard! Did you… and that… and that party bird, did you guys…"
"Oh, God, no!" Howard exclaimed, disgusted by the idea.
Not willing himself to stifle more laughter, Vince asked, "So, you're still technically… you know… a virgin?"
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up!" Howard said defensively. "Howard Moon, 32 year-old virgin, ha-ha-ha, let's document his pathetic love life!"
Still laughing, Vince tried to comfort him, but to no avail. "Come on! It isn't… pathetic…"
"Who are we kidding?" he sighed. "I'm 32. I've never even kissed a woman."
"Well… you've kissed a man who looks like a woman!" Vince offered, bouncing excitedly again.
"Yeah, we promised to never talk about that, remember?" Howard asked acerbically.
"I guess not."
Howard looked at his friend. Anything resembling thought and self control had left him. His blue eyes darted around the room distractedly. And as each second ticked by, his inebriated condition would only worsen until a very unpleasant crash. Howard stood up from the couch and announced, "We've gotta get you to bed, Little Man. You've gotta sleep this off before it makes you sick."
"I don't wanna go to bed, Howard. I'm havin' fun!"
"Vince, come on…" He wasn't in the mood to play the role of the over-exhausted father.
"Make me!"
"Vince. You're 27 years old."
"That's preposterous! I'm… 22. 20? Maybe 18. Could I pass for 18?"
"Mentally, you could pass for about 5. Now let's get you to bed, alright? You'll be back to your old self when you wake up."
"Aw, come off it!" Vince begged, pulling Howard by his un-burned wrist back onto the couch.
"I'm serious, Vince. Don't mess with me."
"Or what?" he asked playfully.
"Or… or you'll be sorry you messed with me."
"What are you gonna do?"
"I'll… make you sorry! And that's all I'm at liberty to say as of now, sir."
"Yeah, whatever. Hey, Howard?"
"What?"
Vince swallowed sharply, vacillating whether or not he should continue. Even when he was toasted, he realized the weight of this particular thought. "I'll go to bed if you answer something."
Howard looked at him with wary interest. "…What is it…?"
"Did you enjoy that kiss?"
Fiddling with the collar of his shirt, Howard turned to face away from Vince. He simply stammered and garbled some incoherencies in reply before saying, "We promised not to bring that up again."
"Yeah, well I broke the promise and now my question's hangin' out there for you to see."
"Well… it… it was very… nice. Satisfied? Now off to bed you go."
"'Nice?'" Vince asked, crestfallen. "What about all that stuff you yelled about bein' a massive gayist and all that?"
"Momentary lapse. We've been over it. And we won't be over it again. Alright?"
Vince lay awake in his bed, mind reeling. He couldn't sleep in this condition. Not without being tired. Not without having Howard on the bed adjacent to his. Howard, Howard, Howard… he couldn't think of anything else. The potent hash cakes had blocked out everything. He couldn't think of Gary Numan or fashion or upcoming gigs. He could only think of Howard, Howard, Howard and how much he loved him.
"Well… it… it was very… nice." Just what the hell was Vince supposed to make out of that? Being stoned was a double edged sword, he realized. It may have let him get away with saying those things, but it also diminished their value. That, and it made his mind too fogged up to know what exactly Howard had meant by "nice." When he was completely sober, Vince could read his friend as effortlessly as his issues of Cheekbone. But he was slightly more mysterious when veiled by the haze of laced baked goods.
Turning restlessly from side to side, now feeling more annoyed than amused by the "claymation" effect, Vince could do nothing but cogitate his relationship with Howard and how he may have enabled his newly discovered suicidal contemplations in the past. The hash seemed to be possessing the debacle of his high, turning his previous ecstasy into paranoia. Bitter tears rained from his sorrow-stricken eyes and he was left muttering Howard's name until sweet unconsciousness was kind enough to overtake him.
