A/N: A massive thanks to all you reviewers and new subscribers; I'm hoping this chapter isn't anticlimactic!

The title of this chapter is from the song 'Guaranteed' by the inhumanly beautiful and talented Eddie Vedder.

TEN

If Ever There Was Someone to Keep Me at Home, It Would be You

It was just a dream, Vince… stop worrying… he's here. Everything's fine. When Howard didn't immediately respond to the repeated ululations of his name, Vince's first instinct was to worry. His feelings were far too reminiscent of when he'd noted Howard's absence in his nightmare. He just hasn't heard me. That's all.

Relief flooded over him when he soon enough received a rapping on the door and a hurried entrance from the man he'd been worrying about. "Howard!" Vince cried, stumbling out of his bed to wrap him in a rather aggressively affectionate embrace.

Howard stiffened at the contact. "Uh… hi, Vince."

The younger man tightened his grip, threatening to crush him, before letting him go. "Oh my God, Howard, I was so worried! Where've you been?"

"Worried? I've only been on the roof."

Vince felt the wind being knocked out of him and he fell back onto his unmade bed. "The roof?" It's just a coincidence… don't over-think it. Oh, please, God, let it just be a coincidence…

"Yes, the roof. It's a very inspirational place for a poet," Howard began, his tone changing from doubtful to pensive. "Having the entire city below your feet, having nothing but old Mr. Moon above you… it's instant inspiration, Vince."

The younger man fell back even more, this time with the comfort of the dark irony. "Oh… alright. Wait, Mr. Moon? What time is it?"

Howard shrugged. "Half seven, just about? You've been asleep for quite a while; I was starting to wonder about you. Are you feelin' alright?"

Vince exhaled and nodded, his face looking otherwise caught up in thought. "Yeah, yeah, much better, thanks. Just had… a weird dream, 's all."

"I'll bet you did," Howard said, returning to his paternal, protective side. "Five of Naboo's hash cakes… that's a stoner's tranquilizer if I've ever heard of one."

Vince smiled weakly. "Yeah. Hey, Howard?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you… could you sit with me for a bit?"

"Uh… sure, alright," he replied, taking a nervous seat alongside Vince on his disheveled bed. He looked down at his lap, finding this situation a little too similar to the one on the couch a few hours ago. And Vince was still half naked.

"Look…" began the younger man, before pausing abruptly, as if that one word had given away the most prized and confidential secret in the entire world. He looked at Howard carefully and the disturbing image from his nightmare- the one of him lying on the ground, a heap devoid of life- flashed through his mind like a demented strobe light. He had to confront him. There was no way he was going to escape that image until he'd talked to him.

But how? What was he going to say? 'I went through your stuff and I've got a few issues with it…'? No, that wouldn't do. Whatever he said, it had to be with perfect tact, with perfect consideration and understanding. Like that straightener metaphor he'd used earlier. Surely he could come up with another of those… maybe about a broken vanity light? Perhaps a low wattage hair dryer or body glitter that just didn't shine. No, Vince decided, those wouldn't work. He had to be direct. Still, how could he manage to be direct and concise and sympathetic and caring?

Howard saw the unmistakable look of inner turmoil on his friend's face and asked, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, just… it was a bad dream, y'know?" Vince offered. Okay, that could work. That could be a nice little segue into the topic.

"You're Vince Noir. You never have bad dreams," he retorted, unconvinced.

"Yes I do!"

Howard rolled his eyes. "That one you had about me playing jazz with Iggy Pop and Stiv Bators doesn't count."

Vince shivered at the memory. "Yeah, it does count! That was terrifyin'… I had to spend weeks with Naboo's otter-in-a-bib picture just to get rid of the anxiety!" Back to the point, you bumbaclark! His visage switched to a more sullen expression. "Anyway… I… this one definitely counts, alright?"

"What was it?"

Vince felt himself freeze. He could go on stage and sing in front of hundreds dressed as an electronic hermaphrodite, but when it came to this, he was stricken by the chokes. Great. What was he going to say to that? This had to be handled with the same kind of tact it would have had he not mentioned the dream at all. Honesty… but sweet honesty… cancel out the bitterness with some emotions… like the clove rock pancakes! He managed to work out a perfectly balanced metaphor comparing death to clove rocks and himself to pancakes, but one look into the concerned, compassionate eyes of his companion and his rational thoughts were dashed. So, instead, he began crying. Again. Right before throwing his arms around a tense Howard. Again.

"What… what's going on here?" Howard asked uncomfortably. "You've been acting strangely all day. What's gotten into you?" He didn't break the embrace, though, and Vince was thankful for that.

"You can't kill yourself, Howard!" he blurted out, burying his head into his friend's shoulder.

"…Again… what's going on here?"

"You! I read your little contest thing and you can't kill yourself, Howard, you just can't!"

Howard sighed heavily and pried the younger man's weeping form off of him, holding him upright so that he could actually make an attempt at direct eye contact. He felt this called for it. "You really couldn't respect my privacy, could you?" he asked, his words coming out a little harsher than he'd intended.

"I know, I know, I'm a shallow simpleton with no respect for boundaries, I've heard it a million times now! And it's true, okay? I know that. I never meant to push you to the edge like this, Howard, it's just the way I am, and… and you can't do this!" Vince rambled, his makeup visibly smudged and running down his face.

"Woah, woah, woah, Little Man, slow down. I don't know what you're saying." The traces of anger had left his tone; he'd never seen Vince like this before.

"Look!" he cried exasperatedly. "I know I can't say things as good as you can, but you still have to listen to me, alright? 'Cuz it's important." He took a few deep breaths after receiving a nod from Howard, and then continued. "You can't do this. You just can't. What would my life be without you? It wouldn't even be worth livin', Howard, honest! And before you go talkin' down to me for havin' an 'active social life' or whatever it is that you call it, lemme explain somethin' to you." Vince wiped his eyes resolutely, his voice growing stronger. "You think I've got loads of friends, don't you? That I've got no worries 'cuz I've got everyone lined up at my every beckoned call? It's not true.

"Yeah, I go to tons of parties and meet lots of girls and have a bunch of acquaintances. But d'ya think any of them really care about me? Sure, the girls think they do, and sometimes I think I care about them, too, but it doesn't last. We pretend to care 'cuz it's nice to feel loved, y'know? But we all know what we've got isn't caring. They ain't really my friends, Howard. Leroy, Naboo an' Bollo are my friends. These are just my party-goers. When I'm stressed an' wanna forget about everythin', I go to them and get pissed off my tits, 'cuz we're all equally… wait. Forget that last part, alright?

"When I have a real problem, who do I go to? You. Who makes me feel better? You. Who makes me feel better even when I don't say anythin', just by bein' there? You. Remember the whole thing with Harold Boon and…" he shuddered involuntarily, but powered on, "Lance Dior? Remember how messed up I was that the pillock was copyin' me? You didn't understand, but you went off and gave me that genius hat and sang me a little song and even got Gary Numan to give me a shout-out. You think Johnny Rhythm or Vector would ever give me the time of day for somethin' like that? No. They're my party-goers, not my friends. You're not my friend, either. You're my Howard. An' that means about a million times more."

Vince stopped for a while to catch his breath and let his words sink in. Whatever Howard was feeling was concealed by a completely motionless, apathetic facial expression. Vince assumed he was letting the speech register.

Finally, after what seemed like years, Howard broke the silence. "V-Vince, I… I don't know what to say…"

"Yeah, well I do know what to say, 'cuz I ain't finished yet!" A whole new bout of rage was delivered to Vince and he barreled on, even more obstinate than before. "Jesus, Howard, look at you! You're talented and smart and quirky in a way that's kind of cool and you're flippin' gorgeous, Howard! Wait. Forget that part, too. Sometimes I speak without thinkin', y'know? Of course you don't know. Everything you say is always so clever and thought-out. Anyway. You can't waste all that. Everyone wants to be those things! All those party-goers, they have to go out an' party an' get pissed 'cuz they have absolutely zero of the traits that you have, and partyin' gives them character. You don't need that, 'cuz… 'cuz you already got it all. Everyone else in the world is just too fuckin' stupid to see that. And I need you, Howard…" Vince's voice cracked at that last part, weighed down with the crushing truth of it.

"So don't you ever dare to think of killing yourself anymore. 'Cuz if you do, I'll be right after ya. I'll be the one comin' atcha, like… like the Northern bullet, and I'll make your afterlife so miserable you wish you were still alive." Vince wiped his eyes one more time, wondering when in his rant he'd started up the crying again. He looked down at his Y-fronts and laughed. He could've at least thrown a shirt on, couldn't he? But he let the weak humor pass and said, with all the genuineness in the world, "I love you, Howard."

"Vince, you didn't- well, I… l-love you, too- but you didn't-"

"No!" the younger man wailed, frustrated. "You don't get it, ya dense freak! I don't just love you, but I love-love you!" He honestly didn't think he could get through anything more specific.

"W…What d'ya mean?" Howard asked. But his warbling voice and faraway look suggested that he knew exactly what he meant.

"Jesus, how do you not see what I mean?" Vince cried with more than a hint of hysterics. "I'm fuckin' in love with you! I 'ave been, ever since I was first able to put a smile on that dense, generic, mustached face of yours! An' I know you don' feel the same way, I don't expect you to and I don't want you to feel uncomfortable or get all tense and… Howardy, alright? I know you ain't interested in guys an' that you go for those smart girls who like bookmarks and trumpets and pipes and poetry. An' I've accepted that! I know you'll never… requite... requite! Requite! See, Howard? I'm not so stupid, am I? Maybe I prefer pop to jazz, and maybe I need a dictionary by my side when I read your essays, and maybe I don't watch the news or read books by important people, but I'm not stupid! I just wish you could see that, 'cuz then maybe you'd take my feelings a little more seriously." Vince froze again and his hands flew up to cover his mouth. He hadn't meant to say all that.

"Vince," Howard's now steady voice directed. "You didn't read the whole contest entry, did you?"

"No. But I read enough, so don't try to deny that you're all suicidal!"

"Yeah, stay right there, alright? I'll be back." With that, Howard rushed out of the room, leaving Vince to stare after him and worry some more.

Nice going, idiot. Now you've freaked him out.