AN: and here's chapter two. More angst i'm afraid, though next chapter you all get what you've been waiting for. Though i wont let you in on it yet. You'll know what you're getting by the end of this one. I'm glad this sequal has been met well, it's a weight off the shoulders that it's up to par with the other one. I owe the idea that Howard's chinese burns are inadvertinly self harm and may have progressed further to APrincessRose in her All the Small Hours fic (brilliant by the by - read it if you havent). That idea struck a chord with me, and i dont see why i didn't see it before, as sad a joke as it was to begin with. Any way additionally, i'm glad that you think Jane isn't quite a Mary Sue, or at least she isn't at the moment. Never the less, the rods are there if i ever need instruction, so dont be afraid to pull one out. That almost sounds wrong. So i'll leave it there, and until the next installment.

CHAFFINCH!

Captain Jacq XX

Disclaimer: ALLLLL made up. An' aint we glad!

Chapter Two

Howard still felt Jane's gaze on his back as he left the room. They hadn't spoken for about two minutes before Howard couldn't withstand the awkward silence anymore and left. He'd simply stood holding the bundle and staring at it. Staring at his name carefully configured in Vince's handwriting. He'd had so much creativity to share, but when it came to writing Vince made it seem like one of the most painful things in the world. The Charlie Books had been an exemption – they alone seemed delighted in telling a tale, rather than simply configuring words. Perhaps that had been the difference with Vince, it was easier telling a story than telling the truth – his morning (or mid afternoon) excuses seemed testimony enough. These letters seemed somehow different though. They certainly scared him, and he didn't even know anything about their contents yet. Perhaps they were Vince telling him he was a berk, a twat, glad he was gone. Howard's stomach had plummeted at that thought. After all he, Howard, had abandoned Vince at his most trying time. Perhaps all Vince had to say was that he hated him, and had sent the same letter time and again waiting for him to read it and understand that he hated him. Those thoughts once spoken seemed to infiltrate Howard like a virus – swimming throughout him yelling at his befuddled brain from all sides, drowning him. Pulling him deeper into despair. A lone voice almost drowned out by the cacophony. A single voice reminding him of what Naboo had said.

Vince could never have hated him.

Still, it was like an army was marching through Howard. Screaming at the top of their lungs. Each one with a different insult. Different voice. But all joined in telling one fear. That maybe Vince hadn't ever needed Howard, that all of it was an elaborate show determined to ruin him. Force him into remembering everything and make it that much harder to reject again. Tormented with the knowledge that after all Howard Moon had never meant anything to Vince Noir, when every part of Howard was founded on the knowledge that Vince had meant everything to him.

Dragging his feet Howard stared, entranced at his name pressed into the paper of the first envelope. It was expensive, like parchment or handmade or something, there was glitter embedded in it. A small smile pulled Howard's lips, glitter. Everything made of glitter.

"You're the Sunshine Kid Vince".

"I'm like a beachball Howard. There's nothing to me."

Should he have told him what he'd been thinking that day? He wanted to have done it now. But back then he would have turned about six shades of red before progressing through yellow to green if he'd said what he'd thought.

A beach ball is built on the air of other people, Vince. Others work hard for it, and when it's inflated, it's so joyous. It's so much fun, the life of the party. I wish I was a beach ball, Vince. But beside you I'm like a bleeding golf ball. Small, hard and good only for hitting with sticks.

Stumbling into his room Howard remained unaware that Jane was watching him from the doorway, her mouth twisted in a sad frown and her eyes strangely haunted. Closing the door Howard crossed the room that was his at number thirty one, Haret Drive. It wasn't all that much different from the one he'd had at the Nabootique. Where at the flat he'd had a muffin paint scheme here he'd gone rogue and chosen an aggressive nutmeg. He'd felt very proud of himself when he'd watched the paint cover the walls (and himself more so, he'd never been that great with a brush). It had been almost liberating. Now, he felt small in the walls. Drowned out by the colour, by the sheer force of it. The independence. He felt alien in his own sanctuary. The records in the corner were all his, Davis, Mingus, Spider and Rudi, Howling Jimmy. They were all there. All his. But they didn't help at all. He didn't belong here. This person, the nutmeg walls, the patterned bedspread, the black and white and muffin and nutmeg and beige and browns, the red satin shirt certainly … the clothes neatly hung in his wardrobe weren't his. They didn't belong to the person he was now. He didn't know who the hell he was now. He felt fake. Fake and alone.

Howard fell back onto his bed hands bound tight around the bundle of letters. He clenched his eyes tight sighed, letting the image of Vince beaming at him form on the back of his eyelids.

"Howard." His voice echoed in Howard's ears, a sound locked away in a vault that he'd sworn he'd lost the key.

"Vince." He whispered back. Vince's face fell, no longer smiling Vince didn't really seem like Vince anymore.

"I'm sorry. Vince I'm sorry." Howard called out, unsure of whether Vince was angry or not. Vince looked up. Eyes crinkled sadly. Howard's heart fell.

"Me too, Howard."

"I'd give anything to go back. Anything."

"I know."

"I wasn't angry at you."

"Yes you were, Howard."

"No – I swear."

"You don't have to lie to me Howard. I understand." He muttered, a small sad smile pulling at his lips before he suddenly turned to leave.

"No! Vince!" the words shouted from Howard's lips before he could think. All he knew was that his heart doubled in pace the moment Vince turned his back on him. He couldn't let him. Couldn't let him walk away. Couldn't let him leave.

"Take me with you."

"I can't Howard."

"Please."

"I can't." He muttered turning away again, walking into the darkness before Howard could stop him.

"No! Vince! Wait!" but Vince didn't stop. He kept walking, disappearing into the blackness and no matter how hard Howard ran, Vince kept disappearing. He didn't get a step closer, but Vince kept getting further and further away.

"Vince!" he shouted, stumbling forward. Falling in the darkness only to jerk awake.

"Howard?" Jane called softly through the door.

"Howard, are you alright?"

"Yeah." He managed to choke out. It took a moment for him to realize he was crying again.

"Just a minute." He called, sitting up and rubbing his eyes with trembling hands. His heart thumping in his chest and the image of Vince walking away running around and around in his head. All of a sudden he felt an inescapable torment, like he was suddenly horribly aware and drowning in the emptiness of the hole Vince had left. The space he'd kept in his heart and managed to cover over, lock the door and pretend wasn't there. Now he felt it. Felt how wide it was and heard his own voice echo in its caverns as Vince disappeared. Howard fell forward into his hands, elbows resting on his knees and whimpered. He felt so hollow, so empty and somehow guilty.

"I didn't hate you."

"Yes you did."

"You hated him, Howard…"

I didn't.

Yes. You did.

The last voice ricocheting around in his skull. That tiny voice that was always there, always ready to tell him just what he didn't want to hear, bouncing around. It was happy. That voice. It was only happy, it seemed, when Howard was not. It had been the voice that had told him to turn his anger on himself back at the shop – the Chinese burns that Jane and Hanna had told him may have led further if he hadn't stopped when he had. A little voice that delighted in Howard's misery, fed off his ill thoughts and made them multiply, feeding them in return. The single being that created the monster. The army marching through his mind and yelling his despair.

Howard hated that voice.

He hated it more when it was right.

"Howard, are you sure you're okay?" Jane's voice echoed through the door again and Howard sighed. He'd almost forgotten she was there.

He cleared his throat again.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"
"Yeah." He replied again.

"I'm making soup if you want some."

Soup soup a tasty soup soup a spicy carrot and coriander…

"No, I'm, I'm fine."
"I can make you something else if you want."

"Eggs milk and flour, pancake power…"

"Have you heard of rice, Vince?"
"I've heard of rice crispies…"

"Make us a cuppa, will ya Vince?"

"No, I'm okay."

"You okay little man, you haven't eaten anything today."
"Yeah, course. I'm just not hungry Howard. It's fine."

"You sure?"

"Hungry Vince?"
"Starving!"

"I'll get something later." He called, waiting until her heard her feet disappear again before he reached over and picked up the pile again. Why on earth was it so damn heavy? He sighed, turning it over again and again. Naboo had bound them all together with red string, a parcel wrapped up in memories of a time Howard desperately wanted to experience, and one that Naboo seemed unable to escape. Had he been as tormented as Howard was now? The thought almost made Howard snort. Even considering everything he'd seen today, seen that haunted look in Naboo's eyes, it was hard to imagine the small Shaman experiencing grief. Naboo was so… deadpan. He, somehow seemed to make Howard think he was immune to it. Naboo had always seemed immune to everything. The thought twisted Howard's gut. He felt sick, sick with grief. He wanted to be immune, not be able to feel that gaping hole inside his chest – but at the same time he relished in it. In a way he wanted to feel it. Punish himself with it. It was almost like he was drowning, sitting on the bottom of a lake holding onto the rocks to stop himself floating to the top just because he was used to breathing. He was used to life without Vince, and he was terrified that he would allow himself to simply go on. Right then it was the last thing in the world he thought he could manage. How on earth could it be possible to forget the feeling as though his heart had been cut in two, and filled with holes at the same time? Feel the echoing screams rippling throughout him, the weight in his limbs making each movement a chore, and the inescapable sound of his own heart beating mocking him with each rhythmic pulse. How could he possibly get over it? But all the same, somehow, something told him he had a right to be afraid of it happening. That tiny voice, and all its followers echoing in agreement, that Vince was past him, beyond him. There was no helping him, no point in lingering on the past. On things he couldn't quite help. The voice suddenly sounding strangely like Jane's and that made him feel even worse. She was trying to help him. That's all she had ever done. Help him. Drag him to his feet whenever he'd needed it – leaving Hanna to take over and make sure he didn't fall again. That was how they'd worked.

It took Howard a moment to realize he was crushing the pile of letters in his hands as his thoughts turned to the blonde sibling who shared the three bedroom flat. Her blue eyes twinkling with mischief. Howard growled.

How many times had she turned Naboo away? How many times had she thrown caution and common decency to the wind to keep him, Howard, on his feet? Keep him dancing and everything else set to make him stumble firmly out of reach. How many times? Howard stiffened as muffled voices echoed through the door. How long had he been asleep? He glanced over at the clock and 7.43 flashed in his eyes. It was late. Late enough for only one person to join Jane in the kitchen.

Howard stood up. Steely eyed and determined, Vince firmly grasped in his minds eye. That small smile feeding his rage.

"I went against what Vince told me. I broke my promise, Howard! I lied to him when I looked for you.

Lovingly placing the bundle on the bed, Howard turned to the door. The look in his eyes cold enough to freeze steel. His fists clenched of their own accord, blood rushing in his ears. One memory running through his mind. That day, hearing Naboo's voice echo through his mind.

" I came to get you – against what I promised him, I came so many times! You weren't there! I left notes! – You never replied! I asked to see you, you didn't want to talk! Every damn time, Howard!"

"You did?"
"Yeah! The girl! I left a note; the girl said she'd give it to you. I called, you never answered!"
" She said she'd give it to me?"

"Yeah, a blonde girl."
Hanna.

Howard opened the door, breathing hard. He stepped out of his room and his footsteps echoed ahead of him. By the time he reached them the flat was eerily silent. Jane's arms folded and a sour look on her face that softened out to sadness when she looked up at Howard, while Hanna's went blank and Howard saw her gulp visibly as she faced him, nervously rising from the seat she had been lounging in as she talked to her sister.

"Howard –" she began.

"No." he snapped, biting back the urge to suddenly cry and simply ask her why. He stood tall. Broad shouldered, proud, ready.

"No. I don't want to hear it. What you did was unjustifiable! I don't care what you have to say right now. This time you don't speak, Hanna. This time you listen."