Vince found himself to be incapable of multitasking. While his brain worked on limiting Howard's time inside, his secretary clicked him onto the most common course he took through the supermarket. She leaned back in her seat, rolled her eyes, and encouraged Vince to put together exact change from within his wallet so they could return home as quickly as possible. "Not now, Howard," she kept saying, even when he volunteered to help count coins.

Howard's voice succeeded in snapping him out of his autopilot adventure, after he returned to the flat and set the netted carton of satsumas vaguely near the middle of the kitchen table. Vince noticed he was still behind the typewriter, with the piles of paper on either side of him now noticeably taller.

"Vince?" Howard had to say it several times, before catching his eyes, "You alright?"

"Alright," Vince blinked and nodded and sat down. He felt uncomfortably insignificant in that moment, as if he'd managed to lose weight during the course of his walk. He shifted in his chair, crossing his legs three different ways before giving up and standing. Still, he could feel Howard's eyes darting over him, stripping more of him away.

"Are you…?" Vince began, forcing his secretary to take a break and promising to rely on Naboo's input for a moment instead, "Are you writing about me still?"

As easily as one could mistake Vince for being unique and unapologetically individual, Howard knew the opposite was true. Vince would step into things with expectations instead of preparations. Or something like that. He would have to find an early page of his notes, from when he and Vince first started properly working together, back at the zoo.

"Yeah," Howard said slowly, "You sure you're okay?"

What he heard, instead, was Naboo insisting some shifty life-draining activity was going on; Howard's guilty, ineffectual eyes did not help the situation.

Vince slid the stack of books, made alternately up of Howard's own notes, dictionaries for reference, and novels he pretended to enjoy, toward his workspace. He set the little box of fruit on top, making it the perfect height to lean his canvas against. The pens and fine-point brushes were still there, but he felt fully inspired now. He dashed off to their bedroom, digging his favourite hand mirror out of his vanity, and a collection of folded paint tubes and frayed brushes from a box beneath his bed. All of this, he threw dramatically across the table. Howard had not typed a thing since Vince arrived, and would not be able to start soon, by the look of things.

With an unnecessarily dramatic puff of light and sound, Naboo appeared at the top of the stairwell.

"Beauty's genius," he said, while Vince stuffed the handle of his mirror into the back of the carton, "Stay young."

He patted Vince's shoulder, but Vince did not turn to acknowledge him. Naboo and Howard stared at each other for a moment, until Naboo squirmed and retired to his room.

Vince, though, did not move his focus from his own reflection. Howard wanted to make a comment about the ridiculousness of it all - the vanity, the drama - but he remained silent. Vince hardly even looked at the canvas while he sketched. He squeezed some paint out of every bottle onto the plate he had forgotten to clear from breakfast that morning. Crumbs of pancake clung to the tone he used for highlights in his skin, while sugar thickened the deepest of his hair colours. He did not seem to notice, even as he dappled these expertly over the canvas. His face, he swore, winked back at him. Howard stood.

"I don't want you looking at it," Vince said, pencil hanging from his lips. This was a habit he picked up from Howard when trying to focus; he removed it immediately to solidify his argument. Howard took a slow step back and pushed in his chair.

"I don't get caught in your reflection, sir," Howard said, "Not like you do."

Vince huffed. This was easily his best work, and he wouldn't have Howard draining it, censoring it, or otherwise.

"Shh!"

Howard replied with his 'modest and shocked' face, which usually met Vince when he swore, muttering about how he was ruining his innocent image with that kind of talk.

"You're not lookin' at it," Vince continued, "It's not even done."

"Yeah, neither's my novel."

"I don't ask to see your novel though, do I?"

Howard ducked his head, trying to catch the best proportion of light from the window behind him. He would be content with seeing through the canvas, and accepting the image backward. Vince had a habit of outlining his works thickly with black. Howard once mentioned that this seemed like a jazzy thing to do, while Vince maintained it was retro. He said he had to have something unique to his art style, which Howard would never understand properly.

"You did," Howard said, "You were asking to see it 'bout an hour ago. What's gotten into you?"

"You have," Vince used the smug monotone that always dominated his work sessions, "You're in my mind with a hoover."

"What?"

"Sucking out all the good bits. All the colours, 'til the walls and floor and ceiling and everything's creamy beige. Gettin' it all on my clothes as well."

"What are y-?"

"I'm painting."

"Something's off, Vince. You've-"

"Shh," Vince said again, "Can't you leave me alone?"

Howard guessed that, yes, he could manage that. They weren't physically conjoined, after all, and he could easily go into their - his, for now - bedroom, and shut the door. He could even lock it, if he wanted to. Yes sir, he could leave Vince alone.

"Fine," Howard said, hoping he sounded edgy and angry. He thought about slamming the door, but knew the turning of the rarely-used lock would be loud enough to make his point. Vince just shrugged, said 'unbelievable' to himself, and returned enthusiastically to his work.

The house was silent well into the next night, with staccato music only occasionally bleeding out of Howard's headphones. Vince did not move from his post, either sitting or kneeling on the chair to see himself from whatever angle was necessary. Naboo was more than happy to have the chance to stay in his room and sleep. It was Sunday; the shop was closed.

On Monday morning, just past three, the lock of the bedroom door clicked backward. Howard crept out, all wrinkled dressing gown and thoroughly matted hair, apart from the spots where the headphones spent hours flattening it. He and Vince were both prone to forgetting to eat, especially when focused on something creative. They could still be arguing or apart or whatever they were while Howard made them tea and toast. Cut with zigzags down the middle, and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, as Vince liked it. They could still be arguing, maybe, if he made the cuts slightly softer, rounder. Or put too much cinnamon. Maybe nutmeg instead. He had time to think of something, while the water warmed.

Vince only turned when he heard the kettle ignite. Howard was there, staring more intently at it than necessary, trying to prove he was altogether uninterested in whatever Vince was wasting his time with.

"Still don't look at it," was all Vince said, "It's drying, now."

"Oh," Howard only succeeded in sounding bored because this was his default tone, "Finished with it, are ya?"

"Yeah, 'course I am."

Howard wanted to ask why - if at all - Vince was upset with him. But perhaps this was just his creative process. Howard had one, too, and was willing to understand a new collection of quirks if it was necessary for production. His question was hesitant and - he hoped - subtle.

"Do you, um, need any more time to yourself?"

The kettle switched off, and Howard set to pouring the water into their respective cups while it was still boiling. He didn't think it was fair to say that he'd enjoyed his time to himself, which was occupied mostly by trying to settle on their new musical direction, sorting through Vince's wardrobe, and generally thinking too much about the moment they would be back together. Vince felt more neutral, pleased with his work, but desperately hungry and stuck in his seat under the watchful eyes of his portrait.

"Yeah," Vince said flatly, "This is the best thing I've ever done."

Howard's heart was as melodramatic as the rest of him, faltering for a moment and wondering if it was worth it to continue on to the next beat. Waiting to make a decision, until...

"Naboo's gonna love it," Vince continued.

Howard bit back more words than he'd ever managed to think of at once. Some were sad, some desperate, some apologetic. Some were angry, as if Vince had been directly criticising him. He shoved Vince's cup across the counter and shuffled back to the bedroom, twisting one hand over his forearm as he went.

Vince stared forward, settled perfectly between sleepy and satisfied, and reached for his teacup without thinking.

He took it with him, as he left to knock at Naboo's door.

Howard stood, legs back against Vince's bed, glaring at a suitcase. He dug out the biggest one he owned - tweed and worn corners and probably older than he was - and propped it open on his bed. His headphones and a vest were the only things in it so far, but he had to start somewhere. What else would he need, to trudge through time without Vince there to distract him? Novels, probably. His notebooks.

These were still waiting on the table in the kitchen. He had not heard anything from that direction in nearly an hour, other than the muffled closing of Naboo's door. He assumed Vince had given up, made himself look desperate, and curled up on the chaise in Naboo's room. Fine, Howard made himself needlessly jealous, see if he can replace me, won't we?

He returned quietly to the kitchen, where he heard excited whispers creeping in from Naboo's room. Might as well get a look at the painting, if Vince was engaged with his new… whatever Howard had been to him. Vince put no time into choosing a term for their relationship. The thought never occurred to him.

Howard shook his head, admittedly amazed at what he saw on the canvas. Vince had spent enough time studying his reflection to recreate it, of course, but this bordered surprisingly on realism. Except, if Howard was being critical, the lines around his eyes were too dark and too thick. Howard hadn't seen him wear that much eyeliner since college.

It would have to come off.

Suddenly, as he reached for the paint-covered plate, he understood how Vince must've felt some nights, staring back and forth between a sleeping Howard and a shining pair of scissors. Well, this would make them 'even' then, wouldn't it? Howard took up the nearest brush, dipped it in what looked like the whites of Vince's eyes, and took care of it. This was the best thing Vince had ever done, and now it was objectively better.

He crossed the brush carefully over the plate, then exchanged this for his stacks of paper. He did not hear the door opening, over the crinkling of the pages as he gathered them against his chest. Vince stood behind him, and jabbed two fingers into his back, to stop him stumbling any further.

"What you doin'?"

Howard swallowed uncomfortably.

"I wanted to keep these with me," he lifted his arms, to indicate the papers. One fell; Vince watched it without moving to retrieve it. Howard turned to face him, guessing his shoulders would still be covering the painting sufficiently.

They did not. Vince threw one hand over Howard's shoulder, digging in with his thumb.

"What've you done that for? Naboo's not even seen it yet… he was gonna get prints of it done for the shop and everythin', and you just-!"

Naboo arrived, assuming Vince was calling for him and guessing he was distressed.

"What's going on in here?" he demanded.

Vince stepped aside, to properly indicate that this was, in fact, Howard's fault. But Naboo saw the painting, and immediately praised it with more enthusiasm than anyone guessed he was capable of showing.

"You're right," he said, directly at Vince, "That is the best thing you've ever done."

Howard's eyes flickered at Vince, then the canvas, then back at Vince, brows raised and expecting an apology. Vince leaned his head in near Howard's shoulder. Close enough.

"Cheers, Naboo."

"Oughtta be dry now, yeah? I'm gonna get started on copies."

Vince gave him a charming smile and enthusiastic nod. Howard rolled his eyes, because Vince had - yet again - lied about something without planning for repercussions.

And he hadn't given Howard any credit either. Which made shutting his suitcase much, much easier.

"See you later, then," Howard said, already down the stairs. Vince rushed after him, complaining that he had to stop silently creeping around like that.

"It's four in the morning," Vince replied. Howard didn't think this showed an appropriate interest in where he was going, or what he was doing. He convinced himself to slam the door, nearly. The bells above it clanged as he went.

By the time Vince caught sight of the suitcase, over-polished corners catching tinny moonlight, Howard was too far down the street.