A/N: The aforementioned nerd-love points go to Chalcedony Rivers! Sybil is her name indeed.
Thank you muchly, reviewers and subscribers, both new and old. I present to you the longest chapter to date.

The chapter title is from the song 'Brothers on a Hotel Bed' by Death Cab for Cutie.

SEVEN

These Wrinkles Masterfully Disguise the Youthful Boy Below

Vince decided it'd be best if he didn't contact Leroy about the Gideon fiasco. He didn't need to be taken advantage of at this point. So, walking further along the sidewalk, he pulled out his phone and dialed the number of the only man with whom he needed to speak.

Howard picked up after the first ring. "Vince?" he answered. "Where are you? Are you alright? Do you need me to come get you?"

Vince sighed, disappointed and irritated. What would it take to convince him he wasn't a little kid anymore? "I'm fine, Small Eyes. Look, I wanted to know if you'd meet me at Farnaby's Bar." His tone was agitated, curt. But then again, so was his mood.

"Aren't you… on a date?" Howard couldn't bring himself to be any more specific than that.

"I don't think I'd be askin' you to join me if I were, yeah?"

"Alright," came Howard's response. There was a hesitation and then, "Vince?"

"Yeah?"

"How was Gideon?"

The tone in which this question was asked nearly ripped Vince apart. There was no anger or even envy. It was submissive and curious. "Just meet me there in ten, alright?"

It was more like fifteen minutes by the time both men were seated in one of the booths at Farnaby's with drinks in front of them. They were stuck in the rut of an intolerably uncomfortable silence, neither of them fully knowing the reason they were actually there. But silence was better than fighting, which was all they seemed to do lately.

Even so, Vince had to say something. "Howard, look… about that painting of yours…"

Howard's eyes darted around the room, looking at every seedy bar patron to avoid doing the same to the man beside him. That painting had been on his mind way too much this evening; after he'd seen Vince with Gideon, it had altered itself further. But this time, Howard had actually witnessed it changing. The angelic figure gained a halo while the derelict faded, becoming less and less important. And as Howard noticed this, he felt an unfamiliar sense of indifference spread over him. He should be furious- his best friend, the one he just so happened to be hopelessly in love with, getting off with his previous object of desire, was nothing to celebrate- but he wasn't. It just seemed to add to the congeries of reasons for him to hate himself; all of this was his fault. If Howard wasn't such a gauche nobody, Vince would be his and he would have the happiness that everyone else seemed to. But it didn't work that way for Howard Moon. No, sir. "Yeah? What about it?" he asked, all too defensively. "I happen to be an avid painter, Vince. One of the many things you don't know about me. I'm multi-talented in the ways of the arts, you see. They call me the Paint Prodigy."

"Oh, do they now?" Vince asked, amused despite himself. Even if Howard was straying from the conversation's intended path, he'd missed listening to his bullshit.

"They do, sir. If Naboo didn't rely so heavily on my skills as a salesman, you could bet your pretty little life that I'd be opening my own gallery. The Magisterial Masterpieces of Moon, the exhibit would be called."

"You'd have a whole exhibit for one painting, would you?"

"Well, it isn't about quantity in modern art. Today's connoisseur of art looks for the truth, the light, within a picture. People would pay top money to view my one painting, yes, indeedie. They'd line up through the streets to catch a glimpse, and their souls would fill to the brim with warmth as if a steaming cup of coffee were spilling over their-"

"Wait, through the streets? So this'd be an outdoor exhibit, then?"

"…Yes, yes it would, you see. The demand for viewing would be so high that a projector of monstrous ponderosity would be required to broadcast my work into the heavens above."

"Who'd pay to see that?" Vince laughed. "People could just look up!"

"Well, yes…" Howard conceded, sounding caught. "But that's why we'd get equally large curtains, hung down by overhead blimps. Only those inside the curtains could view the truth. Artistic enlightenment, a catharsis, if you will. I'll show the truth of the darker side of humanity in one image. Like a concise Goya."

"What, the food company?"

"No, like Francisco- doesn't matter."

"Howard," Vince began, suddenly determined to get back on track. "What exactly is the truth in that painting of yours?"

The older man visibly reddened and pulled at his turtleneck collar. "It's-"

"It's meant to be us, innit?"

"I… Vince, art isn't meant to be taken so literally. You can't just say things like that when every aspect is abstract and metaphorical."

"You mean like the way you made me grabbin' at your heart?" Vince asked bluntly. This was the kind of Howard Moon bullshit he couldn't stand.

"What now?"

"Oh, come on, Howard. I know you think I'm dense an' all that, but art's always been my thing, remember? An' no one can be that dense, anyway. You're a great painter, but you may wanna work at your code, 'cuz you're not as cryptic as you'd like to think."

Howard stared intently into his glass, as if his whiskey held the answer to every sublunary and heavenly question of man, and said nothing.

Vince sighed. The only way this was going to work was if one of them was upfront. And it sure as hell wasn't going to be the one who looked about ready to make love to his drink. "Howard, do you fancy me?" There. It had been asked. No retractions, no denials, no going back.

Howard forced out a laugh that sounded more like he was choking. "You, sir, are vainer than I had first assumed."

Okay. It was a simple yes or no question, but okay. "Whad'ya mean?"

"You… you just assume that because you're Vince Noir, everyone has to love you, don't you?"

Vince had to admit that he was close to being right. He assumed that because he was Vince Noir, everyone but the person who mattered had to love him. "No, Howard. It's because you painted me holdin' onto your heart."

Howard seemed to hyperventilate before he downed the remainder of his drink in one swig. "Yeah, well..." he began, as he toyed with his empty glass. The silence threatened to consume them again, so he asked, emotionlessly, "So how was she?" There was no need to give a name to the pronoun.

"Three years later, it's still all about her, innit?" asked Vince spitefully.

"I dunno, Vince. You tell me. You're the one who got off with her tonight, weren't you?"

"How easy do you think I am? Nothing happened, Howard. I swear."

Howard sighed heavily, defeated. "The least you could do is tell the truth. As if anyone could resist you, right?" Again, he sounded more submissive than angry. And this tore at Vince. That, along with Howard's assumption that Vince just had to have tried to get into Gideon's pants. Or dress. Whatever. He rose from the table with the languor of someone who'd had this entire conversation revealed to him ahead of time and thus found no reason to hear it again. "I'm gonna get goin', Vince. Thanks for the drink, yeah? See you back home."

'Run away, Howard, like you always do', Vince was so tempted to say. 'Man of action, my ass. The minute things get heavy, you run faster than the Cowardly Lion on amphetamines.' Instead, he stayed quiet and took a page from the Moon book of etiquette for awkward moments: he stared into his drink glass until Howard walked out.

Vince exhaled with such force he thought that he might tip the table over, and then took in a healthy dose of his Flirtini. Fuck this. He stood up, walked to the bar, and, waving the feminine drink, said to the tender, "Get me something stronger than this. A lot stronger." He was rewarded with Howard's drink of choice: whiskey. Although it seemed to scorch Vince's entire throat on the way down, it was undeniably powerful, and that's all he cared about.

It wasn't long before he began to flip through his phone, fondly looking at old pictures of the two of them from their various travels and adventures. What happened to them? He could feel tears well up in his eyes as he found a picture from their days in grade school in the midst his electronic album. He'd never tell Howard this, but he'd scanned and emailed said picture to his phone because it made him smile like nothing else in the world, and it was encouraging to know that when sadness overtook his heart- which was beginning to happen more often than ever before in the previously cheery life of Vince Noir- he could slide open his phone and be guaranteed a smile. It showed Howard, appearing about 16 years old, looking directly at the camera, shooting it a glance of a nonplussed nature, with Vince's 9-year old arm flung around his shoulder, his lips playfully pressed against the other boy's cheek, his free arm extended to take the picture. Vince laughed as he looked at the image, realizing that Howard hadn't been 16 years old in it at all. He'd been 10.

Vince would never forget how the two of them had met. It'd been at recess one afternoon in grade school… the same year that picture had been taken, actually. Howard was more or less an outcast, but one of those self-inflicted ones. He never once tried to fit in; he just accepted the fact that he didn't. It was a tacit rule of the educational social system that no one- repeat, no one- associated themselves with Howard Moon. And in case anyone forgot this, his overly-mature appearance was a reminder to everyone that he wasn't one of them. He was different. Vince was the exact opposite. A grade below Howard, Vince was one year younger and a million times more popular. Some things never change, eh? He had legions of myrmidons. It seemed everyone, regardless of grade, vied for his attention and acceptance, and he took it all casually, never once letting it get to his head. As Howard had always known he was a misfit, Vince had always known he was a leader. That's just the way it was.

Since Howard wasn't held up inside by any friends, he was always the first one out on the playground at recess. He would spend his time sitting on the bench in the corner, his face always buried in some thick novel that was far beyond the reading level of his respective class, doing his best to blend in with the scenery. Vince, on the other hand, would be the last one out and in the middle of everything, joining in the childish games of new kids every day, because everyone needed to have some contact with him.

But one day was different. Vince had run out and breathlessly sat beside Howard, who was already reading. If the latter noticed the presence of the former, he'd done nothing to let that show. Streams of kids began to filter out of the school doors, most looking for Vince. But the idea of him talking to Howard was so unthinkable that no one even looked to where he actually was. For that day, he was invisible.

"You know," Vince said. "I've never talked to you before, but you're the only one in the whole school that I actually like."

Howard sighed and placed his book down on his knee. "You don't need to do this, okay? I'm used to being alone, so you can run along now."

"No, I mean it," the younger boy assured. "You're the only one here I like."

"Why? Because I give you and your little cronies something to laugh about?"

Vince was confused. "No, Howard. Look at me," he said, gesturing to his uniform that had been meticulously customized, right down to the buttons. "I'm always tryna stand out an' look different. But they don't let me! They steal my ideas and never leave me alone. It's like they have contests to see who can be me best. So much for bein' different, right? Well, you're different and you don't even have to try. That's why I like you." He smiled, and then added, with an extension of his hand, "I'm Vince."

As if Howard didn't know who he was. But nevertheless, he tentatively shook the boy's offered hand.

Recess ended with Vince asking to go over Howard's house that afternoon, and the older boy found himself accepting the self-invitation. The two couldn't have been at more opposite ends of the spectrum, but their first walk home together seemed to establish all they needed to know to become best friends. "So, why are you always reading?" Vince asked.

Howard shrugged. "It lets me escape from school for a while."

"Mind if I take a look?" Vince pointed to the novel clutched under Howard's arm, and the older boy handed the object to him carefully. Vince thumbed through a few of the pages and promptly returned it to him. "You're smart," he simply stated.

"Why do you say that?"Howard asked, as if this were the first compliment he'd ever received. Maybe it was.

"'Cuz that's the same book my teacher's readin'. I took it out of her bag and it confused me then, too."

"You looked through Mrs. Wentworth's personal belongings?"

Vince shrugged. "She don't mind. Anyway, I know what your class is readin', and it ain't that. You just have to be different with everything, don't you?" This wasn't a taunting statement. It was one of admiration.

Now it was Howard who shrugged. "I just don't like people my age."

"Me neither," Vince agreed. "None of 'em have a mind of their own. An' none of 'em knew who Mick Jagger was 'til I told 'em. You know who he is, right?"This question was accompanied by a look of pure hopefulness in blue eyes so large they seemed to dominate his small face.

"Course I do," Howard answered. "He's awful."

"Awful?"

"All he does is whine and dance about provocatively."

"So who do you like, then?"

"Charlie Parker."

"Who?"

Howard stopped walking and shook his head in mock dismay. Even at their first meeting, Howard found it so easy to be himself. There was something about Vince that made him… comfortable. Happy, even. "Looks like I'll have some musical educating to do this afternoon. We'll start with the basics: a little piece called 'Bird of Paradise'. Alright, Little Man?"

"Great, more schooling," Vince laughed. "An' I ain't so little!"

Present day Vince smiled sorrowfully at the memory; it had been the birth of their friendship, his much beloved nickname and their lighthearted banter. Well… at least it'd stayed lighthearted until recently. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and wiped away more tears, trying not to smear his makeup, before downing more of the still-unfriendly hard liquor.

"Is this seat taken?"

The familiar voice behind him made Vince jump, and he turned halfway around to see who it was. "Harold?" he asked disbelievingly. "Harold Boon? What the hell are you doin' back here?"

"Woah, woah, easy now, Vince. I'm not tryin' to steal anythin' anymore, alright? Those days are over." Harold saw Vince's silence as a good sign and took his post at the empty barstool next to him. "Lance and I had a row, that's all."

"You two still talk? And you guys are still… in character?"

Harold shrugged, as if it were no big deal, and ordered himself a drink.

Vince, too, turned to the bartender and ordered another whiskey. He'd need it if he were going to deal with this kind of idiocy. "Well, what're you doin' back here?" His tone still wasn't very amiable.

"Wanted to come somewhere I remembered but that didn't remember me."

Vince shuddered. Harold was really good at sounding like… someone else.

So good, in fact, that an hour and multiple drinks later, they found themselves hand-in-hand, laughing and welling up, telling stories of their missing other halves. It surprised neither of them that they ended up touching much more than just hands by the end of the night.

"Hey… do you mind if I call you Howard?" Vince had asked.

"Not if you don't mind me calling you Lance."

Shockingly, he didn't mind. And not because he had any newfound admiration for Lance Dior. He still hated the bastard. It was that at this moment, he had more than a little hatred for himself, too. That, and he simply didn't feel like being Vince anymore. It'd be nice to lose his identity, if only for one night.