A/N: A few reviews to reply to...

Chalcedony Rivers and TheChloeEvans: Please. Do with Leroy as you wish, and put him out of his misery.
Elvisthespider: I've found a way to respond! Well, in the actual novel, Lord Henry seems to tear Dorian away from Basil simply because he wants him as his own close companion, despite Dorian meaning waaaay more to Basil. It's more or less the same in here. Leroy wants Vince as his own sidekick, because let's face it, having Vince Noir at his side could only further improve his social life.

Chapter title is from the song 'You' by Candlebox.

TEN

Is This Blood on My Hands All for You?

It's strange how different the magnitude of an event can be from the vessel by which it's delivered to its audience. Never was this statement truer than the following morning, when Howard, still worrying about the ostensible desertion of Vince, read the day's newspaper. The tiny side-article was brief, to the point, laconic:

'Veronica Gideon, the victim of Saturday evening's car accident, died last night under intensive care in hospital. The 34-year old woman walked in front of the vehicle in an apparent suicide attempt for reasons unknown.'

Two sentences. That was Mrs. Gideon's big send-off. Two measly sentences on the side-column of one of the back-pages in the newspaper. The media cared much more for celebrity babies than it did for the loss of a noble, irreplaceable life.

Howard could do nothing but stare at the words. The black ink danced upon its off-white stage, the pernicious phrases melding together until they evanesced into absolute nothingness. At first it seemed a cruel joke or a sick dream. Then, he painfully realized, in order for the adjectives 'cruel' or 'sick' to be apt, he should be suffering. But he wasn't. The news of Mrs. Gideon's death left him as numb as it did surprised. Hadn't he once dubbed this woman his "soul mate"… hadn't he at one point referred to their getting together as "inevitable"? She was gone. Inevitable was cut short. His old desire was ruined, and he was positive that his true love had had something to do with it. Vince's refusal to discuss her, his date abruptly ending, his current absence… their night out clearly hadn't gone according to plan. Vince had been telling the truth when he'd said that nothing had happened between them. Howard felt unbearably ashamed when he realized that Saturday's conversation with Vince at the bar made him feel sicker than the fact that Veronica Gideon was dead.

He folded the paper back up and pushed himself gracelessly away from the table, no longer possessing the appetite for breakfast. All Howard wanted to do was get on back to sleep and hopefully wake up with his sudden headache weakened substantially. But of course that wasn't going to happen.

When he entered his bedroom, he was too shocked to even twist the ever reddened skin on his arm. His strange painting was resting on top of his pillow, propped up by the headboard; Howard knew he'd been storing it underneath his bed. He warily walked toward it, not at all unafraid, and examined the differences since the last time he'd seen it. His own figure seemed nothing more than a beige outline on the ornate backdrop… but, if a very close look was taken by someone incredibly shrewd and patient, the faint image of a face could still be seen.

Vince's figure, naturally, was the exact opposite. His outline had darkened and his visage had brightened. The accuracy with which his blinding smile appeared across his face made Howard feel even more nauseous. Above the heart he was clutching was a nearly invisibly dim outline of something that the artist couldn't quite discern.

Howard had to have been going crazy. Paintings didn't just alter themselves on their own volition. He had to have been hallucinating… unless he'd been painting in his sleep? Unlikely story. But a hell of a lot more feasible than the alternative.

An unhealthy amount of time was spent sitting beside the painting, studying it. It didn't change under his gaze. Surely it would have had he been hallucinating. 'That's it,' he finally decided. 'I'll just paint over the damn thing.'

That was the plan, anyway. The canvas was securely resting on Vince's easel. The paintbrush had been submerged in exactly the right mix of colors. Its thick tip now hovered above the artwork… and was, with a little hesitation, guided across. But the paint didn't come off the brush. Howard furrowed his brow in confusion and slid the brush tip quickly across the desk; this time, it worked. Yet when it was returned to the canvas, it wouldn't cooperate.

"Having trouble?"

Howard let out a very un-man-of-action-ly shriek and wheeled around, his utensil flying up in the air as he did so. It landed on the floor with an anticlimactic thud, staining Vince's lime green shag carpet with a touch of nutmeg.

"It's only me, you paranoid stronzo," said the Soul of Art. "Who else do you know with an authentic Italian accent?"

"You… I want nothing more to do with you!" cried Howard, not allowing himself to calm down in the least. "Take the painting; it's more yours than mine!"

"Oh, Howard. Tell me, what have I done to merit such antipathy?"

The Soul's stolid tone only angered Howard further. "I'm takin' it you're the one who keeps changing the image, yeah? Well, it's not amusing anymore, so take it back! Take the changes back, take the painting back, take my abilities back- I don't care, just leave me alone."

Dark brown eyes filled with a condescendingly false brand of solicitude stared back at him behind that non-prescription, thick-rimmed pair of glasses. "Don't be so hasty to jump to conclusions. I warned you, didn't I? I told you that whatever you painted would be a direct reflection of your soul and your desires."

"That… doesn't… make… any… flipping sense!" exclaimed Howard, nearly bursting at the seams with frustration.

"Yes, it does." The Soul of Art elegantly moved to Howard's side, and leaned over his shoulder to point to the painting. "See?" he asked, calling attention to Vince's figure. "That's it."

"What's it?"

"Vince. You had to have noticed the pattern. Every time he did something horribly insensitive, the picture would change. He became more beautiful. You became less recognizable."

Now Howard was really confused. "Again, you're not making any sense. If anything, shouldn't he have become less-" he struggled over the next word, but said it anyway- "beautiful with every rotten thing he did?"

"Ideally," replied the Soul, shrugging and shoving his hands into the pockets of his smock. "But you work differently from the typical human. This reflects your soul, remember?"

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because," he began, as even as before, "this is how you perceive things. Whenever something bad happens to you, you blame yourself. Let's think back. When Vince took out Gideon, you weren't upset with either of them. You weren't even jealous. You just sat back and beat yourself up, refusing to blame either of them for having no interest in you, because you don't, either. Or back at that ball that you were thinking of before. Your date stood you up, and who were you angry at? Yourself. You refuse to think that Vince can do anything wrong, because you see that as your job. So, each time he mistreated you, you saw him as an even more perfect being, and you saw yourself as even more lowly because you deserved it. And, voila, we've cracked the code of your painting."

Howard gaped at him for a few silent moments before saying, "I… do not do that. I'm a self-respecting man, yes sir, and I- don't touch me!"

His speech was cut short by the Soul of Art grabbing his wrist. He rolled up the man's sleeve, baring Howard's Chinese-burn laden skin. "Really? Maybe you English show things differently, but this doesn't look much like self respect to me."

Howard jerked his arm away and defensively rolled his sleeve back down. "That doesn't prove anything."

The Soul let out a complacent laugh. "Yes, it does! Okay, look, Howard. You love Vince, right?"

"Well- I… I care for… I mean…"

"Yes, you do. You can't lie to me, Moon. I've been inside that mind of yours ever since we first met, and I know all you've thought of in that time. So admit it. You're in love with Vince."

Howard stared at him, indignantly at first, and then his glare fell into defeat. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

"So, if you want to be with him as long as possible, I suggest you change your way of thinking. Your inferiority complex has been killing you forever, but since you painted that picture, it's been doing so in a much more literal way."

"What do you mean?"

The Soul rolled his eyes, exhausted of explanations. "You and the picture are linked. When you disappear from the canvas, your soul disappears from the earth and goes into my possession. I shouldn't even be telling you this, but… I've grown to like you, Moon, and I figured you deserved a fair chance. Do not let yourself fade away. See that?"

He was pointing the faint outline above the heart in Vince's hand, and Howard nodded as if in a trance.

"As the last strokes of your outline disappear, that object will become more prominent. It's a knife. Once it's stabbed through your heart, the process is complete."

"Process?" whimpered Howard, staring fearfully at the artwork. "My death is… a process to you?"

The Soul sighed heavily. "No, that's not it. This whole thing is a process… why do you think I chose to appear to you? You needed this wakeup call."

"Wakeup call?" echoed Howard, turning to face the confusing man-soul-thing beside him. "This isn't a wakeup call; this is a death sentence! You're killing me!"

The blue streaks in the Soul's hair changed to red as anger overcame him. "I am not!" he screamed, effectively silencing Howard's protests into weak snivels. He regained his composure and said, "This is all you. If you weren't so damn insecure, if you learned to appreciate yourself the way Vince appreciates you, if you learned to stop wasting your life away on self-inflicted misery, you wouldn't have this problem."

"But… I can't… I can't die," began Howard, completely missing the moral. "I've got too much to give, and… and…"

"Oh, shut up," interrupted the Soul of Art. "You won't die if you can snap yourself out of this."

"You expect me to be able to change an entire lifetime's way of thinking in… what, a day?"

"Yes. Well, the few other people who have had this experience had longer, because they noticed what was happening earlier… and no one has ever disintegrated this quickly. The Spirit of Jazz told me you were delusional, but Christ, I never imagined you'd be this bad."

Howard sat down and slumped over in the chair in front of the desk, trying to accept the fact that he'd soon be dead. And what did he have? No best-selling novel with his name on the cover. No BAFTA for his performances in avant-garde cinema. No platinum jazz record.

"Oh, don't go wandering down your mental Trail of Tears," jeered the Soul of Art, still lodged in Howard's thoughts. "I've just told you you have the chance to save yourself, and you're plotting your demise and inwardly crying about missed accomplishments. Your fate isn't sealed! Howard, think of how Vince would feel if he found you dead. If not for yourself, hang in for him."

"Vince?" he asked. "Vince wouldn't care anymore. He's got Leroy now."

"You are so oblivious, Moon…" muttered the Soul. "You really think that? You think Leroy's your replacement? You're completely hopeless if you truly believe that."

Howard showed no reaction to this, and simply began peeling paint off of the desk.

The Soul sighed. "I can't keep this up all day. You're the most miserable person I've ever worked with- and I work with artists, so that's saying something. You aren't even angry! I've had people try to kill me after realizing what they've been roped into; you're just accepting it!"

"Yeah? Well, because you've made me think. Vince wouldn't care. So what do I have to live for?"

"Y'know what? If you keep this up, I'm going to make you watch Vince's reaction to your death. Alright? And then when he inevitably overdoses or drinks himself to his own grave as a result, you guys won't be part of the same afterlife, because your soul is mine and I won't allow it."

"Better that way," Howard murmured, too wrapped up in himself to fully hear what it was saying. "I don't deserve him, anyhow."

"Okay. If you're going to be weak and give up, then I'll see you again soon. Or if you want to accept the fact that you aren't a complete failure and that you are worth being cared about, I'll be pleasantly surprised and I'll let you go forever. You make the choice."

Howard looked up at him, the previous listlessness in his eyes having been converted to excruciatingly visible sorrow. "How… how can I change?"

"That's for you to discover. But, if I may… can I suggest something?"

Howard nodded, too weakened by the revelation to do anything else.

"To paraphrase Charlotte Brontë, it is madness in all men to let a secret love kindle within them which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it." The Soul of Art looked at him smugly once more, as if expecting a hearty congratulation for having the ability to quote classic literature.

All he got, though, was a, "And how is that going to help me, exactly?"

"Romance, pain and delusion go hand in hand, especially when the love is so deeply hidden…"

"Can you just be direct for once, please?"

"Tell Vince how you feel. At the point you're at, it's your fastest option for recovery. I know he loves you. In fact, everyone but you knows."

Before Howard could protest, the Soul of Art had disappeared, leaving him alone and in agonizing silence.

He stared at the painting; he didn't want to die. But do I deserve to? Without a doubt. Howard snapped himself out of that self deprecating mindset as he realized that it was exactly the type of thinking that had landed him on this fast track to the end in the first place.

Soon, he directed his focus onto the land-line phone that was also situated on the desk. Without thinking, he dialed Vince's number and hoped for the best. When voicemail answered, he wasted no time in spewing out his feelings in a quick, concise blast; it wasn't until the phone was firmly back on its cradle that he realized the weight of what he had just confessed.