A/N: Thank you, reviewers! Hopefully this chapter was worth the wait; it's certainly the longest one written. It's the second-to-last chapter of the story, and I'm already feeling the loss that comes with no longer having things to update.

The title of this chapter comes from 'Soul to Squeeze' by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. (But, for those interested, 'Some Devil' by Dave Matthews was more or less on repeat throughout the whole writing of it.)

THIRTEEN

Then Take Away My Self Destruction

Howard was stuck in emotional limbo. He could sit and stare at that painting all day long and not have a single clue where he was headed. Until he'd gotten that agonizing, taunting phone call from Vince and his… whatever she was to him, he never realized it was possible to feel so much pain. To have had his hopes built up, to have gambled with his feelings, only to be let down- no, that wasn't strong enough; only to be pushed down, run over and backed up on by a twisted eighteen wheeler- by Vince Noir, his world, was something he knew he would never recover from. So why wasn't the painting changing?

It wasn't as if the canvas had stagnated; no, sir. His masterpiece looked like a TV with spotty reception; his outline and that of the prophesized knife would flicker back and forth, as if deciding whether or not they wanted to be part of the distressing scenery. The fact that they didn't automatically appear was confusing enough to Howard, but what was even worse was that he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted them to. He'd allowed himself to feel his first smidgen of anger toward Vince; no matter how repulsive his offer was to the younger man, it did not call for such cruelty. Nothing did. Yet the rage didn't stop there. It was directed toward the Soul of Art for having lied to him, and, of course, at himself. It wasn't evenly divided, either. The disgust he was feeling for his own imprudent actions was definitely in first place.

The flickering did begin to slow down, though. And as the outline of the knife became more pronounced and more visible for longer, Howard felt unmistakably weaker. What did he have to fight for, though? Vince didn't love him- didn't even like him, apparently- and no one else bothered to notice his sorry existence. He'd been stuck in this self-loathing rut since childhood, and there was no way he was ever getting out. Not now. Laughing bitterly to himself, he imagined what Vince would have engraved on his tombstone: 'Howard Moon: bummed goats for bus tickets.'

What would be so wrong with dying? It was the only thing that could do away with the drudgery of his life, with his constant and increasing despondence. Plus, he knew what his afterlife held for him; he'd be with the Soul of Art, probably made into a little artist's caddy. At least then he'd be somewhat useful to someone.

"Come on and take me, then," Howard muttered in a somewhat hoarse voice. He stood up from the stool at the desk to make his way over to his bed; he would go out in a dignified, comfortable position. No one would know what happened, and that's the way he wanted it. Why bother to leave a legacy at this point? But all of this diffidence and resentment had deteriorated him too greatly for even that. As soon as he'd taken his first two shaky steps, Howard collapsed onto the floor. The end of his life certainly wasn't going to be the end of his struggles. He was Howard Moon, man of misfortune.

"Howard?" cried Vince, as he barreled into the Nabootique. "Howard?" His tone changed from desperate to bemused when he noticed the shop's emptiness. It was a week day afternoon. Vince had cut out work, sure, but that's what he did. Howard would never disregard his responsibilities. Maybe Naboo had given him the day off... Vince shook his head at the improbability of that theory. That was completely against Naboo's character. Unless Howard was in such a state that he was rendered useless. This idea hit Vince with a certain level of guilt, and he shot up the stairs as quickly as his agile form would take him.

The flat seemed deathly silent, and Vince began to wonder whether or not Howard was even there. But where else would he be? He'd called him from their landline phone, hadn't he? The living and kitchen areas were devoid of life, and so he had no choice but to fight against the denial in his mind and check their bedroom.

"Howard?" he asked, cautiously. The lights were out… all but the small lamp on his desk. Examining this, he couldn't help but notice the painting. Howard had clearly taken himself out of the picture, and Vince was very troubled by this. What was more troubling was how pleased his own figure looked, how confident and happy and at peace he seemed without him. He also saw that the dark outline of a knife appeared and disappeared languidly in the heart he was gripping. But he played that off as a lingering effect of the drugs.

As Vince was studying the image, he began to hear things. Disturbing, horrible things which only increased in their sickening nature when he realized he wasn't hallucinating them. There was shallow, fighting breathing coming from below him, and when Vince gathered enough sense to look down, he was brought to his knees by the sight of Howard lying on the floor, dangerously pale, struggling to breathe, his eyes cinched shut in pain. He was shivering against the air, and his cold sweat did nothing to help. "Howard?" exclaimed Vince, edging himself closer. "What the fuck is going on? What's wrong, Howard, you look awful!"

Howard managed to crack open one eye in response, to look at the concerned, frightened, preternaturally gorgeous face looming above him.

"Howard?" he repeated, the hysteria in his voice growing, making it rise in pitch and crack pitifully. "Talk to me, you beautiful fuckin' freak!" A few more strained gasps from the older man made Vince give up his attempts at explanation. Instead, he looked frenetically around the room for a clue. Finding none, he pulled out his trusty cell phone and informed, "Howard, I'm gonna call an ambulance, alright?"

"No," Howard managed to throatily gasp out.

"Whaddya mean, 'no'? You're writhin' about like a deranged trout on land, an' I ain't gonna let you hurt anymore, Moon!"

Howard would've sighed if he'd had the ability. How could Vince possibly understand that an ambulance wasn't going to save him? He simply shook his head, confirming the previous 'no'; and, seeing the inexorable torment on Vince's face, all anger at the younger man subsided.

"I mean, how the hell am I supposed to save you?" he continued, tears now unashamedly spilling over. "That's always how it goes, innit? We get ourselves into some strange situation, save the other, we laugh it off and repeat?" His words began to slur in his panicked, loving haste, his intonation violently inconstant.

Howard forced his eyes open to stare up at Vince, both hoping and fearing that his tear-stained face would be the last thing he'd ever see. Instead of wasting his increasingly valuable breath, Howard grabbed at the other man's sleeve, the only sign of affection he could muster.

"This is a joke, yeah?" Vince proceeded. "You're just… to get me back? I don't blame you, Howard, I don't. You've every right to be disgusted with me- I'm disgusted with me- and I can't ever justify what I've- Howard!" This last call of his name was unintentional, and only came about when his eyes began to slip shut once more. "Stop it! I don't care, I'm calling the ambulance, you need help an'-"

"No," Howard managed to interrupt.

"But… but I have to save you!" Vince awkwardly tried to gather Howard into his arms, but their completely opposite physical statures wouldn't allow it. Adding a new bout of frustration to an already disconsolate Vince, he shouted, "How the hell can I save you if you're not putting in any effort?"

Not putting in any effort. Of course he wasn't. He was dying of a supernatural curse put on him by an insane hipster. What hospital could save him from that?

Without thinking, Vince lowered himself fully onto the floor and viciously forced his lips onto Howard's. It wasn't a romantic act, nor was it clumsy, exploratory, or even passionate; the only movement Vince's mouth really made was the occasional tremble that came with hopeless weeping. It was as if he was trying to preserve what was in front of him by stilling the moment; and, after feeling first-hand how cold and drained Howard really was, it became an act of protection.

When Vince realized Howard needed to breathe as much as he could, he abruptly pulled himself away, but remained leaned over so that their faces were mere inches apart. "Please," he begged, in a voice infinitely smaller than before, "don't leave me again."

Howard could do nothing but gape in utter confusion, the pain he was in being temporarily dulled by the feeling. He wasn't sure what to make of what had just happened. Why did people always wait until they were dying to truly live?

Finding comfort in those familiar blue eyes, Howard pointed to the easel on the desk, suddenly struck with an idea. One that would at least supply Vince with an explanation.

"What?" Vince asked. "The painting?"

Howard nodded as eagerly as he could, and choked out pitifully and slowly, "With the brush."

Vince tried to lay aside his vexation, and did so well enough to retrieve for Howard the requested items. When the older man began to run the paintbrush over the canvas, Vince wanted to cry out in the pain of Howard's seeming indifference. But this was precluded by the effect of the peculiar action; in a gallant entrance, the Soul of Art appeared suddenly by their sides.

"Oh, Howard Moon," he greeted piteously, looking over his struggling form.

"Who are you?" asked Vince, sounding genuinely fearful.

"I," he began, with an imperious glide of his arm, "am the Soul of Art. Your friend here signed his soul away to me, and it's time for him to pay up."

"What?" squeaked Vince incredulously. "Howard, you didn't… you wouldn't, not after what happened last time!"

The man in question closed his eyes voluntarily, not wanting to see the cutting disappointment in Vince's mournful countenance.

"This is nothing like last time," the spirit scoffed. "I'm no sadist, Vincent Noir. Howard's own soul was spilled out on that canvas there-" he pointed to the painting that was now on the floor beside them- "and each time he fell into his pits of self blame and hatred and harm, he disappeared more and more, in life as well as on canvas. Now he's on his last stand. You've no one to blame but Howard, you see. This week's been hectic for him, but-"

"You're not takin' him," Vince interrupted resolutely, grabbing Howard's discouragingly limp hand and squeezing it. "You can't."

The Soul of Art rolled his eyes and, with a swift motion of one of his own brushes, produced the contract out of thin air. "I beg to differ."

"Oh, fuck the contract!" exclaimed Vince wildly. "Ya think Howard knew what he was gettin' himself into? He never does!"

"Listen-"

"No, you listen! You ain't takin' him without me. I don't care if you've got some contract, 'cuz if his soul belongs to you, then so does mine. We're one being, Moon and I, and our souls are linked up in every way except your stupid paper."

Howard stared at his friend, taken aback by the depth of thought present in his words. Vince was right, wasn't he? Unexpectedly, the words from earlier came back to him… If not for yourself, hang in for Vince. "I don't wanna die…" he moaned feebly, still convulsing with impending lifelessness. This was said to himself, but it attracted the full attention of the other two in the room. They stopped their bickering and turned to stare at him.

"What'd you say, Moon?" asked the Soul of Art, with a hint of boredom in his voice.

"I…" he began, before losing his breath. Howard struggled to regain his ability to communicate, and continued. "I don't… wanna die."

The tears that had been paused by Vince's sudden resolute anger were played by this pathetic statement. Howard was always putting on such a front, always pretending to be the big man. Obviously he'd known it was all a charade. They'd found themselves in enough life-threatening situations for Vince to be shown the man of action's true cowardly colors. But it was still such a shock to see him so weakened… and worse yet, so accepting of said weakness.

"You don't want to? And why not, Howard?" the soul pressed. "I swear, if you say it's because you've got so much to give, I'll sell you over to the Spirit of Jazz again!" he added threateningly.

"Whaddya askin' 'im questions for?" Vince cried. "Look at 'im, 'e can't even speak!" Although these protests were directed at the Soul of Art, the younger man's flooded eyes refused to leave Howard's face.

The soul sighed wearily and waved yet another paintbrush. When he returned the artistic tool to his smock, Howard gasped and jerked his body upright, panting heavily to regain his breath. "Before you guys plot some escape attempt, this is only temporary," he cautioned. "You're lucky I feel such sympathy for you, Howard. I'm giving you a chance to plead your case."

"Plead my case?" Howard echoed, in between attempts at getting air flowing within him.

"Yes; do I really have to explain everything to you? You humans are so dense…" The Soul of Art stood and began pacing, as if trying to reenact some cheesy scene from an American courtroom drama. "If you're so suddenly filled with the will to live… convince me. Persuade me to spare you. And you're going to have to do better than 'for Vince', because that proves nothing."

"I… I don't have anything prepared," said Howard. "Maybe… you could come back next Thursday, and we can have a proper hearing. Are you free then?"

"I don't have to give you a hearing at all, never mind a proper one."

Howard looked at him, somehow feeling even more helpless than when he had been thrashing on the floor not minutes earlier. "I… can you… give me some time?"

"Just speak your mind."

When it was obvious that the Soul of Art was not going to give into any of Howard's petty filibusters, Vince squeezed his hand reassuringly. "Come on, Howard. You can do this, yeah? Just… just improvise." With a weak, faltering smile, he added, "Ain't that what you told me all those jazz gimmers do?"

Not needing the distraction, Howard pulled his hand away and tried to concentrate. "I can't die," he started. "It's… it's not my time."

Vince buried his head in his hands, trying to stop more tears from escaping. Howard was a goner.

"I… okay. I wasn't… I've never exactly had it easy, yeah? My mother died when I was young, and my father wasn't… much of a father. I used the means of the arts- music, books, film- to keep my thoughts at bay. It was a classic case of broken family, where the child thinks he's responsible for the current state of affairs, and whenever I began to really think… I just couldn't quite cope. So I immersed myself in the arts and my imagination eventually took over.

"And then… I met Vince," Howard said this with more hesitation and pain in his voice than in the last few sentences; he didn't know where he was going with this, but he knew it was relevant. "Vince was the only person who ever paid attention to me. He made me feel worth something for once, and it's still that way. No one else really knows who I am. Can you blame me for hanging everything on the only thing of value I've got in my life? Maybe you can.

"I was surprised when I heard about Vince's early childhood. I'd expected him to have had a perfect, loving family, but it was far from it. He had it worse than I did. Yet he was this sunny, optimistic… beam of light, with no hint of darkness about him. I marveled at that. Still do. I'd always been a bit jealous of Vince's overpowering charisma and luck, but it was then that I realized he deserved it for being so strong. I, on the other hand, deserved all the alienation and misfortune that I'm constantly doled out. The outcome of one's life, in my opinion, weighs heavily on an individual's ability to make something out of nothing. I've always done the opposite."

Vince looked up at Howard, filled with that old familiar admiration and wonder. There was his philosophical friend. When he allowed himself to speak unfiltered, his eloquence was very moving. Hope began to invade Vince's mind.

Howard sighed heavily, as if in preparation, and the two others waited. "It… it was no surprise that my feelings toward Vince eventually… escalated. How could they not, really? But as time went by, the initial feeling of wholeness and substance that such strong love had brought me faded when I realized I was doomed to be bereft. I shouldn't have expected him to return my feelings, and then I'd cursed myself for having harbored such presumptuous thoughts in the first place. If I'd just looked at the facts, I never would've raised my hopes even the slightest, and the disappointment wouldn't have been so crushing when I realized the truth. The one time I'd allowed myself to be positive resulted in bitter pain.

"When I finally left my home to work full-time at the zoo, it shouldn't have been a shock that the management and staff all treated me with the same neglect I'd grown accustomed to from my school-mates and my family. Things only started looking up when I'd secured a job for Vince there, as well. He was adored by the very people- and animals, believe it or not- who'd been scorning me. Of course this raised jealousy. But my opinions on our varying karmas remained, keeping my envy as leveled as possible.

"So maybe you won't like my saying this, but I know I've gotten myself into this deep grave of negativity," Howard said, his tone decidedly stronger, to the Soul of Art. "It's the truth. I could've tried being more positive, but where would that have gotten me? To a state of more disappointment? That's not something I needed. So while my own pessimism and diffidence got me to this point, it wasn't completely unjustified. I've been dealt a pretty bad hand of cards, and yes, I should've at least tried to turn that around. But I didn't; I was used to misery, and, in the midst of changing environments and feelings, I clung desperately to the only sense of familiarity I had left, as damaging as it was.

"I hate to admit this, but you've succeeded in giving me a wakeup call, as you called it. I truly don't want to die. So maybe I'm not happy- maybe it's too late for me to ever be. But that's okay, because when I was lyin' there, dying in the most undignified way possible, I was genuinely happy to be alive, and that's something.

"It'd be unnatural for me to become a copy of the Sunshine Kid. If that's what you've been trying to make me into, you might as well take me now. But if you'd be content with me making an effort to better myself, then that'll work. I've finally realized I need to recognize the albeit few blessings I've actually got in this life instead of lamenting the fact that they may not be up to the level that I'd like them to be.

"So I'm now in your hands," Howard concluded. When this was responded to by silence, he then added, characteristically awkwardly, "I'm out of things to say."

Vince continued to stare up at him from his seat on the floor, absolutely amazed and saddened by his confessions. The Soul of Art noticed this, and said, "I'm finding this current scene very ironic. Here's Vince, on a low spot on the hard floor, disheveled from crying, not aware of his appearance, looking up admiringly at Howard, who's standing confidently and defiantly in the aftershock of his words. Reminds me a lot of your painting there, Moon, but the roles are reversed."

Howard stammered a bit, losing the cool he'd somehow managed to gain. Ah, well. He'd been self-assured for a few minutes, and that was certainly an accomplishment for him.

"Never mind that," snapped Vince, lacking any of the patience requisite in dealing with this smug, hipster-tool. "What are you gonna do with Howard?"

The Soul of Art seemed in deep contemplation for a while, increasing the tension in both other parties. "I won't take you now," he finally said, addressing Howard. "But I'm not going to leave you alone. I can tell your reserve is strong at the moment, and you were completely honest during your speech. But after a while, the strength brought from fear may fade, and this wasn't mean to be a temporary lesson. If you drastically regress, I'll be back. But for now… for now, I'll say you've won me over."

The relief that flooded both men was indescribable, but the shock was even more so. Utilizing their silence, the Soul of Art decided to make his exit. "Start being honest with each other, alright? It'll make my job a hell of a lot easier," he warned, and then, with another wave of a paintbrush, he vanished.

Howard and Vince turned to each other, dumbstruck. "Looks like you were finally able to save yourself, H'ward," the younger man weakly offered, with a crooked smile.

"Yeah. Temporarily."

"I'm… I'm… would it be weird to say I'm proud of you?"

Howard ignored this, and instead rode out the last waves of strength he had. "Why do you do this, Vince?" he asked. "I need a flippin' road map to follow all of your personality changes. You go from using some Camden whore to humiliate me after a particularly bold confession of mine, to crying over me and beggin' me not to leave you. Well, the cat's out of the bag, Vince, and I won't try to force it back in- I love you. But why shouldn't I leave you?"

"Howard, don't-"

"No, I'm finally speaking my mind, Sonny Jim, so I'd like to know. What exactly should keep me tied to your endless torment?"

"You don't understand-"

"You're right; I don't."

Angered by all the interruptions, Vince stood up and decided to heed the Soul of Art's last words and be honest. "Because I can't fucking function without you, ya dense idiot!"

Howard was rendered speechless for a few seconds, before asking, "…What?"

"When you ran off with your precious Jurgen, how do you think I held up? You think your sending the occasional postcard was sufficient? Postcards can't crimp, Howard! I didn't get out of bed for a soddin' week, and even when I did, I was hardly awake, 'cuz there was nothin' to keep me up! Leroy was there for me, and he offered to take me out to get my mind off everythin'. After you came back, I figured it'd be easier to push you away to avoid a repeat of that… and… and it was stupid, I know, but… you know how I am with abandonment." His voice weakened, as did his reserve; he slid back down onto the floor, his back against one side of Howard's bed.

The older man sat down beside him with a heavy sigh. Hesitantly, he put an arm around him. He still wasn't completely comfortable with physical contact- partly because he still didn't know how Vince felt about him- but he felt this called for it. His insecurities were erased, however, when Vince turned to push himself even closer, burying his face into his side. "Come on, Little Man," Howard began, unsure of what to say. "You know- or, you should know- that I'll never abandon you."

After a few minutes of silence passed, Vince lifted his head and asked, "Did you get my message?"

"What message?"

Vince looked at him, wondering whether or not he should retrieve his phone and have him hear the voicemail. The feeling of Howard holding him dashed that idea, though; he wasn't going to ruin this moment. "You can listen later," he said, before contentedly laying his head onto Howard's shoulder.

Ironic indeed, was all Howard could think. Looks like they'd both needed more reassurance than they'd ever let on.