Work Text:
“Look… I know it’s a bit of a downer, but it’s not really the end of the world, is it? It’s just a white hair.”
“It’s not just a white hair. It’s three! All in the same spot! This isn’t an isolated incident, Howard! D’you know what that means?”
“Time spares no man, Vince, I’ve told you that many times. Old Father Time touches us all. You know I’ve been getting grey hairs for ages, and you don’t see me obsessing over my looks, no sir! Some of us understand that there’s more to life than mere shallow vanity.”
“Yeah, well, that’s all right for you, isn’t it? Nobody cares what you look like!”
The words explode out of Vince without warning or permission, coming from somewhere behind that deep, frozen, painful spot in his chest that he’s been ignoring for ages, the one that was there even before Denmark. Howard doesn’t reply; the look of quietly dignified, wounded reproach on his face cuts deeper than any insult ever could.
“I don’t mean it like that!” Vince insists. “Just… I dunno. You’re like a bag, Howard.”
“Now I’m back to being your accessory, am I? Great. Thanks for that, Vince. What would I ever do without a friend like you?”
“No, that’s not what I meant! I can’t explain stuff like you! I just mean, you’re like… a really nice leather bag. Not showy, all right, but solid. Dependable. The kind you never go anywhere without, ‘cos it’s always dead useful and the classics never go out of style.”
Howard’s eyes warm a bit at that, narrowing in appreciation, and Vince feels the ice in his own chest melt just a little.
“And sure, the bag gets a bit battered and worn over the years, but that’s because you’re using it all the time, and it just gives it more… character, yeah? Makes it look more distinguished and all. It suits it.”
Howard snorts softly at that, but his mustache is twitching.
“And even if it didn’t, nobody would mind what it looked like anyway, because the bag’s always gonna be brilliant, right? It doesn’t just exist to be pretty. That’s why it’s so special, ‘cos it’s got real substance. You know it’ll never let you down.”
Howard’s eyes are properly warm now, all crinkled up as he smiles wryly. “Useful, am I?”
“Yeah, of course! I mean… nobody cares what you look like, ‘cos you know all sorts of things. You know how to do things! You understand how taxes work, you can write music and play all those instruments, you know how to drive and cook and take stock and handle the rubbish properly and… read maps…” Unexpectedly, the frozen spot in his chest is making its presence known again, only this time it feels like it’s thawing, and it hurts so badly that he can hardly speak or breathe past it.
“Those are hardly the accomplishments of a great man, are they, Vince?” Howard asks, looking grumpy again. “Any idiot can do that. There’s nothing special about being able to drive a car or pay tax.”
“There is when you can’t do those things!” The thawing is still happening, worse than ever, tightening his throat and making his voice waver. “Not everything’s got substance, Howard.”
Howard is looking at Vince quite intently now, and Vince has never wanted to hide more, but his hair doesn’t offer much of a shield, and his face won’t cooperate. No matter how hard he tries to turn it into a cool, sultry pout, his lower lip insists on wobbling and giving him away.
“Oh,” Howard says in a small voice. “Oh, Vince.”
And then Howard is right there in front of him, letting Vince wrap his arms around him and mash his face into his hideous Hawaiian shirt and listen to the heartbeat under his ear, as steady and comforting and stable as Howard himself. The thawing is everywhere now, beyond the point of no return, flowing right down his cheeks and making his nose sniffle in a terribly unattractive way, but Howard doesn’t seem to mind.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs over and over. His hands are big and warm on Vince’s back, and his voice is a low and soothing rumble against Vince’s cheek. When Howard’s holding on to him, Vince can trust that he won’t just float away and away and away from everything. Howard won’t let that happen. He has no idea how to ever put that feeling into words Howard will understand, but it’s there all the same.
“You’re not useless, you little titbox,” Howard finally says into Vince’s hair, when the worst of the thaw has passed. “You’re like a compass.”
Vince frowns doubtfully at Howard’s shirt. It’s a brown and orange synthetic fiber nightmare, but it’s easier than looking Howard in the eye right now. “But I’m rubbish with directions, Howard. I get lost in Tesco!”
“I know,” Howard agrees. “But… the thing is… I’d be lost without you.”
And at that, Vince’s heart lifts. His gaze does, too. Something relieved and nervous and giddy is bubbling up inside him like champagne, making him beam up at Howard, even though he probably looks like an awful mess. Howard doesn’t seem to care about that; he’s too busy looking somehow hopeful and braced for disaster, all at once. Which is Howard in a nutshell, really.
“Thanks, Howard,” Vince tells him sincerely, watching the fear drain out of those tiny eyes and be replaced by a sort of baffled happiness. “That was well smooth. Is that one of yours?”
“I—uh, it is, yeah.” Howard puffs up his chest a little bit, looking so ridiculous that it makes Vince’s heart ache with fondness. “That's a Howard Moon original.”
“Nice,” Vince says, and he means it.
He thinks he might just have to kiss Howard for that one.