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booshslashhavenTitle: Enigma Variations, 28/?: There Was A Time When I Stood Tall
Summary: Howard is having a really miserable time
Rating: R
Warnings: fairly graphic (though not particularly damaging) self-harm
Spoilers: Vince takes a shower
Length: about 2200 words
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, I just borrow them to play with now and again (and again and again and again). For twisted love, not for profit
Enigma Variations
28: There Was A Time When I Stood Tall
Howard lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, much as he’s been doing all night.
Again.
Across the room in the other bed, Vince is sleeping, or at any rate pretending to sleep, the duvet pulled right up over his head as though to shut out the world.
The bedroom door’s been left ajar – Vince can’t bear to be shut in at night – and Howard can hear a clinking of mugs in the kitchen. The kettle boils; the fridge opens and shuts. Bollo is making tea, and humming the bassline from ‘Cars’. Naboo must be feeling a bit better this morning, then.
The street door slams, and footsteps come up the creaky stairs, two at a time.
“Morning Bollo.”
“Morning, Saboo. Kettle just boiled, you want tea?”
“Yeah, thanks. Two sugars. Is Naboo awake?”
“Bollo didn’t wake him.”
“I never said you did. But he’s awake, yes?”
“Yes. Bollo about to take him cup of tea. You better take it instead.”
“No, you’re alright, you carry on. I’ll just sit here and read the papers for a while… No, now listen, you furry fleabag, there are limits, and being hugged by you is well beyond them. Save it for Naboo…”
Well, that’s a big improvement on all fronts, Howard thinks, as Naboo’s bedroom door creaks shut.
He can hear the low rumble of Bollo’s voice through the wall.
If only Vince would let Howard talk to him like that… or even at all…
Howard sighs.
He’s tried so hard, dammit.
That first night back, he’d been all set to forget about sex and aliens and spaceships and all the doubt and worry, in the simple joy of just being able to pull Vince into his arms and hold him again.
But something in Vince’s eyes stopped him, left him standing half-way across the space between them, arms half-outstretched.
He told himself Vince was just exhausted.
He told himself Vince was probably sore, or space-sick, or having a bad hair day. Or possibly all three.
He told himself to give the little man time. And space.
But fuck it all, how much time and space does he need?
Howard misses him more than he thought possible. Almost more than he did when he wasn’t there.
It’s torture, being in the same room as Vince but not allowed to touch him.
And Vince is so oddly quiet. All those times when Howard ignored him, told him to shut up, wanted to be free of the sound of his voice… he would give anything to have those times back again, to have Vince chattering on like he used to do.
There are times when Howard can’t help but ask questions: whether Vince is hurt anywhere, whether there’s anything Howard can do. All Vince will say is “Leave it, Howard, I’m OK.”
But he’s not OK, and they both know he’s not.
He won’t tell Howard anything about what happened – not at Tony’s, not on the alien planet, not on the voyage home – and Howard is desperately hurt that Vince turns to Bollo, on the rare occasions when he turns to anybody, for comfort and hugs.
Sometimes Howard can hear him talking quietly with Naboo as he combs what’s left of the little shaman’s hair – a task he will entrust to nobody else – but they always stop when Howard enters the room.
It’s driving Howard mad, imagining Vince in bed with Harrison; Vince trying desperately to control a space capsule; Vince looking after Naboo. Vince was so brave, going off to do all these things on his own. But now he seems to have forgotten that he’s not on his own any more; forgotten how to let Howard help him…
Howard’s beginning to be afraid that Vince thinks Howard won’t want him, after the H-Man, and is shutting himself off from the risk of rejection. After all, that’s what Howard would do if their situations were reversed. But when Howard’s tried to reassure Vince of his – well, physical feelings, it only seems to have made things worse.
And there is a little nagging voice of doubt in Howard’s mind, whispering that perhaps it’s Vince who doesn’t want him.
More or less every night, Vince has horrible nightmares, moaning and whimpering under his protective layer of bedclothes, but he won’t tell Howard what the dreams are, or let him comfort him.
Saboo has his hands full looking after Naboo, and Howard doesn’t want to bother him; Bollo is similarly preoccupied, and anyway it would feel weird and wrong discussing such private troubles with a gorilla who still barely acknowledges Howard’s presence most of the time. Although at least he doesn’t call him ‘Harold’ any more.
And Dennis, true to form, has been pretty much useless. Despite his promise of a full report, he didn’t actually come back until yesterday, and then only to tell them that Tony Harrison had returned from the Heptacular homeworld and the diplomatic incident had been declared officially closed.
That did seem to make Vince feel a bit better – he almost smiled, and his hunched shoulders relaxed just a little.
It didn’t make Howard feel any better at all. What possible reason could Vince have for having been worried about that pink ballbag, of all people? (If he even is a person, which Howard seriously doubts.)
Dennis made some vague reference to Mr Harrison and the Heptacular Representative having realised they were the same species after all; Naboo muttered that it was much more likely to have been Mr Harrison and the Heptacular Representative shagging each other senseless. But he was careful not to let Dennis hear.
When Dennis had gone, and Saboo and Bollo were administering Naboo’s next lot of drugs, Howard tried to get Vince to talk – told Vince how much he’d missed him, how much he still wanted him – telling it straight, in so many words, in a final, desperate attempt to clear the air.
“I can’t even think about all that, Howard,” Vince had said, quietly and evenly, his voice giving no clue as to what he might be feeling.
And that was that. Not even enough feedback to build up into a decent fight that might have broken down Vince’s defences; just withdrawal behind a wall of silence.
A real wall would be preferable. At least Howard would be able to bang his head on it, and knock himself out.
Vince stirs and mumbles something; Howard sits up, instantly alert. “You OK, little man?”
“Fine.” Vince emerges from his cocoon of blankets, pushing his tousled hair out of his dark-ringed eyes. “I’m goin’ for a shower.”
He scrambles out of bed, grabs a dressing gown and is gone.
Howard slumps back on his pillows. He can’t even cry any more. The box in his head, patched and mended after Vince came home, isn’t big enough now to contain all the memories, the ones that hurt the most.
The happy ones.
Vince snuggling into Howard’s side on the way back from the pub, Vince with a wicked grin on his face and a jar of Nutella in his hand, Vince in the shower…
He’ll be in the shower now.
The silk kimono, the Stones T-shirt and the little blue pants will be in a crumpled heap on the bathroom floor, and Vince will be naked under the steaming water, his black hair plastered flat to his head.
He’ll do his hair first, he always does: squeezing a carefully calculated dose of some ludicrously expensive and over-scented salon shampoo out of one of the row of bottles on the windowsill, massaging it into a creamy lather over his scalp, taking his time, making sure the product’s got to every single last hair.
There’ll be a trail of bubbles running down from the nape of his neck, down his back, sliding between those pale, perfectly rounded buttocks and on down the backs of his thighs...
He’ll rinse his clean hair thoroughly, carefully, running the strands between his fingers to hear the squeak that means all the soap’s gone.
Then he’ll do the whole thing over again, just as methodically, before giving his shining, dripping locks a dose of the coconut conditioner he’s been lending to Naboo, making them both smell disconcertingly alike, and then he’ll rinse and rinse again until all the bubbles have slid all the way down to his toes and trickled away down the plughole.
Perhaps he’s reaching for that fruit-flavoured bodywash now, the squeezy bottle that used to make him giggle uncontrollably whenever its one-way valve made a rude farting noise. But today his face is serious, he just wants to be clean, he doesn’t want to be reminded that he ever shared this shower cubicle with anyone else.
He’s rubbing the bubbly stuff under his arms, across the dark hair on his chest, over his neat pink nipples, which are standing to attention under the caress of the hot water. One hand washes down his belly, and into his groin, riffling through his curly black pubes with a faint scratchy sound that is one of Howard’s favourite noises in the whole world.
The other hand cups his wet balls, rubbing gently, just enough to get them clean; reaches behind them, sliding over that furry ridge where Vince’s personal perfume is the most fragrant and delicious of all.
He washes himself there twice, once from the front and then again from the back; wet fingers gliding over the slippery, wrinkled skin.
Perhaps he’ll push a fingertip inside, just to see whether he’s still sore.
Or perhaps not.
Soon he’ll be out of the shower and towelling himself dry, goosebumps rising on his upper arms, soft white cock swinging gently amid its fluffed-up, damp thicket of curls.
Howard writhes in torment on the bed, imagining what it would be like, to kneel on the soggy bathmat and put his arms around Vince and pull him close; to bury his face in that warm, strawberry-smelling fur, tease that silky-smooth shaft to hot, twitching hardness, and take it into his mouth…
He didn’t touch himself all the time Vince was away, and he hasn’t since Vince has been home, either; it just didn’t feel right. But now, suddenly, he’s desperately aroused, his prick iron-hard and aching.
Lying there alone, eyes shut, with vivid images of wet and naked Vince dancing behind his eyelids, Howard begins to work himself, hard and fast and carelessly, almost welcoming the twinges as he jerks too hard at his still-tight foreskin, the stinging as his fingers catch on the dry, sensitive skin of his cockhead.
It shouldn’t be taking this long. It shouldn’t be… oh, sod it. Howard bites his lip in frustration, drawing blood. He’s not going to get there. His balls are tight and full, his erection throbbing, he needs release more than he ever has, but he just can’t push himself over the edge, no matter how hard he tries.
He sits up and bows his head to his knees, his throat constricted and his whole body ready to implode from the tension.
Fuck it.
The initial friction of his right hand around his left wrist feels good, a slow burning of dry skin on dry skin. Howard squeezes just tight enough to make the small bones crunch together, gradually increasing the pressure until it’s definitely painful; twisting his left arm against the grip.
After years of practice, he gives a good Chinese burn. That’ll already have left a mark.
Curling the fingers of his right hand makes his nails dig in. Worse than usual, but then he hasn’t cut them this week, he’s been too preoccupied.
Or maybe he knew deep down that it would come to this.
The burn is sharp now, clean and satisfying, so much better than the guilty throbbing in his groin, and the dull pain in his chest that has been there ever since Vince’s return.
He curls his fingers a bit tighter; rotates his wrist slowly, one way and then the other, huffing out an angry sigh as the skin finally tears and the warm wetness of blood begins to spread.
But it’s still not enough to blank out the hurt. He doesn’t want to feel all those complicated emotions, all the frustration. He just wants simple pain, that can be fixed with a simple dressing and a simple dose of painkillers afterwards.
A small, selfish part of him doesn’t care if Vince comes back from the shower and finds him like this: sees what Howard’s going through. Maybe that’ll get the message across.
Oh, Vince…
Before he even realises he was going to, Howard has lifted his joined hands up to his face, and sunk his teeth into the back of his bruised, bloodied wrist.
Fucking hell, that feels good. He rakes the edges of his incisors across the soreness, growling and whimpering like a trapped and furious animal, worrying at the tender skin, tasting the salt of sweat and tears and the metallic tang of blood.
Feels good. But it’s not enough, not enough, not enough…
“Enough.”
The single word, spoken with commanding power, renders Howard suddenly still.
Strong, cool hands grasp his wrists and pull them gently apart.
“I know things are bad, Howard,” a quiet voice says, “but just how is chewin’ your own arm off supposed to help?”
Summary: Howard is having a really miserable time
Rating: R
Warnings: fairly graphic (though not particularly damaging) self-harm
Spoilers: Vince takes a shower
Length: about 2200 words
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, I just borrow them to play with now and again (and again and again and again). For twisted love, not for profit
Enigma Variations
28: There Was A Time When I Stood Tall
Howard lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, much as he’s been doing all night.
Again.
Across the room in the other bed, Vince is sleeping, or at any rate pretending to sleep, the duvet pulled right up over his head as though to shut out the world.
The bedroom door’s been left ajar – Vince can’t bear to be shut in at night – and Howard can hear a clinking of mugs in the kitchen. The kettle boils; the fridge opens and shuts. Bollo is making tea, and humming the bassline from ‘Cars’. Naboo must be feeling a bit better this morning, then.
The street door slams, and footsteps come up the creaky stairs, two at a time.
“Morning Bollo.”
“Morning, Saboo. Kettle just boiled, you want tea?”
“Yeah, thanks. Two sugars. Is Naboo awake?”
“Bollo didn’t wake him.”
“I never said you did. But he’s awake, yes?”
“Yes. Bollo about to take him cup of tea. You better take it instead.”
“No, you’re alright, you carry on. I’ll just sit here and read the papers for a while… No, now listen, you furry fleabag, there are limits, and being hugged by you is well beyond them. Save it for Naboo…”
Well, that’s a big improvement on all fronts, Howard thinks, as Naboo’s bedroom door creaks shut.
He can hear the low rumble of Bollo’s voice through the wall.
If only Vince would let Howard talk to him like that… or even at all…
Howard sighs.
He’s tried so hard, dammit.
That first night back, he’d been all set to forget about sex and aliens and spaceships and all the doubt and worry, in the simple joy of just being able to pull Vince into his arms and hold him again.
But something in Vince’s eyes stopped him, left him standing half-way across the space between them, arms half-outstretched.
He told himself Vince was just exhausted.
He told himself Vince was probably sore, or space-sick, or having a bad hair day. Or possibly all three.
He told himself to give the little man time. And space.
But fuck it all, how much time and space does he need?
Howard misses him more than he thought possible. Almost more than he did when he wasn’t there.
It’s torture, being in the same room as Vince but not allowed to touch him.
And Vince is so oddly quiet. All those times when Howard ignored him, told him to shut up, wanted to be free of the sound of his voice… he would give anything to have those times back again, to have Vince chattering on like he used to do.
There are times when Howard can’t help but ask questions: whether Vince is hurt anywhere, whether there’s anything Howard can do. All Vince will say is “Leave it, Howard, I’m OK.”
But he’s not OK, and they both know he’s not.
He won’t tell Howard anything about what happened – not at Tony’s, not on the alien planet, not on the voyage home – and Howard is desperately hurt that Vince turns to Bollo, on the rare occasions when he turns to anybody, for comfort and hugs.
Sometimes Howard can hear him talking quietly with Naboo as he combs what’s left of the little shaman’s hair – a task he will entrust to nobody else – but they always stop when Howard enters the room.
It’s driving Howard mad, imagining Vince in bed with Harrison; Vince trying desperately to control a space capsule; Vince looking after Naboo. Vince was so brave, going off to do all these things on his own. But now he seems to have forgotten that he’s not on his own any more; forgotten how to let Howard help him…
Howard’s beginning to be afraid that Vince thinks Howard won’t want him, after the H-Man, and is shutting himself off from the risk of rejection. After all, that’s what Howard would do if their situations were reversed. But when Howard’s tried to reassure Vince of his – well, physical feelings, it only seems to have made things worse.
And there is a little nagging voice of doubt in Howard’s mind, whispering that perhaps it’s Vince who doesn’t want him.
More or less every night, Vince has horrible nightmares, moaning and whimpering under his protective layer of bedclothes, but he won’t tell Howard what the dreams are, or let him comfort him.
Saboo has his hands full looking after Naboo, and Howard doesn’t want to bother him; Bollo is similarly preoccupied, and anyway it would feel weird and wrong discussing such private troubles with a gorilla who still barely acknowledges Howard’s presence most of the time. Although at least he doesn’t call him ‘Harold’ any more.
And Dennis, true to form, has been pretty much useless. Despite his promise of a full report, he didn’t actually come back until yesterday, and then only to tell them that Tony Harrison had returned from the Heptacular homeworld and the diplomatic incident had been declared officially closed.
That did seem to make Vince feel a bit better – he almost smiled, and his hunched shoulders relaxed just a little.
It didn’t make Howard feel any better at all. What possible reason could Vince have for having been worried about that pink ballbag, of all people? (If he even is a person, which Howard seriously doubts.)
Dennis made some vague reference to Mr Harrison and the Heptacular Representative having realised they were the same species after all; Naboo muttered that it was much more likely to have been Mr Harrison and the Heptacular Representative shagging each other senseless. But he was careful not to let Dennis hear.
When Dennis had gone, and Saboo and Bollo were administering Naboo’s next lot of drugs, Howard tried to get Vince to talk – told Vince how much he’d missed him, how much he still wanted him – telling it straight, in so many words, in a final, desperate attempt to clear the air.
“I can’t even think about all that, Howard,” Vince had said, quietly and evenly, his voice giving no clue as to what he might be feeling.
And that was that. Not even enough feedback to build up into a decent fight that might have broken down Vince’s defences; just withdrawal behind a wall of silence.
A real wall would be preferable. At least Howard would be able to bang his head on it, and knock himself out.
Vince stirs and mumbles something; Howard sits up, instantly alert. “You OK, little man?”
“Fine.” Vince emerges from his cocoon of blankets, pushing his tousled hair out of his dark-ringed eyes. “I’m goin’ for a shower.”
He scrambles out of bed, grabs a dressing gown and is gone.
Howard slumps back on his pillows. He can’t even cry any more. The box in his head, patched and mended after Vince came home, isn’t big enough now to contain all the memories, the ones that hurt the most.
The happy ones.
Vince snuggling into Howard’s side on the way back from the pub, Vince with a wicked grin on his face and a jar of Nutella in his hand, Vince in the shower…
He’ll be in the shower now.
The silk kimono, the Stones T-shirt and the little blue pants will be in a crumpled heap on the bathroom floor, and Vince will be naked under the steaming water, his black hair plastered flat to his head.
He’ll do his hair first, he always does: squeezing a carefully calculated dose of some ludicrously expensive and over-scented salon shampoo out of one of the row of bottles on the windowsill, massaging it into a creamy lather over his scalp, taking his time, making sure the product’s got to every single last hair.
There’ll be a trail of bubbles running down from the nape of his neck, down his back, sliding between those pale, perfectly rounded buttocks and on down the backs of his thighs...
He’ll rinse his clean hair thoroughly, carefully, running the strands between his fingers to hear the squeak that means all the soap’s gone.
Then he’ll do the whole thing over again, just as methodically, before giving his shining, dripping locks a dose of the coconut conditioner he’s been lending to Naboo, making them both smell disconcertingly alike, and then he’ll rinse and rinse again until all the bubbles have slid all the way down to his toes and trickled away down the plughole.
Perhaps he’s reaching for that fruit-flavoured bodywash now, the squeezy bottle that used to make him giggle uncontrollably whenever its one-way valve made a rude farting noise. But today his face is serious, he just wants to be clean, he doesn’t want to be reminded that he ever shared this shower cubicle with anyone else.
He’s rubbing the bubbly stuff under his arms, across the dark hair on his chest, over his neat pink nipples, which are standing to attention under the caress of the hot water. One hand washes down his belly, and into his groin, riffling through his curly black pubes with a faint scratchy sound that is one of Howard’s favourite noises in the whole world.
The other hand cups his wet balls, rubbing gently, just enough to get them clean; reaches behind them, sliding over that furry ridge where Vince’s personal perfume is the most fragrant and delicious of all.
He washes himself there twice, once from the front and then again from the back; wet fingers gliding over the slippery, wrinkled skin.
Perhaps he’ll push a fingertip inside, just to see whether he’s still sore.
Or perhaps not.
Soon he’ll be out of the shower and towelling himself dry, goosebumps rising on his upper arms, soft white cock swinging gently amid its fluffed-up, damp thicket of curls.
Howard writhes in torment on the bed, imagining what it would be like, to kneel on the soggy bathmat and put his arms around Vince and pull him close; to bury his face in that warm, strawberry-smelling fur, tease that silky-smooth shaft to hot, twitching hardness, and take it into his mouth…
He didn’t touch himself all the time Vince was away, and he hasn’t since Vince has been home, either; it just didn’t feel right. But now, suddenly, he’s desperately aroused, his prick iron-hard and aching.
Lying there alone, eyes shut, with vivid images of wet and naked Vince dancing behind his eyelids, Howard begins to work himself, hard and fast and carelessly, almost welcoming the twinges as he jerks too hard at his still-tight foreskin, the stinging as his fingers catch on the dry, sensitive skin of his cockhead.
It shouldn’t be taking this long. It shouldn’t be… oh, sod it. Howard bites his lip in frustration, drawing blood. He’s not going to get there. His balls are tight and full, his erection throbbing, he needs release more than he ever has, but he just can’t push himself over the edge, no matter how hard he tries.
He sits up and bows his head to his knees, his throat constricted and his whole body ready to implode from the tension.
Fuck it.
The initial friction of his right hand around his left wrist feels good, a slow burning of dry skin on dry skin. Howard squeezes just tight enough to make the small bones crunch together, gradually increasing the pressure until it’s definitely painful; twisting his left arm against the grip.
After years of practice, he gives a good Chinese burn. That’ll already have left a mark.
Curling the fingers of his right hand makes his nails dig in. Worse than usual, but then he hasn’t cut them this week, he’s been too preoccupied.
Or maybe he knew deep down that it would come to this.
The burn is sharp now, clean and satisfying, so much better than the guilty throbbing in his groin, and the dull pain in his chest that has been there ever since Vince’s return.
He curls his fingers a bit tighter; rotates his wrist slowly, one way and then the other, huffing out an angry sigh as the skin finally tears and the warm wetness of blood begins to spread.
But it’s still not enough to blank out the hurt. He doesn’t want to feel all those complicated emotions, all the frustration. He just wants simple pain, that can be fixed with a simple dressing and a simple dose of painkillers afterwards.
A small, selfish part of him doesn’t care if Vince comes back from the shower and finds him like this: sees what Howard’s going through. Maybe that’ll get the message across.
Oh, Vince…
Before he even realises he was going to, Howard has lifted his joined hands up to his face, and sunk his teeth into the back of his bruised, bloodied wrist.
Fucking hell, that feels good. He rakes the edges of his incisors across the soreness, growling and whimpering like a trapped and furious animal, worrying at the tender skin, tasting the salt of sweat and tears and the metallic tang of blood.
Feels good. But it’s not enough, not enough, not enough…
“Enough.”
The single word, spoken with commanding power, renders Howard suddenly still.
Strong, cool hands grasp his wrists and pull them gently apart.
“I know things are bad, Howard,” a quiet voice says, “but just how is chewin’ your own arm off supposed to help?”
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Date: 2012-08-05 01:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-06 07:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-06 08:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-06 08:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-06 09:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-05 04:25 am (UTC)I'm glad Saboo and Bollo are getting on... but I'm still a sad pile of goo.
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Date: 2012-08-06 07:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-05 11:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-06 07:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-06 03:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-06 07:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-07 04:25 am (UTC)I assume--hope?--that the intervention at the end here is Naboo, and although I know he isn't fully recovered himself... not a moment too soon! Poor Howard really, really needs somebody to notice that he's hurting, too, and maybe to give him both some badly-need reassurance and some perspective on things. He wants so badly to be able to help, but he has no idea how, and although I suspect Vince's withdrawal into silence and emotional distance is what he thinks he needs to do to hold himself together, it's also pinging the worst of Howard's lingering old demons, like insecurity. And self-abuse, which hurt me to read. Oh, Howard! The bit where he remembers all the times he ignored Vince or told him to shut up and then thinks that he'd give anything to hear that chatter now... it says a lot about both Vince's emotional state and the depths of Howard's feelings and frustration.
But when Howard’s tried to reassure Vince of his – well, physical feelings, it only seems to have made things worse.
But see, this is why I think Howard needs some perspective. Because as well-intentioned as that is, no problem that deep is going to be fixed that easily. And of course, that's only one tiny facet, I'm sure, of what Vince is dealing with. (You've done so maddeningly well at keeping us as in-the-dark as Howard, so we can't help but share his frustration and worry and uncertainty!) I know it hurts Howard to see Vince look to Bollo for comfort, when he can seek it, or to talk to Naboo, but.... they're safer to talk to and seek comfort from than Howard, aren't they? They're not directly involved; what they can offer is less complicated, and it makes sense that Vince would find it easier to open up to them. (After all, he doesn't have to worry about disappointing them or overburdening them, or any of those many wrinkles that come with being in a relationship.) Of course, Howard can't help but think it's a rejection, but it seems to me that it's more that Vince just can't even begin to think about how to talk about these things with him. Like he told Howard: he can't even think about all of that right now. In a weird way, I feel like Vince is a bit like Howard was at the beginning of this story, in terms of having so much to say and not knowing how to say any of it. I suspect a part of him would welcome something like that potion, to just be able to let Howard see and KNOW, without having to explain.
There's also a certain irony and role-reversal, I think, in the sections where Howard talks about how frustrating it is to have Vince near and not be able to touch him, or to not be able to talk to Vince--to feel frozen out. I'm sure it hasn't occurred to Howard, but... well, how did he think Vince felt during all those "don't touch me" rebuffs, or when Howard couldn't/didn't communicate anything to him? I think Howard is only now beginning to understand how frustrating that really is.
But oh, poor boys. They need mending, and some way to begin to understand or communicate. I hope Naboo can shed some light for Howard!
And on a lighter note... I adore seeing that there is an actual rapport developing between Saboo and Bollo, and it's wonderful to see them both doing their best to look after Naboo. They're each so devoted, in their own ways. It just throws the dysfunction of Howard and Vince into sharper contrast.
Right. Onward to the next chapter!
no subject
Date: 2012-08-10 08:08 am (UTC)