hiiii if you’re still taking howince hurt/comfort prompts, “come on, let’s get you cleaned up”?
Thank you for sending this! I am literally always taking prompts I love doing little prompts :)
I'm also changing the timeline for the end of the chokes for angst purposes
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Howard had only returned to pick up the rest of his things and leave his keys behind.
Maybe he'd leave a dramatic note, or a signed headshot. Something that could really be worth some money after he hit it big.
Of course, Jurgen still hadn't disclosed the nature of his special project with Howard yet, but he had put Howard up in a dingy apartment for the past two months, giving him fine whiskey and cheap cigarettes to better "hone his craft."
So clearly, this project was a special one.
Howard crept into the Naboutique, holding the bell over the door still so it couldn't ring.
It was nearly the middle of the night, ten minutes past Vince's preferred time to arrive at any gathering.
Naboo and Bollo would be DJing, and Vince would be preening in front of a crowd.
If he wasn't still on tour with The Black Tubes. Howard hadn't kept up with the news of Vince's new band.
He was surprised to see the main area of the flat just as he had left it.
As Howard was the only one who cleaned, he had imagined it would fall into a state of pure disgust. But everything was neat and tidy, although covered in a noticeable layer of dust.
He had to convince himself not to get the feather duster from the hall cupboard. He was on a mission, after all.
The door to his old room opened slowly, and silently.
And now, this was different.
The room was utter chaos.
Not that Vince was exactly a neat person, but his piles of clothing always had some semblance of organization that only Vince could understand, and Howard's items had never been mixed into the mess.
But not, it was everywhere.
Howard's clothes were strewn about the room, mingling with Vince's clothes all around the floor.
Howard's desk had been upended, as though someone had pushed it over in a fit of anger. His stationary village seemed to have been hit by a hurricane.
Howard noticed scrapbooks, the ones Vince had created to keep their photographs safe, placed on Vince's bed, looking more like a nest than an actual bed, piled with blankets and clothes.
But the greatest shock of all, was on Howard's bed.
Vince was sitting up, perched on his knees, and staring at Howard.
His hair was a state, half of it pulled up into a tiny ponytail that had obviously been in for three days, at least. His roots were more visible than Howard can remember them being, mousy brown like a halo, dissolving into black.
And that's definitely Howard's shirt he's got on, the olive-beige button-down he wore nearly every day at the zoo.
It was misbuttoned, and christy, Vince was thin. His collarbones stuck out more than they should, and his cheekbones were even pointier.
He didn't look well.
He looked dull, and drained, and fucking sad.
Vince squeezed his eyes closed.
"You ain't real. 'm jus' dreamin' again," he mumbled. Howard watched him pinch his own leg.
His eyes opened again, and he seemed shocked to still see Howard lingering in the doorway.
"Um, not. I'm not. I mean, well, I'm not not real." Howard coughed. "I've come to-"
take you with me.
stay here with you forever.
tell you that you're the only thing that truly matters to me.
"collect the rest of my things."
Bushbaby eyes filled with shining tears.
