Fic- Ghosts 1/?
Title: Ghosts
Chapter Title: O level Mathematics
Pairing: Vince/Howard
Summary: Howard’s worried about Vince’s strange behaviour. But as Naboo and Bollo appear to turn a blind eye, Howard is determined to find out what’s made Vince lose his spark…
Word Count: ~1730
Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, humor,
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: swears, implied mental and physical disorders, Freud quotes.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Mighty Boosh, but I do own my hair.
Author Notes: This is my epic fic. I have two sequels planned. I have done hours of research (which my friends can vouch for) and really it’s just an opportunity for me to swat up on some medical stuff :) Of course I’m no expert, so if anyone can offer any more information on the subjects (or point out errors) then I would love to hear from you! Many thanks to my beta sisidraig, my grammar-freak friend hermitknutand moral support knightaimee. Enjoy!
Chapter 1
O-level Mathematics
Howard could not help but be reminded of his O-level mathematics lessons. Those had been hard times. Trying to fully comprehend simultaneous equations, graphs with direct proportions, probability, angles in triangles, angles in circles, calculus… such things had held little importance in his young mind. The numbers were so definite. So absolute. So rigid.
You can’t change a number. You can’t change what it means.
With his mind drifting lethargically through these old thoughts, Howard looked over to where a very still Vince lay across the sofa. His best friend’s body had twisted itself into a pose that didn’t seem ultimately comfortable; but it seemed to suit Vince just fine in his unnervingly static and sleepy state. From the waist up, he was sprawled: left arm hanging over the edge of arm of the sofa on which his torso leant, right palm supporting the back of his arched neck. His head lolled backwards, chin pointing heavenwards. His legs told another tale, each one folded almost frighteningly neatly together, tangled up in an ancient knitted blue blanket that had belonged to the youthful Vince from a time before all this when maths O-levels reigned; when the equally youthful Howard had watched his self-confidence wither as Vince’s perpetually grew.
In the present, Howard’s life-long friend appeared to not even acknowledge him. It was well into the evening on a Friday and the other man had failed to even log onto MyFace. Instead he had watched at least three hours of Big Brother seventeen, and picked half-heartedly at a bag of gummy worms resting on the coffee table. For Howard, the measure of someone who had hit rock bottom was Big Brother live. He could not understand why someone would want to sit on a sofa, eating rubbish, watching other people sit on a sofa. It made no sense. This wasn't what Vince, his Vince, was meant to spend his evenings doing.
For one thing, gummy worms weren't his favourite sweet...
Worried, Howard leant backwards, resting his body against the wall. This was just so unlike him. Placid and barely awake, completely pliable in the hands of sleep; it just wasn’t Vince. He watched as a gummy worm slipped through Vince’s sugary fingers and onto the carpet. And watched it stay there. There was no scrambling about on Vince’s part, no frantic searching for the lost worm, no annoyed grunts at having been so clumsy… Vince’s hand stayed hovering at his side, sticky fingers loosely curled around nothingness, worm forgotten, world forgotten.
Howard sighed. Daydreaming was ineffectual. He dragged a hand over his face, feeling each contour ripped into his skin by his incessant concern. He was feeling old. Was Vince just ignoring him? Had he gotten so accustomed to this generic, moustached face that he now blended into the furniture - the Howard-shaped floor lamp?
No, “Howard Moon: Floor Lamp” didn’t have the chivalrous ring to it he’d so often struggled to replicate for his man-of-action, Hawaiian-shorts-clad “look”. He knew Vince wouldn’t - couldn’t- ignore him, not really. Perhaps Vince was bothered about something.
Howard’s mind began to whirr at a nauseatingly fast pace. He pondered over his pondering of the previous minute and a half, and Vince’s strange behaviour.
Why was everything so dependent on chance? One day, Vince would be one man, the next, another, changing as often as British weather, as effortlessly and as unpredictably as the throw of a dice. When did it get like this? was Howard’s first thought, quickly followed by what have I done wrong? with what can I do right? treading unceremoniously on its heels.
But deep down, the dusty old floor lamp still recognised his purpose. He shuffled a bit; coughed.
“Cup of tea?” he offered, breaking the almost-silence which had previously consisted only of the television’s muffled, whiney voices. Vince jerked as if startled, and looked mildly surprised at the other man’s presence.
“Nah,” he said, his voice croaking from disuse. He coughed to clear it. “No thanks.” He closed his eyes as if to feign the appearance of succumbing to sleep.
His first attempt at provoking a conversation having failed, Howard tried a different tact, a “Plan B” opening line, to move Vince from his stupor.
“How are you?”
“What?”
“I said 'How are you?'”
There was a pause.
“Tired as fuck.”
“Is that why you're not out tonight?"
“Yeah.”
“But you always go out.”
“Not tonight.”
“But why not?”
“I just said - I’m tired!”
“From what? You've not done anything today. Just watched Hollyoaks reruns and Big Brother seventeen!” Howard pointed out.
“You don't appreciate how draining all that drama is, Howard. Chad's just run off with Josie in Hollyoaks - imagine that!” Vince’s voice seemed to lack its usual enthusiasm.
“Well, you don’t appreciate how draining a day of honest paid work is, Vince.”
“Naboo let me off,” answered the younger man.
“Oh did he now? And he didn't tell me about this. Why not?”
“How should I know? I can't read his mystical shaman mind, can I? You seem to think the world revolves around you.”
“That‘s rich coming from you.” Howard glowered at his friend with his small eyes.
“Leave me alone, Howard.”
And with that, Vince delicately removed himself from his position on the sofa and went to his room.
It soon became apparent to Howard that the more concerned he was over Vince’s well being, the more he seemed to come across as a nagging parent. Howard could not help but be reminded of his O-level mathematics lessons; graphs displaying values of y directly proportional to x.
Though not exactly a smooth talker, Howard liked to think he knew how to get across a basic point. Unfortunately, his recent failure forced him to accept that he couldn’t achieve even that.
Instead of helping Vince and learning what was wrong, he had managed to drive him away even more, making the whole situation worse. If Vince wasn’t talking to his electro/rocker/Camden dollybird/other friends then who was he talking to? Surely someone knew what was wrong. Vince was never one to keep a secret for longer than it took to press the speed dial for Leroy. Why would this be any different?
Howard stepped across the room to the phone. He grabbed it and drew it quickly to his ear. He started to dial Leroy’s number. It was easy to remember, the easy symmetry with sixes, threes, eights. Howard could not help but be reminded of his O-level mathematics lessons. Pascal’s triangle, square numbers, prime numbers…
Leroy was little help. Apart from the fact that it was still late into an ordinary Friday evening, and the voice on the other end of the phone was slurring the vast majority of its words, Leroy was only capable of asking when Vince was going to be out again. He had no understanding of the words ‘I don’t know, do you?’. After what seemed to be one of the most circular conversations he’d ever had, including when Vince told him that ‘dressing as circles with short term memory loss is all the rage’ (and they both became hopelessly confused), Howard had hung up the phone, miserable at the lack of progress that he had made.
It was like staring at an epic algebraic equation. The solution, or at least a clue to the answer, lay embedded in all the information. The problem was trying to identify it. You could stare at the equation for hours and not make any progress. The key was in the detail. There was no use in reading the equation aloud to yourself if you didn’t knew what any of the symbols meant. On the other hand, if you know what you are dealing with, then chances are sooner or later you will be able to make a connection in your mind and see something that you’d not noticed before.
Wait.
The key is in the detail.
Vince had said Naboo had given him the day off. Did Naboo know something that Howard didn’t?
It didn’t take him long to track down the tiny blue-turbaned shaman. He approached the enigmatic man, in a way he hoped meant business, but tried not to corner him. Act casual, Moon.
“Hey Naboo, how’re you doing?”
“What do you want?”
“Can’t I say hello to a friend?”
There was an awkward pause. Howard begins to suspect he shouldn’t have described Naboo as something more than a distant acquaintance.
“This is awkward,” Naboo lisps.
“Yeah. Look, why did you give Vince the day off today?”
“He was tired.”
“Yeah, he told me that.”
“Then why ask me?”
“Because I don’t believe him.”
“Look, it was a business decision. It doesn’t concern you,” Naboo said, trying to dismiss him.
“I think you’ll find it does. I was down running that shop all day, sir! It’s not easy, you know.”
“You managed though, right?”
“I hardly got any stock-taking done today.”
“That’s a shame,” Naboo retorted, uninterested.
“That it is, sir.”
“We never stock-take, Howard,” Naboo pointed out.
“Well… I didn’t sell anything either.”
“You haven’t sold anything in twenty-seven months.”
Howard fumed. “Vince should have been at work today and I’ve yet to hear a good reason to explain his absence!”
At that moment, Bollo decided to appear. “Harry being mean to precious Vince?” Howard suppressed a groan.
“He’s asking why Vince wasn’t working today,” Naboo said to his familiar.
“Vince tired,” Bollo grunted.
“Yes, I know that, thank you.” Howard rolled his eyes, frustrated with the running circular theme that the day’s conversations seemed to have.
“Problem solved,” Bollo said.
“No. No, problem not solved.” Howard paused to re-adjust his speech. “You’re hiding something. What? Why?”
“It’s nothing, Howard.” The shaman tried to look Howard in the eye, though this was harder than it seemed with eyes as small as Howard’s.
“Vince always takes time off. Why would today be any different?”
“You tell me.”
“Oh, Howard, just drop it. Have you heard yourself? You’re like a broken record!”
“I’m a broken record? Have you heard yourselves? You all keep telling me it’s ‘nothing’. There’s something you’re not telling me.” A maniacal gleam crept into Howard’s tiny eyes. “I’m on to you. I’m on to all of you. I’ll find out what you’re doing. Just you wait. Yes sir, just you wait…”
“Harry gone mad,” Bollo huffed to Naboo.
“You might want to be careful about spouting that stuff out, Howard. Some people might think you’ve gone wrong,” the shaman said. “Wrong-er.” he corrected. But Howard had already stormed out of the room, shouting “And my name’s Howard!” as he went.