Fic: The Main Thing

[cassyl]

Title: The Main Thing
Pairing or Characters: Howard/Vince
Summary: Vince finally gets to show Howard his appreciation for being rescued from certain death. It is almost, but not quite, entirely unlike what Howard expected.
Word Count: 4,423
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: First-time sex, mild peer pressure
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, no profit made, and no offense intended
Author’s Notes: This is a sequel (three-quel?) to the stories Subterranean Sex Slave Stab-Up and It Sometimes Rains in California. Thanks to those who left such kind feedback for those two fics. I’m not sure this one is worth the wait, but it’s here, anyway. Comments and criticism are always appreciated.



Howard was beginning to worry. Since they’d returned from California a week ago, all Vince had done was laze about the flat wearing Howard’s old cardigan. He refused to take any calls, even from Leroy, and when he came in to work, he simply sat listlessly behind the counter, pushing the little trolley from Stationary Village back and forth with his index finger. Howard tried to get him to eat, but he didn’t seem to have a taste for anything. All he ate was Nutella and jam sandwiches, and only that because Howard forced him to. And now, to make matters worse, Vince had locked himself in the bathroom, and he hadn’t made a sound for over an hour.

Howard tried to take it in stride. After all, it wasn’t unusual for Vince to spend several hours in front of the mirror, exfoliating, or pore minimizing, or rubbing the blood of virgins over his skin, or whatever it was he did to maintain his youthful visage. But given Vince’s current state of mind, Howard couldn’t help feeling a little on edge. There was only one thing for it.

He knocked gingerly on the bathroom door. “Vince?”

There was no response.

“Vince? All right in there?”

Pressing his ear to the door, Howard thought he could hear a faint shuffling. He wondered if he should try to break down the door. But then what if Vince was just having a bath? He didn’t want to crowd Vince at a time like this. But what if he was hurt, or worse-?

Howard didn’t have time to finish that thought, because at that moment the door sprang open and he stumbled head first into the bathroom. He clutched at the first support his arms encountered, which happened to be Vince’s skinny midsection. Embarrassed, he started backing away, muttering some inane apology, his face hot as a frying pan. He got about halfway through the doorway when he realized what exactly he was backing away from.

Vince had Bedazzled his Mickey Mouse shirt. Mickey’s head was encircled in a vertiginous halo of multi-colored rhinestones that made him look less like a corporate puppet and more like a holy saint of psychedelia. Vince had partnered the shirt with a pair of skintight leather drainpipes and silver cowboy boots. He seemed to be illuminated by the very light of Heaven (though more likely it was just the fluorescent bulb over the mirror), and Howard had the impression that he was in the presence of a true apostle of glam rock.

Vince put one hand on his cocked hip and said, “How do I look?”

There was no question about it: Vince was back in the game. “You, uh, yeah, you look good. Fine. You look fine.”

“I think I look better than just fine.”

Howard’s mouth felt a little parched. “You look great.”

“Cheers, Howard,” Vince said, patting him appreciatively on the shoulder. “Well, I’m off.”

“What?”

“I’m heading out. Leroy’s having a disco hoe-down over at his place, it’s gonna be genius.”

“Oh.”

Vince paused, studying Howard’s face. “You can come, if you like. It’s just, I didn’t think it would really be your scene.”

“Yeah, it’s not,” Howard said quickly. “You go have fun.”

“Oh, I will,” Vince said, with a wide grin. “Don’t you worry about that. Night, Howard. Don’t wait up!” And with that, Vince sauntered off out of the flat, leaving Howard alone in the hallway.

Howard knew he should be glad, really, that Vince had finally pulled out of the doldrums. It meant he was all right again; he was the Sunshine Kid once more, spreading light wherever he went like a giant, strangely-attired torch. That was a good thing. And yet, Howard couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. He’d gotten used to having Vince around in the evenings. Whether he was hanging around in the living room watching telly, or lounging on the bed with a magazine, he was never too far away from Howard, a fact which, to his shame, quite pleased Howard. Now he’d be out every night, partying with his old friends, the ones he’d dismissed as shallow fools only a week ago.

Well, what had Howard expected? He himself had predicted this would happen. Everything was just exactly as it had always been.

Except it wasn’t, really, Howard was beginning to realize. Something very strange was going on. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but something was wrong, and he was determined to figure out what.

In the days since Vince’s recovery, Howard had expected everything to go back to normal. They’d mind the shop, he’d cook dinner, and then Vince would flit off to some club or secret basement dance party, just like he always did. And that did happen, in fact that happened most nights, but not all the time. Sometimes, Vince willing chose to stay in, even going so far as to sit around reading with Howard. Granted, it was only The Vicar of Nibbleswicke, but, still, it’d been ages since Vince had opened a book, and Howard simply didn’t know what to think.

And he’d started paying attention to Howard. He actually listened when Howard spun his yarns, and didn’t always contradict him, even when it was obvious he was lying. It seemed, too, that whenever he looked over at Vince, Vince was already looking in his direction. Sometimes Howard wondered if there was a very engrossing dumbshow going on right behind his shoulder. And then there were those lingering touches. Howard didn’t really know how to deal with that aspect of this curious onslaught. Vince would be doing something perfectly normal like handing Howard a cup of tea and then all of a sudden his soft fingers would be brushing across the inside of Howard’s wrist, and suddenly Howard’s throat would go all funny and he’d have to take a swallow of tea to put himself to rights, but it was always too hot and he wound up scalding his tongue. It was getting to be very troubling. His tongue was constantly in pain, and, anyway, it just wasn’t right. Vince wasn’t meant to pay attention to him, or look at him, or, Heaven forbid, touch him. He just couldn’t make sense of it.

It was beginning to wear on Howard. Whenever he looked up, Vince always seemed to be doing something to entice him further. He would be leaning against the counter, tapping his foot in time to one of Howard’s jazz records with his backside so appealingly displayed it almost seemed to be on offer, or reaching for the wine gums on a high shelf in the kitchen, so that a wide stretch of his white stomach was visible.

Howard spent an inordinate amount of time locked in the toilet, relieving himself of his tension. It was getting ridiculous. It hadn’t been like this before-he’d always fancied Vince a bit, had pondered from time to time what it might be like to feel Vince’s mouth on his throat, hands on his hips . . . But he’d never felt so continuously taunted by his mere presence. And yet, whenever Howard searched Vince’s face for some indication of his intention, he always looked blithely unaware. He didn’t acknowledge at all, not in words or even by some knowing glance. Howard could only conclude that he was imagining it all.

It was tiring to want Vince all the time, to yearn for something he clearly couldn’t have. Every glance in Vince’s direction was a fresh well of hope and its decimation all at once. He wasn’t sure how much more disappointment he could take.

Was it so much to hope for, he wondered? That moment in the hotel in California, when Vince’s mouth had crushed against his, his tongue hot and insistent . . . Howard had felt for that brief second that maybe everything wasn’t so hopeless after all, not for him and not for Vince, either. But then he’d realized that he couldn’t take advantage of his fragile friend. The moment was all wrong, and clearly he was a fool for thinking that the right moment would ever arise.

He knew he ought to just give it up as a bad job. Obviously Vince had gotten over whatever need he’d briefly had for Howard’s company. Howard couldn’t spend his whole life hoping Vince would get unhappy again so that they could spend time together. That was just selfish, and Howard felt ashamed to even think it-and, anyway, it seemed pretty unlikely that Vince would ever be unhappy again, so he figured he shouldn’t even bother considering it.

He was beginning to get irritable from the strain of having to hide his feelings all the time. He knew it wasn’t Vince’s fault, not really. All he was doing was being himself. But he couldn’t help feeling that Vince was teasing him, reading at home one night and disappearing for hours to a warehouse party the next, dangling what Howard could have had right in front of his nose and then jerking it away.

One Friday evening, about a fortnight after Vince’s triumphant return to the party circuit, Howard was sitting on the couch, sulking and pretending to watch “Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps.” It was a perfect night for a sulk, with the rain tapping morosely at the windows and a stack of depressing Russian literature weighing down the coffee table. The only problem was, Howard had the flat to himself, with Naboo and Bollo at some sort of New Age speed-dating event, and Vince off God knew where, and nothing spoiled a good sulk like the lack of an audience, but Howard was determined to soldier on in spite of this handicap. He hoped that if he concentrated all his negative energy hard enough, he could send it all out to Vince, and with any luck, the idiot would trip and break a heel, or at least spill his drink. Howard felt he deserved a little vindication, after the inhuman amounts of temptation he had been enduring the past few weeks.

It was hopeless, though. He just couldn’t stay angry enough. Something about Vince seemed impervious to bad juju, and Howard found it difficult to stay angry at him for any lengthy period of time. But Howard wasn’t about to give up. Vince was always saying he shouldn’t turn his anger in on himself. Well, now he was going to turn it on Vince, and serve him right. He would just have to try harder. Now, what would make him good and grouchy?

Howard’s eye settled on a copy of The Idiot atop the coffee table. Nothing more appropriate than a novel about a moron to stick it to Vince, he thought, and, giving a derisive snort, picked up the book. He stretched out his legs, propping his feet up on the coffee table, and began to read. Towards the end of November, during a thaw, at nine o'clock one morning, a train on the Warsaw and Petersburg railway was approaching the latter city at full speed . . .

The next thing Howard knew, there was a loud bang, and he sat bolt upright on the couch. It sounded as if there were an earthquake coming. He wondered what had happened. The Dostoevsky was on the floor, and the terrible crick in his neck led him to believe he might have fallen asleep. As for the earthquake, Howard was only slightly relieved to realize it was not a natural phenomena at all, only Vince clomping up the rickety stairwell in his gigantic boots.

“Howard!” Vince exclaimed, though it was really more of a sigh than anything. He leaned unsteadily on the newel post and shrugged off his jacket as he continued, “Thought you’d be in bed by now.”

Howard, in his groggy confusion, had forgotten he was supposed to be angry at Vince. “Why?”

“ ‘S late, is all,” Vince said, and limped towards the sofa.

“What happened to you?” Howard asked, rubbing grit from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, nothing.” He flopped down on the sofa and started tugging rather ineffectively at the bottoms of his jeans. “Tripped. Broke my heel clean off.” Howard could see now that one of the stacked heels was completely missing. He felt vaguely guilty about this, but couldn’t quite remember why. “And I spilled my flirtini all down my shirt. Clumsy.” Vince was wearing that ridiculous Mickey Mouse shirt, the one he’d covered in rhinestones, and sure enough, it was wet through, so that Howard could almost see Vince’s nipples through the white fabric.

Howard watched in a daze as Vince unzipped his boots and let them clatter onto the floor. He pulled his socks off and flexed his delicate feet with great and obvious pleasure, sighing heavily and letting his head fall back. “ ‘S all right, though,” Vince murmured as he flopped limply back on the sofa. “I’d rather be here, anyway.” His arm came to rest against Howard’s, so that Howard could feel the fine rub of Vince’s hair against his own. Howard blushed and jerked his arm away.

“What’s the matter, Howard?” Vince asked, putting one hand on his shoulder and leaning in close.

The heat of Vince’s breath so close to his ear made Howard shudder. “Nothing,” he said shortly. Vince smelled of sweat and pineapple and liquor. Suddenly he wished he had been in bed when Vince came home. Then he wouldn’t be suffering this humiliation.

Vince showed no signs of backing off, though, and continued his interrogation, leaning one burning-hot shoulder against Howard’s arm. “You’re cross with me, I can tell.”

“You’re drunk.” He was beginning to remember why he’d been so angry at Vince before. This was more than one man should have to endure.

“No,” Vince said, shaking his head. “Well, yeah, a bit. But not in a bad way. In a nice, relaxed sort of way.”

“You mean a stupid sort of way,” Howard grumbled.

“No.” Vince shoved his arm gently, chiding. “I mean a comfortable, shimmery, everything’s right with the world sort of way. Like right now, I feel like I could tell you anything and it would be all right.”

Howard looked down at his knees. “You don’t seem to have any problem telling me things at any other time.”

“No, not like, ‘my wallet was stolen by a swan.’ I mean something real.”

“Like what?” He looked back up to find Vince staring at him, his eyes so blue Howard could hardly breathe. He felt caught in Vince’s gaze, unable to do anything but wait.

“Like . . .” Vince bit his bottom lip. One of his delicate fingers brushed thoughtfully against Howard’s pinkie finger where it was curled nervously around the couch cushion. “Like how glad I am you’re my friend.”

Howard swallowed, preparing to brush Vince off, send him to bed, but Vince spoke again before Howard could get a word in.

“Or how grateful I am you’ve stuck with me through everything. Or how . . . I can’t stop thinking about the last time I kissed you.” Vince’s hand slid up his arm, and Howard began to feel his throat constrict.

“Vince,” he choked out, shoving Vince’s hand away. “Don’t.”

Vince put his hand right back where it had been. “Why not?”

“We decided-”

“No, we didn’t,” Vince said. His hand crept further up Howard’s arm. “We didn’t decide anything. You didn’t seem to care what I had to say about it, and ever since then you’ve been ignoring me.”

“I have-I have not.” Howard was finding it very hard to formulate an argument with Vince’s fingers tracing those maddening little patterns all over his skin.

“You have so.” Vince leaned closer. There was nowhere Howard could look now except straight into Vince’s eyes. “Every time I try to touch you or talk to you or even look at you, you clam up and pretend like I don’t exist. You won’t even let me flirt with you.”

“I-”

“I’m sick of waiting for you to make up your mind.”

“It’s-”

Vince let out a disdainful huff, and rolled his eyes. “Maybe I should stop waiting and make up your mind myself.” With that, he swung one leg over Howard’s, settling himself firmly on Howard’s lap. Howard was fairly certain he was about to go into anaphylactic shock. He had completely forgotten how to breathe, and his whole body felt like it was on fire.

“Vince-” He got no further, because Vince’s index finger had settled on his lips, silencing him.

“You don’t get to make my decisions for me, Howard.” And then, he was kissing Howard, tongue hot against the roof of his mouth, his hands like coals against his ribs.

Howard clenched the couch cushion even tighter as a moan eked its way out of his throat. He didn’t want it to stop, not for anything in the world, not ever. He kissed Vince back, clumsy, desirous, terrified. He wondered, absently, if he was doing all right, but Vince didn’t seem have any complaints. In fact, he was pressing himself against Howard like he wanted to crush him, his hands tight around Howard’s upper arms, which frightened Howard a little. He was suddenly aware of how small his mouth really was, now that it was filled with Vince’s tongue, and Vince felt pressingly heavy on top of him, as if he were made out of something altogether denser than flesh. He pushed weakly at Vince’s shoulder, needing space to breath.

Vince obliged, but he didn’t go far, bowing his head and moving his mouth against Howard’s neck. “I know what I want, Howard,” he said against the coarse skin of Howard’s throat, “and I know you want it, too.”

“Vince, I don’t-”

But Vince cut him off with another kiss. When he drew back, he lapped once more at the corner of Howard’s mouth, a strangely reassuring gesture. “You don’t have to do anything,” he whispered, his hand already creeping down toward the button on Howard’s trousers. “Just relax.”

He opened his to protest, to say, he didn’t even know what, but then Vince’s hand wormed its way inside his pants, touching him, actually touching his cock, and all he could say was, “Oh.”

He realized that everything he’s ever imagined about having sex has been just that, fantasy. He could never have anticipated the hot shudder of desire that went through him when Vince’s hand wrapped around him, or how cold the air would feel against his thighs when Vince tugged his trousers and pants down, or how stupid he would feel with his clothes tangled around his ankles, his shins exposed. He couldn’t have foreseen the way the sweat would collect in the crease of his arse, or the way every single muscle in his body would tense when Vince dropped down between his knees and sucked his cock into his mouth.

He felt terribly exposed with Vince’s hot weight gone from his upper body. He didn’t know where to look, could hardly bear to watch Vince’s dark head bobbing up and down between his legs. He stared at Vince’s hand, instead, very white, braced on his left thigh. Howard knew where his other hand was, but couldn’t let himself think about it. If he did, his throat would start to close up again and he’d just die, right here, on the couch.

Before he could even really adjust to the sensation of Vince’s mouth on his erection, it was gone, and Vince standing up, poised between Howard’s legs. He favored Howard with a brilliant smile before tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it on the floor. He worked the same quick magic on his jeans and pants, and then Vince was standing, naked and fully erect, in front of him. He was skinnier than Howard remembered, but his knock-kneed stance was comfortingly familiar. He couldn’t really bring himself to look at Vince’s cock-it made his jaw tense even thinking about it-so he settled for staring at Vince’s left nipple, which was about at his eye-level.

That didn’t last long, though, because soon Vince was straddling him again. Howard was glad to see Vince’s face again-his was smiling and relaxed and didn’t seem to be feeling any of the anxiety Howard did. “All right?” he asked, tipping his head to one side.

Howard nodded. Here he was, so close to really, properly having sex. This wasn’t wanking alone in the toilet, or being molested by a sea monster or prostituting himself to a violent transsexual widow. This was Vince, real, solid, affectionate Vince, whom he’d loved for most of his life without even realizing it. There was no sense in turning back now.

“Brilliant,” Vince said. “You’ll like this bit.” He kissed Howard again, a brief, sloppy, almost puppyish kiss, full of enthusiasm and promise. He crushed their hips together and Howard jerked in surprise as their erections touched, sending a spark through him.

Howard knew what was coming next, but he still couldn’t believe it. He watched, fascinated, as Vince raised himself up on his knees and then, reaching behind himself to get everything in the right position, he lowered himself slowly down onto Howard’s cock. He groaned as the world shrunk swiftly around him. Sweat worked its way down his back, and he struggled to breathe.

When Vince’s arse brushed Howard’s thighs, he stopped, and for a moment they were totally still. Vince’s mouth hung open as he took slow, shallow breaths, and his eyes were closed. The look of concentration was so intense that for a moment Howard was terribly sure he was hurting Vince. He sought out Vince’s hand where it was clasped on Howard’s hip and squeezed his wrist.

Vince opened his eyes then, and fixed Howard with a luminous smile. He hesitated a moment longer, and then he lifted his hips again. When he sank down, he threw back his head and moaned, and suddenly Howard felt like everything inside him was about to come apart, as if it were only his skin that was keeping him together.

Vince leaned down to kiss Howard again as he rocked his hips slowly, building a comfortable rhythm. He could feel Vince’s hand moving lazily between them, wanking himself, and he was grateful, because Howard knew he couldn’t have done it if Vince had asked. In fact, he found himself capable of little more than opening his mouth to Vince’s kiss, his hand clenched around Vince’s wrist like a lifeline. It was too much, too much, the slick slide of his cock inside Vince’s arse, the friction of their damp thighs, Vince’s lips on his. Vince moved gently above him, seemingly unaware that at any moment Howard was going to be torn to shreds by sensation.

Orgasm crept through him like a firestorm, pulling his limbs apart in long, slow bursts of heat. He pressed Vince’s fingers to his mouth and shut his eyes tight and sobbed a breath of relief and came.

When he stopped shaking, Vince lifted his hand from Howard’s mouth and tangled it in his hair, lifting his head for a lingering kiss. Howard, still breathless, began to feel lightheaded and claustrophobic. Vince still weighed heavy on his thighs, and he felt trapped between Vince’s body and the back of the sofa.

Blessedly, Vince dropped his lips to Howard’s jaw, and then on to his throat. In the silence that followed, Howard realized he could still hear the slick movement of Vince’s hand over his cock.

“You didn’t-” He felt himself go hot all over, out of embarrassment this time. He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“Mm.” Vince let out a deep breath, which eddied over Howard’s skin like its own amused weather system. He smiled against Howard’s neck. “Want to give me a hand with that?”

Howard didn’t. He didn’t even like touching his own cock, not really, not when he thought about it. But how could he say no to Vince when Vince had just done-that for him? He forced a noise of acquiescence out of his throat.

“Here,” Vince said, and gently, almost tenderly, positioned Howard’s hand on his erection. It was strange in ways Howard didn’t even really care to think about, touching Vince like that. Vince guided him, their fingers entangled around his cock. His hips jerked and his back arched, and the words fell out of his mouth, “Oh, Howard,” with such bare longing that Howard could hardly believe it was him Vince was thinking of. It didn’t take much longer before Vince’s thighs clenched and he came, spilling himself all over Howard’s shirt.

For a while, Vince just leaned bonelessly against Howard, his forehead resting against his shoulder. When he’d caught his breath, Vince lifted himself gingerly from Howard’s lap and settled down beside him on the couch. His left hand sought out Howard’s right, tangling their fingers together.

“Well?” Vince asked, after a while. Howard could feel him watching, trying to discern Howard’s reaction. Howard just stared at his bare knees. “All right?”

He thought about it. It terrified him, what they’d done-or, not what they’d done, exactly, but how it had made him feel, so helplessly adrift on the storm swell of desire. But then he thought of those moments when Vince had looked at him, his big, blue eyes fixed only on him, and he hadn’t felt so lost after all. It had been all right, as long as Vince was there to guide him, to keep him from losing himself completely. It would get better, maybe. He thought about the way Vince had said his name as he came. That, Howard was sure, was what it was supposed to be like. All the rest of it almost didn’t matter, so long as he knew he’d made Vince feel that.

“Yeah,” Howard said, at last, meeting Vince’s inquisitive gaze. “All right.”

Vince smiled. “Good, cause I definitely want to do it again.” At Howard’s stricken expression, Vince laughed. “Not now!” he said, nudging him in the ribs. “Later. Definitely later.”

He rested his head on Howard’s shoulder, which Howard found immensely satisfying. They sat for a while in silence, watching out the window as sunrise began to break over Dalston.

“You know,” Vince said, breaking the silence, “a swan really did steal my wallet. Want to take me out to breakfast?”

Howard said yes.