Archive of Our Own

Which, by its very nature, is something Vince has come to expect of his daily life. Arguably it would be more unusual for everything to be running smoothly around here. 

But the contextual clues of the past few days are adding up to some very bad juju. 

It starts with a rapidly depleting bottle of shampoo. To most, not the kind of thing that would even click as suspicious, but this is Vince Noir’s shampoo. A concoction of fruit scented hair Potion that costs him most of his monthly pay packet to supply himself with; and thus, something he ensures he uses stringently. 

Vince knows exactly how long it takes him to get through one bottle. It’s frankly one of the precious few things in his existence he manages to be anal-retentive about. 

So, of course, when he reaches for the bottle nine days into a twenty-one day cycle and finds the weight of it considerably lighter than it should be. It is the first step down a path of suspicion that can only lead to terrible things. 

The next piece of this wet jigsaw puzzle comes with Howard’s altered appearance. 

It isn’t even what most would consider a large difference. But to Vince it’s like the man had shaved his head and begun wearing neon leg-warmers and tank tops and calling himself Moonbeam. Its jarring, and obvious. 

Howard’s curls are styled. 

He notices one lazy Sunday morning as the older man potters about the kitchen sorting them some breakfast. Usually, Howard’s shampoo was cheap and bought in bulk and basically, left his hair sort of– in the nicest way possible– horrifically unstylable. The brown ringlets often had a mind of their own, and at this length, never looked washed anyway so Howard never took the trouble. 

But on this Sunday morning? They’re radiant. Catching the soft morning light. Curled delicately round his ears and dipping over his forehead. Vince all at once wants to sink his fingers into them and pull but he can’t– not least because they may be at a place where affection is coming naturally and sometimes they might kiss each other or share a cheeky touch… they still haven’t actually said what they are yet– because his suspicion just ramped up another level. 

Was Howard using his shampoo? 

There isn’t even the chance to ask. He’s too soon distracted by a crimp and a delicious meal that his hyperactive brain loses the will to hold on to such things as paranoia and worry. It can be tackled later. 

Later happens the following morning when Vince is watching Howard dress. Not in a creepy way, they share a bedroom for God’s sake, but in a soft affectionate way. After being brave enough to slide under Vince’s sheets this morning and press kisses to his cheeks and forehead Howard is vibrating with proud energy and its nice to witness. 

Right up until he pulled a shirt from his wardrobe and ruins it. 

It’s not patterned. It’s not even a horrific colour. It’s just a plain, quite stylish, button-down that Vince remembers buying him years ago in the hopes of kick-starting a wardrobe revamp. 

Except watching him pull it on now does nothing but make him feel disoriented. 

Howard smiles at him, practically skips his way from the bedroom. Vince stays where he is just a moment longer, mentally trying to force the misshapen pieces of this conundrum together before the only logical solution springs at him from nowhere. 

Howard’s been replaced by aliens. 

Armed with this knowledge, Vince forgoes dressing properly in order to rush downstairs to the shop and confront their intruder. Pyjamas aren’t ideal alien-fighting apparel but needs must when you’ve got to rescue your best friend. 

And as if it couldn’t get any worse, what he sees has him stumbling down the last few steps ungracefully. 

Howard is at the counter as expected. But in front of him sits a white paper bag that would normally set Vince off like an excited puppy. Topman. Howard’s reaching into a bag from Topman. 

He’s pulling out jeans. Actual denim. Jeans. 

It’s the straw that breaks Vince’s back. 

“Alright, you fashionable freak,” He cries, Iwad jolts with his shock and drops the denim to the shop floor. “What’ve you done with my Howard?" 

"Wha– your Howard?" 

"I swear if you’ve hurt ‘im I’ll kick your teeth in,” The threat is enough to have maybe Howard’s hands hooting up in a display of his innocence. “Then I’ll get my shaman mate to curse you!" 

"Vince, you’ve gone wrong.” Howard’s hands drop to his sides once more. Apparently no longer threatened by Vince’s overt display of anger. “It’s me, I’m Howard.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes. I am.”

“Howard doesn’t use my shampoo!” With the renewed annoyance of this accusation, Vince takes a solid step forward; a smug sense of pleasure twists in his gut to see the imposter take one back in response. His back hits the shelves with a noisy thud. “He reckons it’s like washin’ his hair with fruit juice. And my Howard wouldn’t be caught dead in Topman– he definitely wouldn’t buy jeans. If he tried to put jeans on he’d dissolve into a puddle of beige fabric.” The whole rant is rounded off with Vince stamping his foot like an angry toddler. “So tell me where he is.”

Amusement is twisting on Howard’s features, soft in its nature and endlessly affectionate. “You daft tart,” He utters warmly. “It is me.”

“Prove it, then.”

“Remember when we were 14 and I caught you with that poster of–”

“Alright!” Where Vince’s arms had previously been crossed over his chest defiantly, he now reaches out to shove gently at Howard’s larger frame in a warning. “Alright, you said you’d never bring that up again.”

Howard shrugs casually at him; cocks a brow as if silently asking him what else he was supposed to do. Vince isn’t dwelling on that, though, he is much too preoccupied seeking out answers to this bizarre few days of Howard transformation. “What’s goin’ on then?" 

The panic may have left Vince’s frame but it creeps up Howard’s now. His shoulders tense, his eyes dart away, the soft curves of his cheeks turn pink with his embarrassment. All it does is add to Vince’s gathering confusion. "Howard?" 

With a deep breath– all his bravery existing in that one action– Howard admits, "I thought it would help.” No further elaboration comes until Vince makes a point to cock his head to the side like a curious puppy. “With us. You know, our– you like a certain look.”

“What?” Vince exclaims on a laugh. 

“I’ve seen your type, Vince, and it’s not me, is it?” Howard still hasn’t looked at him. Prefers muttering his truth to the floor. “I thought if I looked more like the people you normally fancy we might be able to–" 

"You idiot.” Vince declares confidently. Startled, Howard stares up at him with wide eyes. “Utter lunatic, are you insane? Howard, I fancy you not the clothes you wear.”

Howard continues to do nothing but blink owlishly at him. 

“Bloody hell, all of this was for me?” A nod. “Oh, Howard. Look I think your fashion sense is rubbish but it’s yours. That’s who you are, I’m not gonna change you. I don’t want to, and I don’t want you to want to change yourself either.”

“Really?" 

"Really.” Vince takes a confident step forward, tosses his arms around Howard's shoulders. “Can’t promise I won’t make fun of how you dress but that doesn’t mean I actually want you to be different. Whatever gave you that idea?" 

"Well all the jokes but,” Howard hesitates over his answer, eyes flashing with discomfort. “But when I asked Leroy he said–" 

”Leroy?“ Vince rolls his eyes. "Don’t be taking dating advice from Leroy, that man had an affair with a succulent once.”

Howard snickers; finds it in himself to wrap his hands about Vince’s waist and tug him into an embrace. “Does this mean that we’re…?”

“Boyfriends? Sure. But only if you go and take this mess off and put something normal on for God’s sake.”

“Fine. Drama queen.” With an affectionate peck to his forehead, Howard starts for the stairs. 

“Oh and Howard?” Vince calls sweetly, Howard paused at the bottom step. “You ever use my shampoo again and you can kiss goodbye to your rare jazz collection.”