Chapter Text
Fentanyl, heroin, morphine… Vincent ran through his options. No, no, too difficult to get in this part of town. He could go to the less affluent parts of the city to get them, but he’d rather not if he didn’t have to.
He had “friends” who worked in the medical field, mostly providers from his childhood that the family had kept in touch with. One of them could probably get him something for the right price. But what should he say? What should he ask for?
Alright, fuck it, he couldn’t think of a solution, so he might as well have a glass of wine. His head was killing him, which was usually what happened if he got too drunk– or too sober. Maybe someday he’d quit drinking like he kept telling himself he would, but today was not that day. The withdrawals were hard enough when he wasn’t trying to actually use his brain.
Just as he stood up to head down to the kitchen, it clicked, like a piece had been inserted into a puzzle that he didn’t realize he needed to complete.
Double checking that his bedroom door was locked, he went back to his desk and reached for his landline, the only telephone in the house, then hesitated. He didn’t need to lie, not technically anyway. But how was he supposed to get the specific drug he was looking for without sounding suspicious? He’d have to make up some sort of story. That didn’t take too long though; he’d had plenty of practice.
He flipped through the phonebook until he found the only page he’d dog-eared and, on it, his doctor’s name, circled in pencil. He punched in the number and picked up the phone. It rang twice before the line connected.
“Hello, this is Vincent Charbonneau. I’m doing well, yourself? Good to hear. Ah, yes, so, I’ve been trying to stop drinking– ha, yeah, finally trying to complete that New Year’s resolution– but it’s just been ruining my sleep schedule, and one of my friends told me about something called…” He feigned a pause, as if he were trying to recall the name. “I believe it was… Valium?”
Rody was tending to his guitar like he had been doing for the last few days. There was really nothing else he needed to do. Clothes were in the wash, floors were swept and mopped, and the windows were not his business since he almost fell from the second story a couple of days ago. So he had a lot of free time. Vince hadn’t had any complaints. Maybe he liked Rody’s music, or, more likely, he was glad that he wasn’t getting himself in trouble.
Through the music, he could hear the front door open and slam shut. It wasn’t the gardener (Rody knew he took the side gate), so it must have been Vince going out and doing whatever he does, most likely checking up on the restaurant. But he came back a little too late for that. His restaurant trips usually took thirty minutes, an hour at most. This felt much longer, though when Rody looked at the clock, it had only been two hours. Maybe there was traffic or he’d stopped by the store on the way home.
Rody didn’t hear Vince come up the stairs, so he was probably in the kitchen, which made sense as it was getting close to dinner time. Not having anything better to do, Rody went down to join him. Vince had his back to Rody, chopping up vegetables while a chunk of meat defrosted on the counter. There was a rectangular box in his pocket, which Rody assumed was a pack of cigarettes.
“Hey, Vince.”
Vince didn’t look up. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh, I live here?”
Rody could practically hear Vince rolling his eyes. “No, in the kitchen.”
Rody shifted his weight back and forth on his feet. “Oh, I just wanted to say hi because, you know, we haven’t talked much today.”
Vince sighed and turned around, knife still in hand. “Rody, I have a headache, and if I weren’t afraid of you having another cereal burning incident trying to feed yourself, I would’ve just gone to bed. So, please, just go somewhere else until I call you for dinner.”
“Oh, uh, did you want a paracetamol or something? I think I have some in my nightstand,” Rody offered. “Or maybe I left it in my pocket after I got it… shoot, did I run it through the laundry? Or maybe–”
“Yeah, no, I’m good,” Vince interrupted, gesturing with the knife to wave him away, flicking droplets of vegetable juice across the tile. “Just go play your guitar or whatever.”
“Are you sure? Maybe I can help–”
“I don’t need help. Just go.”
“Probably not with the cooking but maybe the dishes or–”
“Rody, go.”
“Or I could–”
“RODY!” In an instant, Vince slammed him against the wall, both hands on his shoulders, knife still in his grip, blade dangerously close to Rody’s throat. “Just fucking shut up, alright? Fucking. Shut. Up. What is so damn hard about that?”
“I– I’m sorry–!” Rody stammered, frozen, glancing back and forth between Vince’s narrowed eyes and the trembling knife centimeters away from his jugular vein. The eyes were supposed to be the window to the soul, but Rody couldn’t see anything behind his, not even a glassy sheen from liquor, just… empty.
Vince stared at him for a moment, then gave a long sigh, pushed himself away, and went back to the counter. “Go. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”
Rody blinked, subconsciously rubbing his neck. “R-right, yeah, um, th-thank you.” And he all but ran out of that kitchen.