Chapter Text
Rody turned in his sleep, or as a try to find a good enough position to sleep in. He couldn’t fall asleep that night. The couch was a bit too firm, but the waiter had slept on way worst, so it wasn’t much of the issue. He had turned from left to right, from right to left, on the back, on the stomach. No, he definitly couldn’t sleep.
So there he laid, this time on his back, staring at the ceiling. This one was way better than the one he slept under before moving here. Rody listened to the pouring rain of Paris hitting the window. It was quite calming, soothing if he dared to say. It would be an enjoyable moment for insomnia, if only he had someone to speak to, but tonight, he slept on the couch. “At least, I got a acceptable blanket and a comfty pillow this time,“ he thought to himself.
He rolled to his side again, deciding to observe the living room under the soft light of the moon. A simple TV, some sort of instruments in a corner, a door to the kitchen, the record player he was not allowed to touch anymore since he accidentally broke one of the owner’s precious records. Rody puffed his cheeks, he found that dumb to be forbiden such a cool object for an innocent mistake. Plus, he apologised AND bought it back, sleeping on the couch and not touching the record player was the ‘nicest’ he could get out of the situation. The waiter closed his eyes again, another desperate try to sleep, or maybe just rest.
Sadly for him, his brain had decided to torment him with more thoughts. It started by thinking in his job. The bistro, he enjoyed working there, mostly since Vince had started to open up and employed a new waiter, even a bartender. Vince probably just had enough of customers’ complaints about Rody’s ridiculously bad talent to make drinks. He was, however, forced to admit that his drinks were as bad as his cooking. Cooking, Rody found himself liking Vince’s food, it was getting less bitter now. Plus, even if he disliked it, he would never dare to say it out loud here, not when everything in there (maybe except for his guitar, a small dozen of the records and a little amount of clothes) was owned by the Chef. Losing his current situation wasn’t one of his life goals, plus he had quite gotten attached to this living.
Maybe that’s because Rody had to eat daily whatever Vince had cooked for him now that they shared an appartement. He really loved watching Vincent cook, it was similar to art to his eyes, almost as if the chef was playing a partition or a play, all was always perfectly done and directed. Rody turned around again, facing the back of the red couch, with a slightly annoyed sigh. Maybe it was because it remind the waiter of his mother’s own cooking. When was the last time he even saw his parents? Years probably. It’s not like they were close too, he tried, as a way to excuse himself from losing contact. “God,” Rody let out under his breath, “Is it really the moment to reminisce about all of that?”
Rody exhaled a deep breath before closing his eyes. What else could he do to fill this insomnia? And so, he allowed himself to be nostalgic for once, to let his mind wander in the blurry memories. The kitchen, the visage of his mother, the exact paroles were damaged by time, but yet he had a strong memory of how his mother’s voice sounded like, the smell, the food. He smiled as he forced himself to get a better image of the situation.
Rody remembered the yellow-ish walls, the way his mother was always humming a song when cooking; he could smell the food inside the whole house, the odor of raspberry and the one of fresh eggs. He could swear he recall seeing this mother doing this recipe so many times that he could almost spell out the instructions. He couldn’t tell the time of the day but it looked sweet when the dessert was finished. Rody was sitting on his knees over a chair to be tall enough to see what she was doing. He observed, without a word, his mother put the rasperry chiffon pie in their oven while speaking. The young boy couldn’t recollect the words that came out of his mother’s mouth, but he didn’t care. He fancied seeing her smile as she ruffled his hair.
He remembered the times the young boy tried to help her. It went always by the same pattern, Rody was watching, when he got bored to sit on the chair to observe, he asked if his mother needed help, something she never refused. Then Rody was given the task of mesuring ingredients, or mixing sugar with flour, some easy task for a young boy. He thought of the music that his mother had in background most of the time. The radio was playing a song he recognized as ‘This is my lovely day’ from a famous musical his mother loved, ‘Bless the bribe’ , created by a british writer, a so called Vivian Ellis. He could recall his mother said they would drive to see it play in theater one day.
He remembered the roads of his home street, how he loved the long walks he did with his father when this last one wasn’t working and that Rody wasn’t at school. He enjoyed walking in the parc next to his house, it was calm and there was ducks. Sometimes, the young boy was allowed to feed the ducks. He looked at the ducks, heard the frogs, also he tried to see if there was any fish. His favorite moment was probably in automn, when the leaves turned orange sometimes red and fell on the grass. The kid would have fun to listen the crunchy sound the dead leaves made when he stepped over them.
Rody remembered the first time his parents brought him a bike. It was for his 5th birthday and they had told him how they saved for months to get it. He was probably the happiest young boy when he saw the bike right in front of him in the family tiny garden. It was a cheap bike, and the redhead knew he wasn’t the richest of the city, but this is details he didn’t care much about, it was green and shiny. His eyes shined too with happy tears, he wanted to thank his parent so much; he could recall the way his father teased the young kid about crying for a silly bike, Rody knew he had pouted angrily crossing his arms even if his father was just teasing light-heartedly.
He remembered the times he rode it in the streets of London with friends. Most of the times, the boys were laughing, joking around too. Even if he was one of the biggest speak out of his friend group, Rody always apreciated listening to his friends’ stories, mostly about love. Since he was 12, Rody was known in his school as the biggest hopeless romantic of the establishment, going crush after crush. When he listened, the waiter relished in admiring the buildings, then when the group dared to leave the center of the big city where they hung, they happily faced the green forests and the nice parks. Quite often, they stopped in one park, sitting in the grass while also enjoying the sun on their skin. Rody remind himself how he just stared at this boy in his group of friend, even if in past, he had alway denied his feelings by telling himself it was ‘friendly behaviour’. Now that time had passed, he realised he used to have a thing for that boy.
He remembered that one trip which changed all his life. Rody had begged them to come as soon as he knew they were going to France for their anniversary. Rody has been dreaming of enoying a pleasant trip in France, he wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame de Paris, even maybe the Louvre. To make them agree, he had proposed to pay for hiw own hotel room with the money he had made during his small jobs. He had done from babysitting to serving in some restaurant, even passing by playing in some quick shows. Moreover, happily, they had agreed. He got a whole week, free in France, able to fancy the beauty of this country.
Before the waiter could even think of the rest of his past, he felt a hand on his back and low voice whispering words he couldn’t fully understand, it said something close to “Rody, wake up.” That voice, he recognised it as Vincent’s. On the orders of his boss, Rody pulled his head away from the pillow with a loud growl and turned to face the black haired man who kneelt down. Rody’s eyes were met by Vincent’s dark ones behind the glasses.
“Good morning to you too Vince,” Rody managed to say despite his tired state. The redhead awaited Vincent to make a comment on his awful apparence as the tallest always did, but the comment never happened, silence streched awkwardly even if they were used to it since the months they shared.
“I finished to cook you breakfast. Hope you like it,” Vincent stated, not breaking the eye contact between the two men. “It’s already 6am Rody, you should be already ready to work.” Vincent never missed an occasion to tease the shorter man. The chef had noticed the tired look and the low voice which clearly indicated a night of insomnia. He had thought of leaving Rody on a day off, but it was his other waiter’s day off and there was no possibility to call her last minute.
Rody forced himself to stand up, he rubbed his eyes while letting out a yawn. He could go for a full breakfast right now, he felt as if he was starving. His movement was followed by Vincent standing straight, smiling slightly. The waiter felt a hand on his shoulder, skin showing because of how baggy and large his shirt was, and he felt the cold metal of a ring on his skin, it made Rody laughs a bit.
“What?” Vincent asked, confused by the laugh he had understood as a mockery. The chef’s worries were quickly brushed away by Rody. The taller man was reassured to see the redhead gain back his usual ‘happy-go-lucky’ energy, yet he was still surprised when the waiter pulled him closer. The two men laughed a bit as they hugged each other tightly, Rody quickly carried Vincent effortlessly before making them spin, their chuckles filled the room once more before being stopped by a soft kiss when Vincent’s feet hit back the floor.
“Your breakfast is waiting you,” Vincent said softly, letting his hand rest on Rody’s cheek. “Go eat, I’ll try to help you if you’re too tired.” Rody couldn’t help but smile at the proposition, he couldn’t refuse help when he had such a sleepless night. Vincent’s help wasn’t always the best as he was also critising even more the plates produced by the cooks, but Rody was down for any kind of help today.
The waiter left a soft kiss on the inside of the taller man’s hand which made this last one giggles. “Stop that and go eat already,” Vincent scolded, falsely annoyed by the time the redhead took to consume a simple breakfast before work. Rody apologise, rubbing the back of his neck out of embarassment before he headed toward the kitchen where a plate of buttered toasts, with eggs along with bacon, accompagnied with a fancy glass of coffee and fresh orange juice were waiting to be devoured. Rody called that ‘the best way to start a long day of dealing with customers’.