Chapter Text
Rody never thought he’d even be here. Or even hear of him again. Not after nearly a month.
After having been restless and exhausted after that night, it felt like a sin to be in this hospital room.
Had the public swept it under the rug? Not once had Rody ever heard of news about Vincent’s survival, nor did he even see a single headline, not even a small mention of the man’s recovery. Either that, or he hasn’t been reading enough news lately.
Why did Rody even bother visiting him?
He found out people had investigated the situation and tried calling Vincent’s connections to inform them of his condition.
None of them picked up.
His parents, however, answered the phone, but they refused to go for unknown reasons.
Rody remembered how his telephone rang, how it sounded louder than it should've sounded, nearly piercing his only ear in such a small, quiet room. For a split second, he almost believed it was Manon. Oh, how desperate he was to hear her voice again.
But every scrap of Manon was taken from him. It was harsh, it was brutal. And Rody never understood why it was the way it was? He was helpless.
So he picked up, fingers twitching on the receiver.
...He wishes he never picked it up.
“I hate you,” he tells Vincent’s unconscious frame.
“Why,” said Rody through gritted teeth. “Are you alive?”
The doctor strode in, holding a clipboard. He tried to keep himself composed.
“Mr. Charbonneau has been in a comatose state for several weeks now, he had sustained second-degree burns from the fire. We cannot find the cause of the deep scarring on his neck,” Rody avoided the doctor’s gaze.
“Although someone had likely inflicted the wound that night, the police cannot find the culprit. Additionally, the injury leads to a long-term partial loss of vocal speech, he may be able to create small sounds but cannot vocalize coherent words — as it may be too difficult and painful to the throat,” said the doctor.
“Unfortunately, due to the falling debris from the building, Mr. Charbonneau experienced severe brain trauma — which contributes to the likelihood of amnesia—"
Oh.
Oh.
Blinking away tears and holding back the bile stinging at his throat, he stood there in disbelief, he couldn’t hear the rest of the doctor’s words.
“I...see,” he said slowly, still trying to process the implications of this situation.
Taking a deep breath, he examined the man. Burns all over his body, dark eye bags, a sign of sleep deprivation — and bandages obscuring his neck — Rody shuddered knowing he was the one who had inflicted the injury beneath it.
He felt a pang of guilt.
Rody didn’t know what to feel about any of this. The guy looked exhausted, even while asleep. Should he feel happy that his girlfriend’s murderer was confined in a hospital, with the scar he inflicted? With the burns he caused? The bistro and his apartment was set ablaze, reduced to rubble — what would Rody say to him after he’s woken up?
Sighing, he sat down on the chair beside the bed. Strips of sunlight covered the room wall-to-wall, the doctor had just left, and now it was just silence.
Where would he go when he’s discharged? Hey, maybe the guy has some mansion tucked away on a little island somewhere far from France, or maybe he’s got another house in Paris, Rody wouldn’t know — was he that rich to have another house? Or was all of his money in his apartment, above the now-gone bistro?
Would Vincent even remember?
Rody groaned as he realized how little he knew about amnesia. God — this was frustrating.
The doctor said they’d call if he awoke. He never knew he’d be so tense about a phone call, not after Manon’s death.
Taking another glance at Vincent, he left the room.
—
Rody was not a religious man, but he wanted to get his mind off of all that had happened, so he prayed he wasn’t late for his job interview.
The autumn breeze was chillier and the streets of Paris were much quieter. Much to Rody’s dismay after today’s events, there was comfort in it, he found.
It was supposed to be a quiet, somewhat eventless morning — until he picked up the phone the hour before.
Following the loss of his bike during that traumatic night, he had to adjust to the pain of walking miles away from his apartment just to get to work.
But at least he’s got a job again, if he gets hired, that is.
Pots Et Pétales, a flower shop. It was certainly an odd approach, but this was probably his last chance to get his life back together, surely.
If only there weren’t a pest whispering in his ear, reminding him of his cannibalistic boss who is still very much alive, sleeping on a hospital bed, maybe he’d be a little happy today.
The doors chimed open, he plastered a smile on his face as he walked in.
It wasn’t exactly underwhelming, the flower shop looked a bit untidy. Clay pots were placed against the windows and flowers of various kinds nestled in small wooden crates, it was just as you’d expect from any other flower shop. Something did catch his eye, though. An ivory stained tulip bouquet was sitting atop one of the workbenches.
Tulips used to be Manon’s favourite flower. But this wasn’t the time to think of her...again.
“Bonjour, I’m looking for—”
He was cut off by an old, grey-haired man who seemed to be running the place. He wore a brown gardener’s apron with flowers stitched on it at the front, he also had a name tag that read: “Pierre”.
“Ah, you must be here for the job application. You seem like the delivery-boy sorta guy — would be rather surprised if you’re here to be a florist,”
He chuckled at that awkwardly. “Heh, um. No, yeah, I’m just here to be a—”
“Unless you wanna impress your girl with a nice personal bouquet, I can teach you if you'd like,”
“No thank you,” said Rody with a tight smile.
“Hm,” Pierre hummed thoughtfully. “Lemme see your job description,”
“Oh. Erm, here,” he handed over his job description, which the man quickly seized. With an unreadable expression, Pierre skimmed through the pages, he laid his eyes on one particular piece of information.
“...Interesting.”
Rody reckons it's the amount of jobs he’s had — he’s done for.
Pierre then wordlessly gave back Rody his papers, turned on his heel, and walked off.
That’s fine. No, really. Rody was used to this. And that’s okay. Leave. Just leave and never come back—
“Here’s your—hey, where you goin’?”
He looked back. “What—?”
The old man scoffed. “Here’s your uniform, livreur. Nothing too fancy, all you’re gonna be doing is delivering some flowers and pots,” He held up the shirt with the store's name embroidered on the front and back. “Hope it fits you, though, I have a knack for knowing garb sizes just by looking at a fella,”
He threw the shirt for Rody to catch. “Now,” Pierre gestured to the bouquet of tulips. “This beauty is to be delivered to 404 Soleil Boulevard, it’s quite close to that burned-down restaurant — La Gueule De Saturne, isn’t it?”
“Oh,” said Rody, visibly uncomfortable. “...Okay.”
“Yeah, never went to that place. Not a fan of those ‘chic’ overpriced restaurants,” the man snorted. “Their food is probably drier than my grandma’s ashes!”
Rody forced a laugh, “Haha, right,” but Pierre seemed to see right through him.
“Hey, don’t be nervous, I can tell you’ve had many first-days,” he smiled in a joking manner. “Do you have a bicycle?”
“I used to have one,”
““used”? Ha, must’ve gotten stolen, am I right? Miserable people, thieves." before Rody could say anything, the man cut him off again.
“Anyway, we have a delivery bike in the back, you can use that one. You better be off,”
Rody scoffed. “Thanks, boss.”
—
The days passed by in a blur. Delivering flowers, anxiously awaiting a certain phone call from the hospital.
Every day had its routine.
Sometimes there weren’t deliveries.
That was fine though, Rody didn’t have anything to do.
He’d just sit on his couch and wait.
Waiting impatiently.
He’d sit there for hours, occasionally having a cheap meal, maybe even going out for a walk — but the phone call refused to leave his mind.
Vincent refused to leave his mind.
One early morning, he awoke to a loud ringing. Expecting a call from Pierre informing him of a new delivery, he picked up the receiver and pressed it against his ear.
It wasn’t Pierre.
“Hello, this is Doctor Moreau from Hôpital Saint-Joseph. We would like to inform you about Mr. Charbonneau’s current condition,”
Rody nearly dropped the receiver. “What happened?” he said in a much more panicked tone than he should have.
“We’ve been closely monitoring Mr. Charbonneau and we’re happy to say that he was woken up from his comatose sleep. He may be a little disoriented from the initial unconsciousness, but he is doing well,”
Rody gripped the phone, unsure of what to say.
“...Thank you for informing me, have a good day.” he said quietly.
“Have a good day.”
He placed the receiver down, sitting on his couch.
This isn’t good.
...
Is this a good thing?