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Rody doesn’t know how long he’s been curled up on his shitty, uncomfortable couch. All he knows is that he’s freezing and his paper-thin blanket isn’t helping him retain any body heat.
It’s the middle of January and he should’ve known better. He could tell his space heater was about to break, but he thought it wouldn’t give up so soon. He’s been saving to be able to buy a new one with his next paycheck, but life has to play yet another cruel joke on him.
He can feel the cold seeping into his bones. His breath crystalizes with each exhale and he knows he won’t make it if he stays like this.
He sits up, looking out of his window. Well, more like trying to look out. The snowstorm is making it impossible to see anything except the ice flowers on the glass.
He could try to call Manon, but she hasn’t been picking up. He doubts she’d make an exception today. His parents’ house is way too far for him to be able to bike to and getting a taxi is not a choice. He desperately tries to come up with a person whose house he could crash at, until he gets to his boss.
Vincent lives above the bistro. He could make it there with his eyes closed, he does it every day. His boss is the last person he’d like to spend time with, but in his desperation, he can’t think of anyone else who would be willing to take him in.
The privilege he gets compared to all the other employees hasn’t gone unnoticed. He hopes he’s managed to stay in the man’s good graces this week otherwise he’s royally screwed.
Unlocking the door with numb fingers, he braces himself for the unforgiving cold. His worn coat doesn’t help keep the wind out.
He stumbles over to the bike racks, unlocking Madeleine. He pedals as fast as he can, trying to not get too much snow on him. Every Celsius his body can retain is crucial. If you would’ve asked Rody half a year ago what he’d be doing now, he certainly wouldn’t have said he’d be trying to not freeze to death.
When Saturne enters his field of vision, he lets out a sigh of relief. Maybe he’ll get to live another day.
He drops his trusty steed next to the stairs leading up to Vince’s apartment. He can deal with the bike later, he has more important things to worry about.
He swiftly ascends the steps and knocks as hard as he can. And... nothing?
He didn’t consider Vince going anywhere. He’s sure his boss would’ve mentioned it to him. Rody’s constantly asking him about his weekend plans. Shivering, he bangs his fist against the door, again and again.
He’s so screwed. If he survives this, he’ll definitely lose his job. Vince will be pissed if he finds Rody passed out or worse, dead on his doorstep.
He slumps against the door, defeated. He can feel the cold burrowing itself deeper into his bones. Closing his eyes, he accepts defeat. This was a dumb idea, he should’ve stayed home. At least he had some protection against the snow and wind there.
Then, suddenly the door ceases to support his back. His head bangs against the floor, but he barely registers it. There’s delicious warmth flooding over him and Rody thinks he could cry. Maybe he doesn’t have to die.
˝Okay, what the fuck are you doing out there? ˝ The irritated voice draws Rody back into the realm of the living.
˝Hey… boss. ˝
Vince clicks his tongue. ˝Come inside before the apartment gets cold. ˝
Rody’s never been more grateful. He mentally pledges his undying allegiance to Vince.
˝Thanks so much! I don’t-˝
˝Why the hell were you out there? Are you actually insane? ˝
˝I uh…˝ Rody’s arm instinctively reaches up to scratch his nape, but he stops the moment his fingers graze his neck. Even moving his fingers is excruciating.
˝You uh? You know you could’ve died, right? Not to mention, if you get sick who’s going to wait tables on Monday? ˝ Vince’s words don’t have the sharp edge they usually do. His brows are furrowed and his arms are crossed over his chest. He looks worried, which Rody finds touching despite barely registering his words.
His thawing body feels like it’s being burned alive. Maybe he made it to Dante’s 9th circle of hell. ˝My heating…it uh… broke? ˝
˝Is that a question or an answer? I’ll draw you a bath before you lose a limb. ˝ With this, he leaves Rody sitting on his doormat.
Rody takes that as his cue to free his feet from the icy prison of his shoes. He doesn’t know if he should be worried about the slight discoloration but he’s sure it’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. Vince let him in. There’s still someone he can rely on, even if it’s his usually insufferable boss.
He blinks and the owner of the place is back. ˝The bath’s ready, just leave your clothes outside the door. ˝
˝Thanks so much, Vince! I don’t know what I’d do without you. ˝ Rody goes to hug the younger man, but he swiftly dodges.
˝Absolutely not. You’re soaking wet. Go bathe. ˝
All of Rody’s gratitude vanishes when he sees Vince’s wretched bathtub. Still, he can’t resist the warm water’s pull. Like a moth to a flame, he lets himself momentarily become one with the warm water.
He doesn’t know how long he spends in the warm embrace of the bathtub, but he’s snapped out of his haze when Vince knock on the door.
˝You better be alive, Lamoree. ˝
˝I sure am! ˝ He knows he’s grinning like a fool but he can’t get himself to care. He can’t even remember when was the last time he felt this relaxed.
Pulling the plug of the bath, he opens the door to find some unfamiliar clothes waiting for him. They’re way too colorful to be Vince’s. He keeps staring at it, wondering if they’ll even fit. Only one way to find out.
When he unfolds the sweater, a brown dog is staring back at him. No way Vince ever wore this. After putting it on, he’s surprised to find it fits him like a glove.
He joins Vince in the kitchen. His boss is laser focused, working on... something. Rody can never tell.
˝What’cha making? ˝ Rody sits down on one of the barstools, watching the other man do what he's best at.
˝Soup. I don’t want you to come down with anything. I need you to be able to function on Monday. ˝ Just as Rody’s starting to think Vince cares for him, he’s reminded this is purely a business exchange for him.
˝Yea well, it’s not like I like being sick either. ˝
˝Good. ˝
A comfortable silence washes over them. Rody knows better than to ask if he can help. After the last time he offered he was banned from the kitchen’s premises for a week.
He rests his head on the cold marble of the countertop. It feels surprisingly nice, despite having just escaped the freezing conditions.
Vince sets down a bowl of the soup next to his head. ˝Wake up. You can’t sleep here. ˝
˝I’m not going home. ˝ Rody’s offended at even the suggestion to go back to that cold, dead apartment.
˝Not like that, idiot. I meant the countertop. Now eat, then you can go to sleep. ˝
Rody looks at the content of the bowl and his stomach churns. It looks way too perfect to be edible. God, why didn’t he try to persuade Vince into using an instant soup packet instead?
He reluctantly picks up his spoon, dipping it into the steaming bowl of liquid. He stirs it, but that doesn’t make it any more appetizing.
˝It won’t bite you, Rody. ˝ Vince has his back turned but he still knows what Rody’s doing. Creepy.
He raises the spoonful of liquid to his mouth, anticipating the usual objectively perfect yet empty and loveless taste. Instead, he’s greeted with something that actually tastes homemade. Like it was made with love.
˝Dude, this is like, so good? ˝
˝Call me that again and you’re going back out there. ˝ Vince deadpans.
˝Sorry. ˝ Rody has the decency to feel embarrassed.
He makes quick work of the soup, scarfing it down like it’s his last meal on death row. After all, it’s his first warm meal in weeks. He tried to cook, but the burnt remains of his cereal always smelled horrid whenever he turned on the stove.
Vince guides him to the uncomfortable red couch in his living room. Rody tries to sink into it, but the hard material prevents him from doing so. Frustrated, he halfheartedly punches the back. Vince reappears with a blanket and a pillow.
˝Here.˝ He throws both items at Rody. ˝Please don’t break my couch and try to not die. ˝ With that, he disappears. Rody guesses he’s probably going to sleep too.
… If he even sleeps. The eyebags under his eyes point to the opposite, but who is Rody to judge?
He lets himself fall asleep on the rock-solid couch. He’s sure it’s just there for decoration and not meant to be sat, or much less slept on. Still, he’s grateful to have a warm place to stay.
.
.
.
He’s hot, unbearable so. His nerves feel like they’re actively getting fried. Opening his eyes, the sight of an unfamiliar coffee table greets him instead of his cluttered wooden one. This one is triangular and neat. He notes that falling on the edge of that could kill him.
When he looks up, he remembers where he is. Vince’s apartment. Right.
Standing up proves to be a herculean task. With immense effort, he starts to stumble towards Vince’s bedroom.
He’s in desperate need of some meds.
...or a hug. But he pushes that thought to the back of his mind.
Upon successfully locating his friend(?)’s bedroom. He faceplants into his bed. It’s so nice and comfortable, especially compared to the cinderblock he’s been sleeping on.
He absentmindedly inches closer to the source of coldness in the bed, until he can press his forehead against it. Much better.
Said source suddenly disappears from him. He lifts his head, frustrated. When his sight clears, he comes face to face with his boss.
˝Lamoree, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? ˝
˝Come back, you’re cold. ˝
Vince furrows his brows, reaching out to touch Rody’s forehead.
˝That’s nice. ˝ The waiter sighs contentedly.
˝Jesus Rody, you’re burning up. Wait here. ˝ And the soothing cold is gone again. Rody thinks this is what purgatory must be like. He wonders what he did to deserve this.
After what feels like an eternity Vince is back, armed with a wet towel, pill and a glass of water.
˝Swallow this. ˝ Rody obeys. Vince could’ve fed him arsenic and Rody couldn’t care less. He’s been so kind to him. Even his cooking tasted fine.
The feeling of the cold, wet towel on his forehead is heavenly.
˝What am I going to do with you? ˝ There’s no bite behind the words. He ruffles Rody’s slightly damp hair. ˝I’ll be in the living room if you need me. ˝ Vince turns to leave, but a hand on his wrist stops him in his tracks.
˝Don’t go. ˝ Rody is doing his best impression of a kicked puppy.
˝I don’t want to get sick. Let go, Rody. ˝
˝It’ll be fine. Please? ˝
˝If you say a singular word about this, you’re fired. ˝ He crawls back into bed. Opting to ignore Rody latching onto his back.
˝Thanks, Vince. ˝