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Manon was screaming. She was screaming somewhere in the building and Rody couldn’t get to her. He was running up stairs, kicking down doors, looking all around him but the weird maze of kitchens and fancy dining rooms remained empty. Empty and never ending. How long had he been running? He wasn’t sure anymore.
“MANON,” he yelled, “I’M COMING, WHERE ARE YOU?!” Rody yelled, his voice echoing eerily. No reply.
He turned a corner and looked down an unnaturally long halfway, with a dusty purple carpet and framed food reviews hanging on the walls. At the end of it was a heavy looking metal door. There were banging and muffled cries of help coming from behind it. He wanted to run towards it, but his feet felt frozen to the ground.
But he had to. If he didn’t act something terrible would happen to Manon he was sure of it.
He took a step forward and fell through the floor.
Rody woke up with the distinct feeling of terrifying weightlessness. A loud gasp escaped him as he sat up far too quickly, head spinning.
“Rody? What are you doing?”
He turned to the sound of the icy voice and locked eyes with a grave looking shirtless man. Who was currently lying next to him. In a bed. In Vincent’s bed.
Oh there it was, he remembered now. Tied up in the freezer, teetering on the edge of panic, telling tales of possible love stories. How he’d gotten himself into this mess.
“How did I get here?” he mumbled, although the real questions he wanted to ask were;
What happens next? What will you do to me? Am I safe?
The body next to him shuffled slightly. An involuntary shudder travelled up Rody’s spine. Something about not being able to properly see Vincent in the dim lighting made him feel far too vulnerable. Like he was stranded belly side up.
“You passed out and I carried you here,” Vincent raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him, as if Rody had done so on purpose. The sentence even sounded like it was supposed to end in a disapproving sigh that had been consciously removed.
Rody nodded even though he wasn’t sure the small movement was visible, and slowly laid back down feeling tenser than ever. This was not okay. The idea of Vincent touching his unconscious body made bile rise in his throat.
What this did new… Relationship, even mean? Was Vincent going to touch him? Could Rody even tell him no?
A pale hand reached out to brush some stray hair out of his face. The gesture was gentle, and still he had to suppress the urge to flinch away. And gentle was the wrong word, Vincent was never gentle he was measured.
He closed his eyes and tried to relax. He had to be okay with this, he had to or Vincent would realize how far fetched his lie had been. Because he knew it was impossible. He couldn't forget the feeling of cold necklaces and coarse ropes against feverish skin.
“Did you have a nightmare?” the familiar monotone voice asked him.
He blinked his eyes open. Vincent was but a few centimeters away from his face, eyes searching him intently.
Rody made a non committal noise, while trying to figure out if he could get away with inching back a little.
“Was it about Manon? You were calling her name in your sleep,” the hand was back, slowly carting through his cobber locks.
Was there jealousy, in Vincent's voice somehow? Maybe he was overthinking this.
“I can’t remember,” Rody lied, shrugging half heartedly under the blanket. Noticing only then he was still in his uniform, thank god, he was still in his uniform.
The hand continued, measured, petting his hair. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it filled him with unease nonetheless.
The nightmares could become a problem, Rody thought. What else could he say in the dead of night? What else might give away his weak deception?
…Speaking of weak deception.
“I don’t believe you mon amour,” Vincent bared his teeth in the approximation of a smile. One long arm suddenly reached over, snatching Rody by the waist and quickly pulling him flush against Vincent’s body. Rody didn’t say anything as he was suddenly pressed against the hollow of Vincent’s neck. He prayed his beating heart wouldn’t give anything away.
There were two hands now, he noted, one firmly buried in his hair and one stroking his back.
He was still wearing his uniform and that was something to be thankful for.
“Would you like to hear how she died? Would that make it better?” Vincent mumbled quietly, a quiet sort of anger behind the words.
What sort of right did he have to be angry? Rody thought, right before dread began pooling in this stomach.
“Don’t, please” Rody gasped, attempting to pull away. He wouldn’t- He couldn’t hear how she died. Selfishly, but he couldn’t bear to know.
The hands stilled.
“She didn’t suffer,” the murderer said, seemingly annoyed at his reaction. “And I’d have you know it was a very efficient manner in which I- Rody, are you crying again?”
And he was, crying, into the crisp white bed sheet. Because why was he here, if Manon was cut up in pieces? What justice was there in that?
Somehow, he was expecting to be chastised. Maybe hit. He curled up tightly and squeezed his eyes shut. Silently hoping Vincent didn’t care, hoping he’d leave him be, hoping he’d let him leave.
“Rody, look at me,” a hand was loosely gripping his chin now, tilting it upwards.
He didn’t want to see.
“Rody,” Vincent’s voice was slightly more forceful now. Rody blinked his eyes open. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, love. Don’t be idiotic,” cool, cracked lips pressing against his forehead. “What reason would I have to hurt you, hm?”
Rody wanted to scream. He had no guarantee Vincent wasn’t going to get bored of him and slit his throat in the middle of the night. Vincent held all the power. Vincent was dangerous.
And Vincent had no idea how deep the knowledge of Manon’s death was cutting. Or maybe he knew exactly how deep, and that was why he insisted on taunting him like this.
The tears were flowing more freely now, choked sobs wracking his body as the comprehension of his dire situation set in once more. He was so powerless.
Vincent laughed hoarsely, like one might laugh at an overtired toddler pouting. He dragged him closer, effectively burying Rody’s face in his chest, muffling his weeping.
It felt patronizing, it felt frustrating, it felt- good. Comforting even.
That was really the worst part, Rody thought as he breathed in the smell of Vincent’s deodorant. Tiny kisses pressed into his hair. Calloused hands slipping under his shirt to stroke his back. Soft mumbling in his ear.
Why was he slowly relaxing into the arms of a monster? What did that say about him?
Perhaps his brain was just acclimating, he reasoned. False security seemed preferable to constant fear.
Or perhaps he was just losing his mind.
Rody wished to pass out again. He didn’t have to this time.
His body soon became heavy, leaving him limp in the smothering embrace.
Vincent smiled in the dark, enjoying the feeling of holding someone. He couldn’t remember the last time… Well, there had been Manon of course.
He wrinkled his nose. She’d been clingy and smelled of flowery shampoo and hairspray. She’d been like a doll, or a painting. Pretty and unreal, dull and inanimate from the start.
Not like Rody’s blend of sweat and copper, adrenaline and dust. He pressed another kiss to his curly, slightly matted hair to get his point across. Real, alive, breathing, warm, so full of emotion, so full of fire. His.
Then he closed his eyes and sank back into yet another night of dreamless sleep.
…
Rody creaked open an eye, peering up at his sleeping captor. Vincent's breathing was slow and even.
Carefully, he began to extract himself from the entanglement of limbs, pausing multiple times to take deep steading breaths.
Finally, he was able to rise from the bed, thanking the heavens when it didn’t creak. His instincts wanted him to sprint to the door, but he couldn’t risk the noise. Not to mention, he needed plausible deniability if anything went wrong.
He bent down, took off his shoes and padded across the floor. Once in the hallway he took up a steady pace, heart in his throat, pulse deafening in his ears. Would Vincent hear the front door closing? Did he have time to call the police? Could he hide at his apartment or would Vincent come find him?
Nearly tripping over the hideous rug in the living room, he stumbled the last few steps and reached the front door. A disbelieving smile took over his features. He was making it. He was actually making it. Eagerly, his hands fumbled around the smooth surface of the door until he reached the handle, pushing down with great force-
Only to find it locked.
Vincent’s front door was locked. From the inside. Rody suppressed an exasperated groan or perhaps another crying fit, and softly thunked his head into the doorframe.
He was fucked. He was going to die here. That or slowly rot away while Vincent’s roaming hands ruined the last of his dignity. He wasn’t actually sure what fate was worse anymore.
The dull thud of feet hitting the floor could be heard. Vincent was awake.
Rody’s breath hitched. It was time to go back, slip under the covers and mumble an apology. He’d just been to the toilet, no reason to go looking. Of course he wasn’t going to leave.
His eyes roamed over the ornately decorated room. A set of shiny, glinting kitchen knives caught his eye.
He could go back.
He could.
…
“Rody~” Vincent sing-songed lazily trying to keep the vague frustration out of his voice. He didn’t particularily like waking up to an empty bed. But alas, the poor man was probably cowering in a corner somewhere.
“Come back to bed Rody. We’ve been over this,” he checked the bathroom. No sign of his waiter. “It’ll only get worse the longer you stay away,” Vincent huffed, pinching his nose bridge between two fingers.
“Rody, come on don’t be so childi-”
The word died on his tongue as he stepped into the living room, a strange sight meeting his eyes.
Rody was seemingly in the process of throwing himself halfway over the kitchen counter. He’d grabbed hold of his prized carbon steel Kikuichi knife. Pulling it off the wall he frantically stumbled back, brandishing the sharp blade in front of him like a sword.
“Don’t…Don’t move,” Rody said wearily, forcing his voice into something resembling determination.
Vincent snorted, suppressing a slight chuckle.
“Are you going to kill me Rody?” he asked, unbothered, leaning forward on the kitchen island. Still wearing nothing but black sweatpants and a stoney expression.
“...If I have to,” Rody swallowed heavily and took a step towards the door.
“And do you?” Vincent slowly took a step closer, rolling his shoulders, “Have to?” he quirked his head, a light smile, or maybe a sneer, tugging at his mouth.
“Unlock the door. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone what happened here,” he tightened his grip on the handle, keeping his arm from shaking.
“Oh but Rody,” he tsked, taking another step forward, “Where will you go? Back home, to your crummy apartment? No job, no prospects, no one to call…” he was steadily moving forwards, and Rody was struggling to keep his eyes on him while taking steps backwards.
“It would still be better than this,” he hissed defiantly, jutting his chin up.
“Would it? Love, be honest with yourself. Manon is dead, who do you have left? I know you’re angry with me, but I adore you. I could love you like she never could,” he was too close now, and smiling, white teeth in the darkness, eyes practically sparkling.
“I’ll never forgive you. For what you did to her. Don't- DON’T! Don’t come any closer,” he could hardly breathe.
“Do you need to forgive me, to be loved by me? You’ll learn to live with it. Nothing you can do will change the fact she’s dead,” Vincent would be touching him if he reached out his hand. Rody backed away along the wall.
“It- It’s not fair. You- You need to be held accountable, you killed a person Vince,” the knife felt too small against Vincent's steadily approaching solid body.
Could he do it? Could he stab him if it came to it?
“Fairness. Does that really mean anything in the long run? I mean, let’s say you get out, call the police, I go to prison,” the grin grew wider, more dangerous, “Or better yet, say you kill me. I bleed out on the floor, while you escape. Would it help you to know I’m dead when you go back to an empty apartment with the ghost of a lover in your voicemail? The world is not a fair place Rody,” the pale hands were reaching out, Rody swiped at them, missing by multiple inches. Vincent barely flinched.
He stumbled on the rug. The air was nearly knocked out of him as he hit the wall, but luck and fear kept him standing, somehow.
“You could kill me,” he wheezed, as he frantically tried to muster up the will to keep going, to see it through.
“You could kill me at any moment. You’re probably going to kill me, in a minute, for trying to escape. And for lying to you. I can’t- I can’t love you. You’re not stupid, you know I just said that to survive,” the tears were back, dripping, slowly down his face.
“You’ll learn to,” he replied mildly, “Haven’t you missed it? Missed someone who cares? Who will worship you, like you worship them? I hunger for you. And you, you want someone to give it all up for, don’t you? Manon couldn’t handle that, but I want you, Rody, I want all of you,” Vincent was half a step away. Rody was backed into a corner.
“I’m not going to hurt you anymore,” he reached out his hand, “Now give me the knife,”.
And he did. He put it in Vincent’s outstretched hand and slid to the ground with a sob. Because what was he meant to do? Stab him in the gut? Push past him and run? Better to just give it up now and take whatever punishment was coming.
Vincent turned on his heel, stalking back to the kitchen. There was a soft clinking noise as the knife was carefully put in its rightful place. Then a long pause.
Enough that Rody looked up from the curtains of his bangs. Vincent was observing him, silently, rhythmically tapping his fingers against the black countertop.
Then he left the room.
Rody somehow felt left behind. He’d expected Vincent to drag him back to bed or maybe console him. Something. Anything.
He reemerged a moment later. Expression unreadable, strangely somber.
“So,” he murmured quietly, as he crouched down in front of him, “What’ll it be?” and then he reached into his pocket and dangled the key in front of Rody’s wet face. An offering, a chanche at freedom.
This was where it was meant to end. With Rody snatching the key, running away, far away, where Vincent could never find him. And yet.
He was right. Somehow. He couldn’t- He couldn’t go back to an empty apartment. In some twisted way, no one but Vincent could understand what had happened here.
“You’d let me go out, right? I wouldn’t be stuck here forever?” he asked tentatively, as if he wasn’t quite sure the words were actually leaving his mouth.
Vincent broke into a sly smile, eyes scrunching up. He let the key fall back into his pocket.
“Of course not,” a cool hand covered in tiny knife cuts reached up and cradled Rody’s face. “Once everything has calmed down. You could keep working as a waiter if you wanted. Or not work at all. But you’re you own person. I’d let you go outside,” He wiped away the last of Rody’s tears.
“And we wouldn’t… You wouldn’t- I don’t know if I can, you know…” he mumbled, and Vincent narrowed his eyes a moment before surprising the both of them by letting out a tiny giggle. “Oh, no, nothing you don’t want,” and still, his grin is wolfish.
The hand was soothing. Rody felt guilty for enjoying it. But who was there to judge him?
“How do I know you won’t get bored of me?” It felt dumb to ask it, but was he only safe with Vincent as long as he was of interest to him? Had he done the same with Manon?
Vincent was full on laughing now. A deep, slightly condescending laughter.
“How could I get bored of you mon chéri? I’ve never-” Vincent paused a moment, looking intensely into his eyes, “I’ve never felt like this before,” and Rody wasn’t quite sure if the look in Vincent’s eye was adoring or hungry but it wasn’t… It wasn’t unpleasant to be looked at like that. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like that, not even Manon.
Maybe he had already lost his mind.
“Je vous aime,” Vincent whispered, almost matter of factly, and pressed another kiss to Rody’s forehead. Then, without warning, he scooped him up and carried him back to the bedroom in quick determined strides.
Rody was shaking slightly as he was carefully deposited on the bed. There was a growing headache behind his eyes, and the marks from where the rope had been were beginning to turn yellow and green.
The bedroom was slowly being illuminated by the sunrise outside. Vincent pulled the heavy curtains closed. Unbuttoned Rody’s dirtied vest and shirt, switched it out for a soft cotton T-shirt. And when all was done, he laid down and Rody pressed his face to the crook of his neck.
It felt good. It was terrifying.
“Are you still scared?” Vincent asked, not unkindly but still with that neutral sort of expression he usually wore.
Rody wasn’t entirely sure anymore. Too much had happened in too short of a time span.
“I’m scared of- I… Don’t hurt me,”
“I won’t hurt you,”
“And… And no more meat,”
They both knew what it meant.
“No more meat,” Vincent nodded slightly.
Rody sighed and let the rest of his stubborn resistance melt away.
“Don’t leave me,”
Vincent smiled then.
“I won’t. You’re safe. You’re mine now, love,”
Rody wrapped his arms around the murderer of his lover, and clung to him for dear life. Vincent resumed stroking him, softly, reverently, maybe, maybe even gently. Like Rody was something to be careful with.
The guilt was gnawing at Rody’s insides. But he didn’t really care anymore. This was self preservation in a sense, he rationalized. This was comfort in a comfortless situation. No one would judge him.
He fell asleep, safe and warm.
…
Vincent held his lover close, tracing patterns in freckled skin. He could feel the muscle of Rody’s arms, shoulder blades, neck - the tiny bumps in his spine.
If he had to quickly sever the appendages from the larger body he would cut here, he dragged a finger over the joint of his upper arms.
Not that he would, of course. But it was fascinating, having someone so alive let him come so close. Having someone find comfort in his embrace.
He would take good care of him, he promised himself. For Rody and Rody only, he would learn how to be gentle and patient. He could never cut up something this beautiful.
It filled him with the same kind of calm that came with the kitchen.
He was in control. And now, it was even better.
Because Rody wanted him. Rody had chosen him. Rody needed him. He just needed a little help to see that. Like how Vincent had needed help to see he could love instead of consume.
And soon Rody might even love him back, in that all encompassing way of his.
All his. All Rody’s.