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⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Vincent Charbonnue is a man of his word
Vincent Charbonnue is a man of dignity, prestige.
Vincent Charbonnue is a man of routine, consistancy, reliability.
Vincent Charbonnue is a man.
His name is Vincent Charbonnue.
“Chérie?” His name is Vincent Charbonnue and he is a man.
Vincent Charboonue is a highly acclaimed chef. He has 9 chefs working for him. They have names, he doesn’t bother to differenciate them by that though. For all he knew they were a monolith; a hivemind of sorts.
They did what they were told, the were good at what they did, they chopped vegetibles, they tenderized meat, they stirred pots and they called him Monsiur and sir and Chef.
They were reliable, and- as begrudgingly as he liked to admit it, perfect.
His name is Vincent Charbonnue. He owns La Guele De Saturne. His perfect, controlled haven. The kitchen knives and diners chatter, the sizziling of oil and the hum of electricity, the bell chimes and the footsteps, all a methodical symphony he carefully orcastrated to perfection.
Everything was perfect, clinically so.
His name is Vincent Charbonnue and everything is perfect.
So this- this mess, these barbed wires in his throat, the thick, nauseating air, this borderline sanguinary sight.
This is not real.
None of this could be real.
He is Vincent Charbonnue and he is a man.
There was a woman in the mirror; and its not Vincent
“You’ve been awefully quiet, did you not like the dress?”
That thing was clearly a- a Dokkaebi of sorts; because she was dead. She couldn’t be moving! How could she be moving? He’d been thourogh, dissected her, removing every trace left behind. How could Rody not tell? Sure- it was humanoid- but wrong- afterall, the hips were a tad to wide, the cheeks a tad to soft, the shoulders a tad to slender.
The lashes
The nose
The breasts
God- even the eyes- they looked hollow; unholy. Those eyes could not belong to someone who was human.
It was all so clearly fake. so obviosuly wrong.
Why couldn’t he see it? Why was he acting like everything is normal.
How could he not see that it was all so wrong
“Is it too tight? Or maybe too girly? You’re probably not used to it since you’ve been dressing like a man for so long, I saw it and thought you might like it,”
“It’s...expensive,” Vincent watched as the woman in the mirror muttered, and he watched as it looked straight forwards, towards the Rody he could feel standing behind him, his excitment palliable. Funnily enough, he was busy watching Mirror Rody whose eager face was plastered with a wide grin. He though it would be fitting for the woman to recirocate it. So, she did, albiet rather sheepishly.
“Only the best for you, my love,” He felt Rody wrap his arms around him and place a kiss on his earlobe. Mirror Rody did likewise to the woman. Mirror Rody then lunged forward, grabbing Vincent by the arm, the woman just stood there in shock as she was spun around.
And then she was gone.
Vincent hoped he never had to see that fake again.
“Hey- is something up? It’s okay if you don’t like the dress you know,” Rody smiled more softly this time, that god-awefull, tachycardia- inducing smile. And Vincent wished he never had to see him again, either.
“Remember, no secrets between us?”
And secrets were just lies by ommisson, and for as long as Rody believed the avatar of his delusions lived on in Vincent, there were plenty secrets still left between them.
They say the truth is a cruel thing. And Rody Lamoree has already faced enough cruelty in his lifetime.
So when his heart had practically torn itself out of his chest, splattering on rotten flush, arteries twisting and pulsing around the carcess of her, and he’d placed her onto the next best thing that would take him, the one good thing out of his long, utterly miserable life; his previous god being unable to stomach his devotion. But he’d keep on praying to whatever will listen.
Keeping on loving whatever could bare him.
And Vincent was a man who could handle alot more than what you could tell at a glance.
Vincent was a man who needed Rody to love him. Cherish him. Worship him.
Vincent was a man who’d accomplished so much, and, brazenly, thought he deseved likewise.
Vincent was starving and Rody was willing to serve himself on a silver platter. The only issue is when he looks down he sees her reflection on it instead.
Rody wanted to do this for her.
And Vincent was never one to be above lying.
Vincent was eating away at Rody, he knew that, he savored it. But this phyrric charter gnawed at him also.
Vincent charbonnue is a man with a steady life, a steady job, a steady income and was a world renowed chef.
He was always told he was lacking love in his craft. But Vincent was never one to have something missing. he made sure of it.
Vincent charbonnue was starving. His flesh starved for worship. He needed a votary to collapse at his alter. To consume.
And there he came. The avatar of all that his craft lacked. On his hands and knees. Begging for a job. The security only Vincent could provide.
Rody Lamoree needs Vincent. But he does not love him. He loves the woman in the mirror.
He’d found out about her at the dinner party, after having known him for only a month. Vincents shamefull secret. His dirty little secret. One he swore he’d killed. He killed her. Didn’t he?
Vincent was willing to do anything to make sure no one found out.
He’d shoed them all away, and, knife in hand, tentivly walked towards the bedroom.
His most devistating mistake.
Rody saw the knife, and whispered into his neck, “I’m not going to tell anyone,”
Then had kissed him.
And if his sin wasn’t enough to damn him, this surely did.
He wasn’t sure how he’d found out. He didn’t bother to ask. He didn’t want to hear about her. Her mauled body, sad eyes and face that didn’t fit.
Rody scouring each peice and tried to semble it from scratch, peices were missing, having latched on and prompty washed off the butchers knife. She was so wrong. her nose had been flatted, her ribs jutted out wer there wasn’t a sufficent amount of flesh to cover it, her eye sockets were empty and her hair matted with the viscous, nauseating crimson. Said hair was the only thing to grant her any semblance of modesty, but that blasphemous carciture was undeserving of worship anyhow.
Yet Rody still prayed. Prayed to her, to Vincent who wore her skin.
Vincent hated the woman. But he wasn’t above using her to get what he wanted.
Rody loved her, every form of her. Even as the host of a parasite. He was willing to do anything for her.
And Vincent wanted to be loved so much he was willing to pretend.
Rody worshiped at his alter but mutterd her name in prayer.
Oh well, he could always tune those bits out.
His offerings were beutiful. Each little peice of himself, plated before him; and how could Vincent hate the athame that had given him Rody too?
He took the carcesses peices and welded it to his skin, laying Vincent down in devotion and attatching each bit with endearment that made his head hazy and his heart full.
The only thing of his that’ll ever be full.
But when he looked in the mirror to see the diety Rody had devoted himself to, the temple he’d decorated in crimson and lace, he could only find himself writhing in disgust. A crimson prison of body and blood. A flesh cage for maggots to devour, adore.
And Rody was one fucking little maggot.
And Rody fucking adored her. Adored him, in a way.
It was his alter Rody worshiped at.
He worshiped him.
Rody needs him and worships him and soon he’ll get him to love him.
The lovers sat on oposite ends of the table. Rody had cooked him something, knowing full well he couldn’t enjoy it...
...the woman, on the other hand.
Every now and then Vincent would feel bad for lying to the man. He wanted to tell him the truth, simply to ease his guilty consiousness rather than anything to do with how he would feel about it.
Just this morning he’d resolved to finally tell him.
Or atleast...
As Rody clasped his hands in his own, elbows touching the table (mother wouldn’t approve, would she?) He held Rody’s gaze as he stared at him in adoration.
Seeing that lop-sided, shit-eating grin of his, he realised, if only a little bit, that he loved this man too,
and he didn’t want to break his heart. To tell him that the love of his life was not the person he was with now, that she was dead...
...He’ll tell him next time
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺