Archive of Our Own

-~RODY~-

For someone with a lot of money, it baffled Rody Lamoree just how sterile Vincent’s lounge room was. One would think he would be used to it now, after spending so long living with the man, but one would be mistaken. 

It was Vincent after all. Why would he ever be predictable?

Still, it was odd that even after all this time, he still felt so…out of place.

Like he didn’t belong. Didn’t deserve to be in Vincent's rich palace. Like he didn’t do enough. 

He didn’t, because Vince never accepted it. He would try and save up for something decent, only for the ravenet to turn him down, simply saying that ‘he didn’t need to try that hard’ and ‘anything is ok, if it’s you’. 

It was infuriating as much as it was endearing. At least he wasn’t practically killing himself over him, like he had with Manon. 

‘Would you be mad if I got you anything less than perfect?’

‘No…? I’d love you no matter what, you know that, right?’

‘Precisely. And vice versa.’

Stupid, incredible Vince and his stupid, inarguable logic.

The chef’s apartment was peaceful and quiet and boring in all the ways that made Rody twitch with restlessness, yet still all the ways that made it so unmistakably Vincent’s.

The dark, expensive floorboards that would probably cost everything Rody was worth just on the floor, the antique vases just existing, the priceless paintings just hanging there. Like they had a right to be here, in the weird and somewhat bothersome world of Vincent, like the ravenet viewed himself as deserving as a priceless porcelain doll. 

He probably is. Five-star chef, strikingly handsome, rich. They say that “Vince received all of life's lemons and ate them straight, somehow making heaven out of the hell he was given”.

Heh. 

‘Ate them straight’. Two things that Vince never did: Be straight, and eat.

Vince and his weird-ass nutrient smoothies. An abomination to the cullenry world, yet Vince still refused to eat anything else. He wondered what the food critics would say about that. They wouldn’t find out, though. Rody was the only one who knew. 

That thought made him smile.

Part of him thought that maybe the entire house was made specifically to mock the redhead, to laugh in his face at the fact that Rody would never have been able to afford such living accommodations if it weren’t for Vince. 

Vince, who had taken him in, Vince who had shown him love after Manon left. 

Even if he did feel out of place, he knew he would do anything for love. 

Even to a fault, many people told him. He tried to ignore it—after all, how could he love too much?! It made as little sense as the people saying Vince didn’t cook with love.

Even so…

The whole set-up felt in-your-face in the worst way possible, though Rody knew Vince meant no harm. It just seemed… soulless, at times. That was probably the root of Rody’s dislike of the deco: it was soulless. A house and not a home, where the furniture was for the smiles of others and not Vince’s own, where the sofa was hard and shallow (Rody knew from when Vincent had kicked him out of his bed a few months back), and where the plants were plastic or withered. The only alive section of his house was his kitchen, and boy, was it alive.

He was convinced that Vince would have married the kitchen, if it weren’t for him. 

He had woken up once at the early light of three fucking thirty in the morning, and Vince had been missing from his side. It felt odd, without the constant cooling presence of the chef, so naturally, Rody panicked. He had rushed down the hall. Vincent was probably not in his right mind, he thought, if his alcohol problem had anything to do with it. Which it usually did. However, he had made the mistake of forgetting that Vince was anything but normal, and well—He’d stumbled into the main area, only to find the ravenet toiling away in the kitchen with headphones in (RODY’S headphones, he might add), for no apparent reason other than ‘he felt like it’.

Fucking vampire.

The kitchen felt like the only part of Vince’s house that was actually alive and moving, not just a seamless prop in his weird, rich-y fantasy. 

Sometimes Rody missed his old apartment. 

Not a lot of the time, mind you—most things would beat his old messy hole, and living at Vincent’s was objectively better: the conditions and the company. He wouldn't give up Vince for anything, he knew.

The man who would insist that Rody eats three meals a day while starving himself, the man who would scowl when he meant to smile, the quiet, calm, grounding company that Rody had grown to love so much. The way he would go quiet when he was flustered, the way he would laugh, and the world brightened. No, there wasn’t much that made Rody miss his old life.

But now, lying on Vincent’s sofa, that was absolutely not plastic but still felt like it, staring up at the bright, sterile lights above, he did miss…the simple life before.

Even if only a little. 

Hazel eyes dropped to the empty spot beside him, the one that Vincent swore he would fill. 

“In due time”, he’d said, with a soft smile on his face. Not the fake, paparazzi smile, but the one he used for Rody. The genuine, small, pleasant smile the ginger had grown to love.

Rody whined. “Vinnnceyyyy, that's not fair! Can't we just like, order take-out or something? Please, it's been a long day.”

Vincent scoffed, his eyes looking down at Rody with a pity-masked hope. “Oh? But you have a five-star chef living with you? Wouldn’t it only be respectful to make use of the service when offered?”

“I’m not living with you for the food, dude. You're more than your achievements.” Rody frowned, hoping Vincent would take his word for it, knowing the man struggled with such expectations. 

Knowing he wouldn’t listen.

“Sides, you don’t always gotta cook, you know—”

“—Do you not like my cooking?” 

His voice was so flat it felt fake, like he was holding back emotion for fear of sympathy votes.

What?

Rody paused, looking up at him. The ravenet’s eyes were wide, his fists clenched into tight balls, and his dark, beautiful eyes not meeting Rody’s. His mouth pitched in an ever-lasting scowl that Rody knew by now to be masked, to be the face he wore because he hated vulnerability, to be the face that meant ‘I need your support.’

“Of course I do! Your food is the best in the whole of France!” He laughed, trying to brighten the mood.

Vincent narrowed his eyes, black voids snapping to hazel. “You don’t mean that.”

His tone was final, obsolete. Knowing. ‘There was no point in lying’. 

Rody moved to hold his hand. Vince stared at their hands together like he didn’t deserve it, making Rody’s heart ache. 

“I think your food is the most fancy and amazing thing ever, Vince. Yeah? Just coz I like fast food so much doesn't mean your cooking is shit. Just means that fast food will always have a special place in my heart because it's what I grew up on, you know?” He dragged his eyes up to meet Vincent’s, to find his face twisted from hesitation to disgust.

“Lamoree, that is the single worst encouragement speech I’ve ever heard in my life. Also, absolutely disgusting.”

He laughed a classic Rody laugh. “So you’ve told me.”

“I still would like to cook for you, though.” Vince sighed, breaking away from the other and walking towards the kitchen. 

“We can watch a movie together after, deal?”

Rody sighed. Didn’t seem like there was any getting out of this one. Vince was already cooking; he could hear him pulling out whatever the hell he needed to get started. 

And Rody knew better than to disturb Vince while he was performing his art. 

Whenever Rody tried to cook, something ended up on fire, and after he managed to burn the cereal last time, Vince banned him from ever entering the kitchen again. Which, hey, fair maybe, but still cruel.

“Fine,” he had called, and now, two and a half hours later, he was still here sitting on this stupid couch. 

And Rody was hungry.

“Art takes time,” his ass. He knew Vince—Vince could cook a gourmet meal in ten minutes. Vince could make a banquet in thirty. There was no reason for him to be taking this long, and Rody was getting. 

And hungry. Maybe a little hungry too, but that could be totally irrelevant.

Sides, it wasn’t his fault that his boyfriend cooked so good! Wasn’t his fault that his mouth was practically watering at the mere idea of what-ever-could-take-so-long-for-Vince-to-cook! He could imagine it now—rich in flavour, drenched in delectable sauce, just the right texture and oh—he needed whatever Vince was cooking.

He wasn’t missing that god-awful couch as he sat up, creaking against his weight. He couldn’t for the life of him fathom why Vincent still had that couch to begin with—he had enough money to buy another one, and literally any couch would be better than his current one. Seriously, he would even take his old rag of a sofa over this shit. 

He made his way into the kitchen, sliding on the polished floor with his scratchy socks. Vincent offered to buy him new clothes, but Rody couldn’t seem to let go of his old crappy ones. It felt like the last connection he had to his old house, and, well…

They were more comfortable than any old richy clothes anyway. 

He passed the lounge room and its uncomfortable quietness, sighing. He probably should be used to Vincent's house by now. It had been, what, a month? Two? Since he’d moved in. 

It was still kind of stupid that the only part he found good was Vincent himself. 

The ginger rounded the corner in time, looking over to lock eyes with his partner, and-

Oh. 

Oh.

Oh no. 

Vincent was…in a state. 

Rody’s breath hitched as his eyes locked on the ravenet, who was moving with such frantic speed that it was downright concerning. 

It was so weird, even more so because of how…wrong it was. How much of a red flag ‘Vincent panicking in his own kitchen’ was, not to their relationship but to his mental health.

Watching Vince cook was normally beautiful. Watching someone who you knew to be indifferent about almost everything actually enjoy an activity was one of the most captivating things on earth, especially if that person is your lover. Rody loved just…watching him. Feeling his brain slow down for once in his life to a normal speed, just letting himself make observations about little things. The way Vince’s hair moved gracefully as he did the same. His little smile when he knew he got something just right. The way he had to smell basically everything—because he couldn’t taste—in order to know if he was doing any good. How he would invite Rody in to taste test, and need to remind him that ‘tastes like heaven’ isn’t constructive criticism. Not Rody’s fault, he was a literal food god!

The why he seemed perfectly at ease with his craft, as if the world could end and he wouldn’t give a damn so long as his croissant turned out decent.

This…

This was not that.

This was panic. 

Distress. 

This was the most anxious Rody had seen Vince cooking. 

The most…perfectionist-y he had seen Vince ever.

He moved fast, too fast, flickering around the kitchen like he was some sorta wild prey, always on guard, always moving on. Instead of his usual calm focus, he wore an expression of pure fear. Everything he made never seemed to be enough for him. Every item that came out of the oven was soon disposed of. He worked so fast that he burnt his hand- something that Rody had never seen him do—and got more angry when he subsequently dropped the bowl of whatever he was making than he got hurt by the burn. 

“SHIT—” His voice clear and sharp, natural for the ravenet, yet it was…more. 

It was layered, like a thousand layers of sand collapsing at once. The bowl's contents had spilt onto the floor, making a mess of Vincent's clothes. Rody’s eyes widened, legs moving before he got a chance to think twice. 

“Hey, are you good—”

Vincent's eyes snapped to him, filled with the familiar poison from when they first met. Rody felt white fear flow through his veins. “Get. Out. Lamoree.” He practically spat the words out, a tinge of humiliation dusting his cheeks.

Rody creased his brow. “Vince? Are you ok?”

“I'm fine, Rody.” His tone was defensive, but almost too much so. 

Rody reconigned it as the tone he used to suck up embarrassment. 

The ginger sighed. “No, no, you're not.”

-~VINCENT~-

Vincent watched with poison in his eyes as Rody crossed the kitchen towards him. Every step felt like a welcome intrusion, Rody breaking through his walls yet again. 

Breaking the cycle, he’s pushing himself into. 

Cook. Check. Not good enough. Bin. 

It was a dangerous cycle, he knew from his early days as a chef. Days apon days in the kitchen, pushing himself to the brink of death just to prove that having no taste didn’t mean he couldn’t cook. His poor, poor best friend, having to taste test every monstrosity he made until eventually he learned the signs. 

What good food smells like, what good food looks like, sounds like, feels like. 

Not good enough. 

Rody kept walking forward, ignoring Vincent’s glare. 

He hated how Rody invaded his personal life. How he asked questions that were too personal for him not to care, how he seemed to genuinely want to be in Vincent's life. 

He hated how much he loved it. 

He’s still walking. 

He's going to find out. One way or another. He's going to look at the mess you made on the floor, and he's going to scowl in disgust. He's not going to want you anymore. 

He will hurt you. 

Rody wouldn’t.

He should. 

What are you, Vincent Charbonneau? A famous chef? Sure looks like it. Can’t even cook one dish. 

He blinked, and the walls seemed to press. The ravenet used to love this kitchen. It was the only real part of his house. He used to love spending hours here, experimenting with flavours he could only witness. 

It felt like free range, for once in his life. Free to do whatever he pleased with food, free from disappointment and expectations. 

It didn’t feel that way anymore. It felt suffocating. Every food scrap was a failure.

Every ingredient was depleted because of his frantic baking. 

Not good enough. 

Never good enough. 

Why couldn’t he be good enough? Why?

Why couldn’t he make one fucking dish with the mysterious ingredient of ‘love’?

He loved cooking. He loved the man he was cooking for. Did he not love enough? 

“Boys don’t love, Vincent, they admire. Loving and affection are for girls.”

The lies of his childhood. Lies, but they still burned their way into his consciousness.

What kind of chef was he? One that couldn’t cook without love. A stupid prospect, he had found at first, but he saw what food ‘cooked with love’ did to Rody’s face. Made it twinge with pleasure, with joy, with happiness. He had watched as a sort of comfort flashed in his lover's eyes, unlike anything Vincent had ever seen. 

He needed to make Rody feel that way. 

The dish needed to be perfect.

Otherwise, Rody would think he didn’t love him. 

It needed to be perfect.

UGH. FUCKING—Fuck, his hand hurt.

The burn glowed red hot.

He didn’t look at it. 

It didn’t matter; a necessary scar of the trade. 

It wouldn’t be the first, or the last. 

The mess at his feet was more daunting. 

Father had always hated it when he made messes.

He could hear his voice. “If you wanna be a chef, start acting like it! No woman would want a man who can’t clean up after himself!”

Shit…let it go, Vince. That was so long ago. Move. On—

He could feel the mask he worked so hard to maintain slipping.  

He snapped it back up, doing the first thing that came to mind: glaring once again at Rody. 

Vincent hoped the other knew he didn’t mean it. That it was just a default emotion. 

That he did love Rody, no matter how that love presents itself

How is he supposed to know you love him if you can't even cook decent? 

“No, no, you’re not…” Rody’s voice cut through his haze. 

Grey eyes snapped up to meet hazel, the poison on his tongue so strong it almost stung. 

“You're not wanted here. I am not burning the fucking water—”

Get out, Rody. Stop. 

He’s going to think you're crazy. 

Obsessive. 

He’s going to hate you. 

Can't.

Even. 

Fucking

Cook

With

Love. 

“Hey, relax, I'm not going to cook anything—” He laughed cheerfully. To cheerfully, but Vincent wasn't going to be the one to break it to him.

Vincent blinked, and Rody was right there. In front of him, looking down at the mess. 

A wave of panic washed over Vincent. 

Pleasedontcommentpleasedontcommentpleasedont-

“Whatdigya spill?”

FUCK—

“The sauce.” He kept his tone flat, uninterested, hoping Rody would take the hint and move away. 

He didn’t, because it was Rody Lamoree Vince was talking about, and of course, the guy couldn’t take a fucking hint.

He didn't, and maybe Vincent was kind of relieved. 

Maybe Rody made the kitchen feel more like his own again, and less like a self-inflicted prison. 

Maybe he broke the heavy silence. 

And maybe Vincent hadn’t known how much he had needed that silence broken until Rody walked in. 

Instead, the ginger just reached for a wet sink cloth, beginning to wipe the contents of the béarnaise sauce Vincent had spent so long ‘perfecting’. 

Obsessing, more like.

Vincent stared at him for a second before sighing. “I can clean up my own messes, Rody.”

Rody just smiled up at him, with that stupid, perfect smile of his. “I can also clean up your messes, though.”

Vincent frowned.

"That is hardly an argument."

"It kinda is."

"It isn't."

"It absolutely is."

The kitchen fell quiet again, save for the soft sound of the cloth dragging across the tiles.

Rody didn't look disgusted.

Didn't look disappointed.

He just kept cleaning.

Vincent found himself staring.

"You're supposed to be angry," he muttered before he could stop himself.

Rody paused.

"...Why?"

A horrible laugh escaped Vincent's throat.

He gestured vaguely at the disaster surrounding them.

"The burnt food. The wasted ingredients. The fact that dinner is apparently never happening."

Rody looked around once.

Then back at Vincent.

"Oh."

His expression softened.

"Vince, I was worried about you. Not the food."

“Rody—”

“-OH SHIT, IS YOUR HAND OK?!” He yelled in typical Rody fashion, noticing the burn mark on Vincent’s hand. 

His heart twinged at the action. 

“Rody, it's fine, it's just a burn—”

“—OH MY GOD IS IT MEANT TO BE THAT COLOUR?!”

The ravenet pursed his lips, leaning down to clean the mess on his own. He shouldn’t acknowledge it. He knew it would hurt more if he did. 

It was easier to bury himself in his work, he found, than to treat the pain. 

It would go away, eventually. It always did. 

So instead, he focused on snatching the cloth from Rodys' hand, moving on with cleaning the stains on the floor. 

He could replace it, of course, money was never a problem anymore. But maybe it was easier to simply fix the mess than try to prevent it. 

Absently, he was painfully aware of Rody staring down at him in some kind of dismay. Like he was torturing himself. 

That…that wasn't what he was doing. 

The Vincent Charbonneau would never stoop that low. It would be humiliating. A disgrace to his name. 

He would not cry. He would not cry. 

Shit, his eyes stung.

Boys did not cry. 

“Boys do not cry.”

“Boys do not kiss other boys.”

“Boys do not show emotion.”

“Boys do not let others get the best of them.”

“Boys do not ‘love’. Love is for girls. Boys approve. Girls adore.”

“Are you a girl, Vincent?”

No. 

“You act like it. Act like a boy, a real boy.”

“No one will love you if you don't—

“Vin-? What are you doing?”

His eyes snapped back to Rody, glaring daggers.

“It's Vincent, moron. Not Vince, not Vincey, not Vin. V-i-n-c-e-n-t. Get it right, Lamoree.” His tone came harsher than he meant it to. 

He was cleaning up like some fucking girl.

Showing love like one. 

Loving a boy like one. 

He already failed his father at everything else—may as well hold in the tears. 

Like a real boy.

His knuckles were white with how tightly he gripped the cloth. His gut felt like it was going to come up, his insides contracting, and he could hear his breathing escalate. 

Shit, don’t you dare cry.

He would not cry. 

He would not cry. 

Don't you fucking dare cry, Vincent. 

His stomach twisted. Twisted with repressed tears, with hidden emotion, with buried pressure. He couldn’t cry. He needed release. 

He couldn't cry.

Breathe. The air entered too much and not enough at the same time

He couldn't. Breathing too shallow.

 Don't. You are not having a panic attack.

You are the Vincent Charbonneau. You do not have panic attacks because you burned your hand like a fucking schoolgirl. You grit your teeth and move on. 

You don't cry. 

You need release.

The kitchen tilted.

"Vincent?"

Rody was saying something.

He couldn't hear it.

Couldn't hear anything over the roaring in his head.

His pulse hammered against his skull.

His lungs burned, air cold and unwanted. He stopped breathing. Tears were made of H2O. One part oxygen. Tears couldn’t fall without air. 

Please.

His vision blurred.

Cry.

The thought appeared for half a second.

Just cry.

Just let it out.

Immediately—

Boys don't cry.

His throat locked. No air, no tears.

He swallowed hard.

The tears retreated.

Good boys don't cry.

Another breath.

Too fast.

Too shallow.

His chest hurt.

"Vincent, look at me."

Rody's hands were on his shoulders now.

Warm.

Steady.

Grounding.

Too much.

Vincent jerked away.

Not because he wanted to.

Because if Rody touched him for another second, he was going to break.

Boys don't cry.

Boys don't need comfort.

Boys don't fall apart.

Boys don’t cry. 

HE NEEDED RELEASE.

His father had repeated it so many times it had become law.

His stomach lurched violently.

Need release. No tears. Release-

The room spun.

He grabbed the counter.

White knuckles.

Locked jaw.

Water gathering in his eyes.

Don't.

Don't you fucking dare.

NEED RELEASE!

His body chose for him.

The nausea hit like a train.

Vincent folded over with a strangled gasp, barely making it to the sink before everything came back up.

The retching tore through him.

Painful.

Humiliating.

His entire body was shaking with the force of it.

Again.

Again.

Again.

And the worst part?

Even now—

Even now, with tears streaming from the strain and his chest aching and Rody hovering beside him—

He still wasn't crying.

Not really.

Because crying would mean admitting he was hurt.

Admitting he was scared.

Admitting he loved someone enough to lose them.

So instead, his body found another way.

His hands shook.

His stomach emptied.

His vision swam.

And somewhere beneath the ringing in his ears, the voice that sounded like his father whispered its approval.

That's better.

Be sick.

Be angry.

Break your own body if you have to.

Just don't cry.

The thought hit Vincent harder than the nausea ever could.

Because despite everything—

Despite the panic clawing through his ribs—

Despite Rody's hand hovering inches away—

A part of him still wanted that approval.

And he hated himself for it.

“Shit—are you ok?” Rodys voice. So warm. So alien to Vince. 

A hand on his back, and he didn’t jerk away because he needed it. Something, anything, grounding him. 

“Hey, hey, I’m here, hey, you're ok—” He smiled a weak smile. 

“There are more words in English than ‘hey’, Rody.” He choked, voice beat and broken and stinging with dry poison and stomach acid.

Rody touched his back, gently, rubbing soothing circles on his shoulder blade. “Je te tiens, tout va bien, tu vas bien.”

I got you, it's ok, you're fine. 

He felt something rush to his heart when Rody used the French the redhead barely knew. A language Vincent knew to be drowned in insults and expectations, used against him in the best way possible. 

He sighed, straightening himself as Rody wrapped his hands around Vince's waist, like he needed to be taken care of. He didn't.

…

Did he?

It sent waves of warmth through his veins, a contentment so strong and endearing. To allow himself to be vulnerable, not something he did enough. 

But he was a grown man, not a little girl; he didn’t need Rody. 

“Rody, lâche-moi. Je dois nettoyer.”

The ginger giggled against him, resting his head against Vincent's shoulder. “Mmm, you're cute when you speak French, mon amour.”

The ravenet raised an eyebrow, “Well?”

“Well, I don't know that much French, so—”

“Let me go. I need to clean.”

Rody hummed, sending vibrations through Vincent's spine. He still felt queezy, though a little better without that food in him. 

Vincent didn't like eating. It was a strange, unpleasant feeling that didn’t settle in his stomach. Just horrid textures and temperature. A reminder of the flavour he couldn’t experience anymore.

“Mm, will you let me help you clean?” Rody held him tighter, like he might run away if he didn’t.

God, Rody loved too much. Loved to a fault, and Vincet was using him as did Manon. Letting the ginger love him like his, not even being able to provide a loving dinner. He didn’t deserve Rody’s love. The amount of affection the ginger showed, he didn’t need it, and he had been doing fine without it, until Rody just had to enter his life, and now he wasn’t sure if he could live without it. 

Still. He was the chef, and Rody was the client. Rody didn’t need to clean up his messes; that should be his job, and it would be improper to assume otherwise. He reached to move the big lug off him, wincing as his hand stung in protest. 

God, how did he manage to burn himself? When was the last time he did that?

“Rody, you have no purpose in helping. It’s my mess. Just…wait for dinner?” His boyfriend was hungry, he knew, as he always was. Never got fed enough living in the dump he called an apartment, and now craved food constantly. 

Vincent just wished he could give the ginger something made with love. 

Something that would make his face scrunch up in adoration. Something that would feel real to him, in the alien world of Vincent’s rich and famous life. 

Everything he cooked was objectively perfect. He knew this. He had heard it again and again, accompanied by an art critic rolling their eyes and saying ‘all it needs is love’. 

Vincent was finding that cooking with love was proving to be one of the most challenging culinary advancements he would make since he lost his taste.

Rody brushed Vincent's hand off his shoulder, huddling a little closer for exactly 20 seconds, before yelping. “AH! I FORGOT ABOUT YOUR HAND! IS IT OK?” He grabbed Vincent's burned palm, holding it tight as Vincent tried not to wince. 

Shit that hurt.

Don't cry. 

Pain is necessary for improvement. 

Boys.

Don't.

Cry. 

“It is fine, Lamoree.”

His lover just shook his head aggressively. “No! No, it's not! Look at it, dude! That is like the definition of ‘not ok’! He proceeded to poke it with his thumb, sending tendrils of white-hot pain up Vincent's spine. 

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck—

He wished Rody were more sensitive sometimes, but deep down he knew it wasn’t because he didn’t care—it was simply because he was too idiotic to realize that maybe, pokeing a wound isn’t the best way to heal it (shocker, right?!)

“Leave, Rody. I should continue cooking,” He tried again. 

Lies, all lies. He didn't want Rody to leave, not really. Rody was the only thing in this stupid kitchen that felt alive. He shouldn’t continue cooking, because he knew how dangerous that was. 

That he would just keep going and going with no prevail, because nothing would ever be good enough. Nothing that he made would ever make Rody’s face twist up into pure bliss; nothing would be cooked with love.

“Boys can’t love; they appreciate and provide. Affection is for girls.”

What kind of chef was he if he couldn’t even make one fucking dish for his fucking partner?

What kind of lover did that make him?

“Vincent.” He heard Rody behind him, his tone so full of affection and love that it made a warmth spread across Vincent, and the pain dimmed a little. “You can’t just keep pushing yourself to death like this, ok? It’s not healthy, and you know it. You're hurt. Let me help you.”

‘I don't need help. I can take care of myself. I don't need you’. The words got caught in his throat, refusing to make their way out. Words that he knew full well weren’t true, words that he had said again and again, because a lot of the time it seemed like the only way to give himself a break.

A break from the constant help he didn’t deserve or know how to receive, a break from the expectations that he wants it. Wants the help that strangers give, though his whole life he had been taught not to accept help. 

Because accepting it would be admitting that he needed it. 

But here, with his hand stinging like a bitch and Rody—the man who had told him time and time again that he values Vincent, not just for his achievements but for his personality, not just for his food but for his company—he felt that guard slipping away. 

And for once in his life, Vincent just wanted to let go. To let himself be held and taken care of like he had witnessed others do to each other. So the words made their way back into his brain, and instead of pushing away like every part of him screamed to, he simply sighed into Rody, finally letting himself be cared for. 

Rody reacted instantly, like he always did. Closing his arms around Vincent, holding him close, holding him like he was worth it. 

“Shit—are you good?”

Vincent sighed. “No.”

‘No’, the word that held more weight than so many before it. A simple admitting of defeat. Rody held his hand, his touch simple and comforting, leading his hand over the sink.

Cool water made him almost shiver, sending shocks of pain down his spine. He endured it, though, like he always did. He endured it and pushed through because pain was only a necessary part of life, and he held in any reaction because he needed to be tough. 

But here, it was different. 

Rody hadn’t walked away. He hadn’t seen Vincent's mess on the floor or panic in the kitchen, and ran, as his father taught him, people would. He had stayed, and he had held him like he always did, even though Vincent could barely provide. 

He didn’t deserve Rody’s love. 

But by god, was he grateful for it. 

So even though he held in his tears, he let Rody into the brokenness of his mind, let Rody hold him because maybe he finally believed that Rody wouldn’t go away. The voice in the back of his head, the one that told him he needed to cook better, it didn’t go away. He could feel it eating at him from the inside still. But it was muffled, overcome by the need to just be in the moment, to appreciate Rody as he helped him. 

“How’d you burn yourself?” There was no mistaking the worry in Rodys voice as he continued to care for Vincent, no hiding the open cojcer. 

“Stupid mistake.” He answered, his voice tight. 

Miraculously, Rody didn’t push, only answering with a simple “Kay” as he reached to turn the tap off. 

The rumble of his lover's stomach brought him back to the real world, and the very real realization that Rody was hungry, had been hungry for a long time, and Vincent had still failed to produce any real food. The ginger apologized, of course, for the impoliteness, but his tone couldn’t mask his discomfort or hunger.

Vincent sighed, looking from the disorganized ingredients, so devoid of how he usually kept them, to the bin full of disposed food.

What was he going to do?

-~RODY~-

Vincent turned 180 to look at him properly, a monotone expression painted on his face. Rody knew it to be his default expression, so stark and honest it was stunning. And his eyes, so deep and soulful, were beautiful in their own way. 

Ahh, he was so cute! How goddamn lucky did he get?

“Ugh—apologies about the wait for the food.” He spoke carefully, eyeing down Rody like he was a bull in a china shop—which he supposed was pretty accurate for their situation. Rody, loud, colourful, too much in Vincent's orderly kitchen. Though his ‘orderly’ kitchen sure was looking a lot less orderly when all the food was everywhere, and the floor was littered with a mysterious mixture. 

Rody smiled, hugging him against the counter. Sometimes he worried that Vince only acted tough because he was the opposite, and that he didn’t understand the fact Rody wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. That he scowled because it was a safe emotion, just like the way Rody grinned because it was the easiest thing for him to compute. He held Vincent close, as if he understood why he was upset. 

He didn't. 

He rarely did, as Vince rarely told him.

But it was the thoughts and actions that counted, at least that's what he told himself. 

“How ‘bout we just get fast food, mon amour?”

Vince scowled, as he always did when Rody mentioned the most superior food source. Greasy burgers and fries were just so good! And nostalgic! Reminded him of the times he had been out on the street!

What fun memories, huh.

“No lover of mine is eating that slop if I can help it.” He cautiously put his arms back around Rody, painfully unfamiliar with hugs. It would be funny if it weren’t heartbreaking. 

“Mmmm, but I'm hungry!” He whined, holding Vincent closer. For a second, as Rody looked up, their eyes met, and oh wow. Vincent's eyes never failed to take Rody’s breath away. So deep, filled with so much raw emotion that was never present in the chef's eyes, it broke Rody's heart. 

He looked exhausted more than anything. Tired and stressed and maybe a bit embarrassed, though he still smiled a weak smile.

“Rody, I am a five-star gourmet chef. I make you food.”

There it was again. That expectation that just because Vincent was a chef, he had to cook, that just because he was renowned, everything he made had to be perfect. The expectation that it was his job—well, it was his job, technically—but his job in their relationship. The need to provide. 

God, how Rody just wanted to hold him close and tell him he didn't need to fight it. 

“There’s nothing wrong with going out every once in a while! Why don't we turn it into a date!”

Vince scowled. “Waste of money. I’m in the process of making your meal. There’s no need to—”

Vince’s voice broke off suddenly as the ginger pressed a kiss to his cheek, still holding his burnt hand. 

Smiling, he gestured weekly to the piles of discarded mise en place around them. “Vincey, I think you've finished the meal a couple of times already, haven’t you?”

The ravenet scowled. “You can't just kiss me to convince me, Lamoree, it doesn’t work like that—”

Giggling, Rody pressed another kiss to his cheek. “You sure about that?”

Vincent's eyes narrowed. “Come here, dimwit—” He snapped, pulling Rody up to kiss him on the lips. The ginger smile, floods of warmth flowing through him. Vincent’s lips tasted of wine and lemons, the only things the ravenet could taste—and only because they physically burnt him with fucking acid. He still found himself melting into it, as he always did, holding Vince as he pulled away. 

Rody raised an eyebrow. “Is there a reason you’ve been starting over and over for about two hours?” 

Vincent sighed. He sighed too much, Rody knew. He sighed, rolled his eyes and scolwed and never let himself be happy. 

“I am a chef, Rody. Art takes time—”

“—not this long. Baby. Be so for real. You can cook a fucking masterpiece in half an hour. The longest you have stayed in here before today was 1 hour, and that's because you had to make an entire goddamn banquet. What's going on?”

Vince looked like he would just shake his head and ignore the problem, like he always did. Sometimes Rody wondered if he was the problem, if Vince didn’t trust him. He didn’t know why. Why Vince had his walls built so high, why he couldn’t just open his eyes and see that Rody wasn’t going to leave, there wasn’t much he could do to make Rody leave. 

But he couldn’t do that. Not now. 

So he just locked eyes with his boyfriend, steady and calm like always. Except he wasn’t; he was breaking in the way Rody was convinced only he noticed, the quiet way, like he was holding back tears.

“Do you like my food, Rody?”

…

What?

The question was so simple. Stated dry as sandpaper. 

Yet Rody could see it in Vince’s eyes that it was a lot more than just a simple question. 

All his life, Vincent had strived to be the best. Had worked hard enough to rise to the top despite him losing his taste

Why does he need your approval so much?

“Of course! Who doesn’t like your cooking?”

“Does it taste bitter? Too dry?”

Rody blinked. Was—was this because of the offhand comments he had said before? So long ago. At a diner party, the one that he hadn’t been invited to as a guest but rather as a waiter. He had said something about Vincent's food being too bitter (which it had been, at the time, but it had gotten better.

A wave of guilt rushed through Rody. Surely that couldn’t be it, right? A single comment?

…

How low was Vincent’s self-esteem?

“Wha—no—I mean like, yeah, before it was a little bitter, but you've come a long way! Seriously, your food is some of the best things I've ever put in my mouth. Like ever.”

Vince chuckled slightly, and gosh, he looked stunning when he laughed. He didn’t smile often, much less laugh, but god, when he did, it was like a million pounds got lifted off his shoulders and he was content to just…breathe.

“Yeah, right.” Vince rolled his beautiful eyes, his perfect face looking even more so when he was happy. 

He wasn’t really laughing. He’s doing what you do. Laughing because he doesn’t know how to feel. You can see the way his gaze drops, almost sadly. The way he fidgets with his well-fitting clothes, deliciously snugging his striking frame. It looked almost suffocating, like a garment made to suppress him. 

But it was easier to go along than to confront him.

“Yeah, right! Vincey, your food is so good!” Rody smiled as well, if somewhat confused at the direction of the conversation. 

Vince’s tone dropped suddenly. “It’s not good enough, though, is it?” 

Ah. 

There it was. 

Rodys heart fell.

The tone drop. The slightly desperate way his voice strained. 

It’s not good enough. 

A statement, bathed in the certainty of someone who had known the fact for years. The statement of a person who had been told time and time again that he wasn’t good enough, that he couldn’t be good enough, only to push to the top. 

The smile had dropped off his face, replaced by a dark sullenness, an acceptance. That he couldn’t be good enough. 

Rody spoke softly, reaching to hold Vincent's hand once again. The pale one death gripped him as if he might run away. 

“What do you mea—”

“I still can’t do it, Rody.” His words were rushed, like if he kept them in for much longer, he might burst.

“Do what?”

Vince groaned, “I can't do it, and I don't understand how everyone else knows how to. I can't do it, and I don't understand why everyone needs me to. I can't do it because no one taught me to, and—”

“Vince, do what?”

“And—And I have to do it, though! I—I am required to! It is my purpose, and if I don't—”

“Vin?”

“You—You would leave me. And you would be right to. You deserve a woman who can care and cook for you, and I can’t do it still—”

“Vincent, look at me!” Rody raised his voice, caressing his partner's face so grey eyes met hazel. God, Vincent's eyes were equal parts stunning as they were breathtaking. Like an endless void, Rody swore he could get stuck in if he looked for too long. 

And shit, they were so heartbreaking at the same time. So wide and so desperate, like they were crying for help. 

He gently stroked Vince’s cheek with his thumb, as one might brush away the tears, yet the man in front of him let none slip. 

It made it even sadder. 

Who hurt you like this, Vince? Why won't you let me help you?

“God, are you ok?” The question slipped from his lips before he could overthink it. 

Vincent just stared back into his eyes, so desperate and suffering that it hurt Rody's chest. 

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Until finally something in Vincent seemed to crack, and the tears fighting for release finally fell.

-~VINCENT~-

He had always hated how tears felt when they fell, even before his father’s input. How his throat closed up and made ugly, wheezing sounds, how his heart tried to escape his chest, how the water fell hard out of his eyes. 

He expected to be rejected. It was what he had been taught. That boys don't cry.

“Boys don't cry, you're no son of mine!”

But maybe it was an insult to Rody to think he would do the same. No, the moment he felt everything break, he also felt…something else. Toned arms around him. Not strangling. Not threatening. Just…holding. 

Holding onto him like he might whiter away, like Rody knew how much he needed it.

A raw, ugly sob escaped his mouth, and Rody held him closer. “Mon amour? Are you ok? Vincey?”

Was he ok?

WAS HE OK?

No! No, he was not ‘ok’. 

He was fucking crying on the last person that was supposed to see him cry, he was ruining everything like he always did.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit—

“UAGH—Sorry—Rody—I—” His words were as broken as his resolve. 

“What? No, don’t apologize, I got you, mon amour—” And suddenly, strong arms were wrapped around his waist, and the floor was no longer beneath him. 

Shit—

“Lamoree, put me down!” he hissed, poison still leaking through despite the tears. 

“OKOKOK, Sorry,” he laughed, a classic Rody laugh, the one that always managed to warm Vince’s heart. Rody pulled back, looking at him with such admiration in his eyes, it made Rodys breath hitch. 

“So, what can’t you do, Vince?”

Rody leaned on his other body, hands wrapped around Vincent's waist, head looking up at him. Vincent was someone to be looked up to. 

Yet he still couldn’t even hold in his fucking tears. 

The tears fell down his face, shame and resignation for all to see. But Rody didn’t laugh. He just held Vince tight and caressed his face like he was made of diamonds or something worth keeping. 

It made his heart do confusing things. 

“Vincey? Mon amour? Babe—”

“Are you just going to call me pet names until I answer—”

“—Vincent Chanbonneu. What's going on?”

…

Oh.

…

God, that should not have affected him as much as it did. 

He could feel his face burn, heart rate quickening as he looked back at Rody with wide eyes.

No one—No—

No one had ever said his name, his full name, with love.

Shit.

He could just lie. Take the easy way out, pretend Rody never asked. It would be easier, so much easier.

But looking at Rody’s eyes, so full of open love and admiration, he knew he couldn’t. 

“I can’t cook with love, Rody.” Another tear threatened to fall, and instead of denying it, he let it, because he couldn’t be bothered to try anymore. 

Rody leaned in and kissed away the tear, because of course he did, and it sent warm flutters through Vincent's stomach. A warm sort of contentment. 

Love. 

“What do you mean?”

He sighed. “You know what I mean. You know that…that every food critic says it. I ‘lack the ability to bake with love’ and—” His voice cracked, locking eyes with Rody once more. God, his eyes were so gorgeous. Warm and hazel, like a summer forest with sunlight peaking through, buried in a magical kind of admiration and love unique to him. 

The words caught in his throat, terrified of humiliation or abandonment, but Vincent forced them out regardless.

“And if I can’t even cook with love, then how are you supposed to know—”

Deep breath. 

In. 

And out. 

Come on, Vincent, you’re better than this.

“Then how are you supposed to know how much I love you?”

….

The words hung in the air. Too vulnerable. Too much. He was always not enough or too much, and once Rody saw that, he would just leave Vincent. Rody stared back at him, something amidst shock or dismay or sympathy in his eyes, until abruptly—

Ah. 

Oh. 

And—

And Rodys lips were once again against his. 

Rody’s lips were soft and hard in all the right ways, warm and beautiful against his. Chapped from days of being out in the cold, but still warm enough to make him melt. They were loving, and the way he kissed was cherishing. It was so good it was almost overwhelming, and it almost made the tears still falling from his eyes stop. 

It made him stop trying to hold the tears from falling as Rody broke apart.

“Hey, no. Okay? I will always love you. I don't need your food to be the heaven-sent thing it is for me to wanna be your boyfriend, okay? I won't leave you.” He spoke so softly, hugging Vincent tight. 

He could barely hear Rody over the thump of his heartbeat as the weight of the redhead's words caught up to him. 

He loves you. 

He doesn't care that you can't cook with love. 

He doesn't care that boys don't cry.

He cares about you. 

Not your achievements. 

He loves you. 

Love. 

{this was the first drawing i did on my new art tablet lol}

“God, I love you, Ro—” He sniffed, wiping illegal tears from his face. Rody smiled.

“Forever the same. Now. Are we ordering fast food, or would you like me to help you cook?”

Vincent laughed a sharp bark, semi-close to his normal sarcastic one, but more clipped. “You? In my kitchen? In your dreams, Lamoree—”

“No, but seriously! If you don't think you can ‘cook with love’ —what is that even meant to mean, anyway—then how bout we cook together?”

Rody leaned forward as he spoke, hazel eyes bright with excitement. Like he'd just solved some impossible puzzle.

Vincent deadpanned.

“Rody, that literally has nothing to do with the issue—”

The ginger waved him off immediately.

“No, no, think about it! You love me, right?”

Vincent blinked.

What kind of question was that?

“...right.”

“Well, maybe if you cook with your love, you will also cook with love! Ya know?”

Rody grinned like this was the most brilliant idea ever conceived.

Vincent stared at him.

Then stared a little longer.

“That sounds like a potentially dangerous and downright idiotic idea-”

“Welp! Fast food it is then—”

Rody immediately turned as if to leave.

Vincent reached out without thinking, grabbing the back of his shirt.

“FINE!”

The word came out harsher than intended.

Rody stopped.

Slowly, a victorious smile spread across his face.

Vincent instantly regretted everything.

“If you promise you don't blow anything up.”

The ravenet pointed a warning finger at him.

Rody gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest.

“I’ll try my best<3”

“Fuck you mean, try your best! You will not destroy my kitchen—”

Rody giggled.

The sound bounced around the room, light and warm and impossible to be annoyed at for long.

“Okok, I promise.”

Vincent narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“Good.”

A beat passed.

Then Rody practically vibrated with excitement.

“Now! Teach me your ways, Chef Vincent!”

Cute.

The grin on his face could've powered a small city.

Vincent sighed.

Deeply.

Painfully.

Like a man accepting his fate.

God help his kitchen.

Vincent stared at him.

Rody beamed.

Vincent stared harder.

Rody somehow beamed even more.

“Lamoree.”

“Charbonneau.”

“You are incapable of following basic instructions.”

“Not true.”

“You once set cereal on fire.”

Rody pointed a finger at him.

“In my defence, nobody has ever actually explained how cereal works.”

“It is cereal.”

“Exactly. Complicated.”

Vincent closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, Rody was still standing there looking unbearably pleased with himself.

“Fine,” Vincent sighed. “You may assist.”

“Yes!”

“You will follow every instruction exactly.”

“Absolutely.”

“You will not touch anything without permission.”

“Of course.”

“You will not improvise.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

“You are lying to me.”

Rody grinned.

“I am lying to you.”

“Thank you for your honesty.”

“Anytime.”

Vincent rolled his eyes, but something warm settled in his chest anyway.

The kitchen still looked like a disaster.

His hand still hurt.

The voice in the back of his head still whispered that he wasn't good enough.

Yet somehow it all felt less suffocating now.

Maybe because Rody was already rummaging through cupboards despite being explicitly told not to touch anything.

“Rody.”

“Yep?”

“Put that down.”

“Sorry.”

“That's not even a cooking utensil.”

“I was curious.”

“It is a decorative bowl.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“Can we put snacks in it?”

Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose.

Against all logic, he felt himself smiling.

Just a little.

Maybe cooking with love wasn't some mystical ingredient.

Maybe it wasn't hidden in perfect technique or flawless presentation.

Maybe it looked like an idiot standing in your kitchen asking if an antique serving bowl could become a snack bowl.

“Come here, dimwit,” Vincent muttered.

Rody immediately appeared at his side.

“Yeah?”

“Wash your hands.”

“Ooo, are we starting?”

“Yes.”

“YES!”

Vincent watched him nearly sprint toward the sink.

For the first time all evening, the kitchen felt alive again.

-~RODY~-

Rody stared at the dish on the table. The dish that he had helped to make. HIM. It looked too good. 

Too good for something he helped make.

Probably the best piece of food he had ever laid his hands on, especially considering the fact that it hadn’t blown up, burnt, come out raw, or all of the above. Of course, Rody had barely really touched the meal, all things considered. Vincent was very strict about everything that came in and out of his kitchen, and everything that went down in it. Rody was only really allowed to mix to bowl and lick the spoon—though Vince warned him that it would taste bad, considering it was mainly just butter and vinegar. It had tasted bad, and Rody had been wondering how Vincent had managed to make such a thing. 

And then he remembered that he was also in the kitchen. 

And suddenly, it made a lot more sense.

Rody was slow, Vince was efficient. 

Vince was skilled, Rody managed to burn cereal. 

Rody preferred to… appreciate the little things, while Vince called him time-wasting and told him to stop licking the pan. 

And that it was ‘not a fucking caramel drizzle, it is literally vinegar, egg, and butter, Rody, stop licking the sauce, do you know how hard that is to make? RODY STOP USING THE MIXING BOWL AS A HAT, I HAVEN’T CLEANED IT YET!’ Load of nonsense, if you asked him. 

It was a cooking duo that shouldn’t have worked. 

It should have blown up in their face and proved that Rody still can’t cook, and that Vince worked best alone after all. 

But..

But here it was, perfectly cooked steak topped with béarnaise sauce, which to Rody just looked like fancy mayonnaise. It wasn’t, Vincent insisted, it was one of the best sauces out there, incredibly difficult to pull off, and incredibly annoying to pull off. 

But Vince insisted it would be worth it, and looking at the completed dish, Rody was almost convinced that it was. 

A fine topping of herbs dusted the top of the steak, outside crispy and inside juicy. Fuck, just the smell of it was making his mouth water. 

Vincent, sitting beside him on the table- it was weird to be at opposite ends, in Rody’s opinion— didn’t look so impressed. He stared at the perfect steak that Vincent admired with mild disgust in his eyes, like it wasn’t up to his standard. 

It probably wasn’t. 

After all, Rody had been in the kitchen. The sides of the meat were slightly scarred. The sauce wasn’t spilt evenly. If it were put side by side next to a dish he made for food critics, the difference would be night and day. 

Yet, it still looked way better than anything Rody dreamed of making, and topped anything he had ever made before. The imperfections made it seem…real, like a meal made in a family kitchen, not by a gourmet chef. 

It looked…loved. 

Like time and care had been put into it, rather than cold analytical thinking. 

Vincent still looked down in disgrace. Like it wasn’t good enough. Like he thought Rody deserved better. 

Why can’t you just see that I am going to stay?

In what world would I leave you and walk away?

“It looks pretty good—”

“It looks inadequate. The sauce was mixed incorrectly. I believe that was your doing. The steak is charred around the-”

Rody sighed, looking up to meet Vincent's eyes. “Vince. It looks wonderful. It looks like the best thing that I've ever made.”

“That's not a very high bar—”

“AND, it looks like it was made with love.” He finished, flashing Vince a cautious smile. 

The ravenet narrowed his eyes. “It looks…imperfect.”

Rody laughed. “Are any of us perfect? We were made from our parents’ love, Vincey!” 

His boyfriend just stared back, his eyes a reflection of sorrow and hope. “You're perfect, Rody.”

…

He felt a light blush dust his cheeks.

What?

Rody stared back at him, eyes half flustered, half confused.

Did…did Vince really think that? Did he really look at Rody's broken, overbearing, mess of a man and think, yeah, that's perfect?

God. 

Vincent. 

I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.

He just laughed it off, pretending not to be impacted. “And I think you're perfect! But…we’re pretty biased, aren’t we?”

Vince snarled. “I am not biased. I am honest. To a fault. If I thought you were anything less than perfect, you would know about it.”

Rody blushed. “Wa—wait really—?”

“Just eat your food, Lamoree.”

“Hehe, ok, yeah.”

He didn’t ask Vince if he was going to try some, because he knew by now the ravenet couldn’t stomach it. A shame, a cruel dealing of irony it was, to have the chef never be able to appreciate his work. 

Poor Vince. 

Nevertheless, Rody looked down at his plate of imperfect meat, picking up with his imperfect hand, and taking a big, imperfect bite. It wasn’t lost on him, the pull of Vince’s eyes as his boyfriend sipped his smoothie. The way they were so intense, so desperate for approval. 

The ginger closed his eyes, taking a big bite. The steak hit his tongue, and he was fully prepared to taste such bad meat, as Vince's glance would suggest, but…

Oh. 

Oh. 

It was—

It was the best thing Rody had ever eaten. Perfectly rich, like a thousand layers of flavour he didn’t even know existed. Holy shit, it was good. Groaning low in his throat as his hazel eyes fluttered shut. Tongue coming out to lick away a bit of the pale glaze that smeared on the corner of his mouth. Vincent’s dark eyes tracked the movement, his own mouth watering in response to the redhead’s reaction.

Holy shit, it was incredible. 

Not that Vince's food wasn't normally incredible—because it was. But it was...different. Filled with a certain warm glow, one that filled him up and made his lips turn into a big grin. It was food that filled the heart as well as the stomach, and before he knew it, he was taking bite after bite, admiring the way it warmed him up each time. God, it was amazing. Best thing Vince had ever made. Holy shit—

He licked his lips, looking back at the ravenet with wide eyes. 

Vincent gulped. “Was it…ok?”

"OKAY?!" He laughed, putting down his fork.

Vincent nodded. “Yes. It is not up to my standards, as you can see, and I don't like to feed you anything inadequate—" He cut himself off, clearly feeling that he talked too much. "Is it good, Rody?”

“Good?” The ginger echoed in disbelief. As if it could be anything but good.

“Is it…bad?”

"What?—no—of course not, you helped make it, Vince. But it has something...more. Something deeper? I don't know how to explain it, really, other than it tastes really fucking good, and that this is the best thing you've ever made—it has this...weird warm feel to it, you know? And it fills me up so fast, it's incredible!"

Wait. 

His eyes widened. 

Oh my god, that was it. He did it.

-~VINCENT~-

"Hm? Well, I suppose it did come fresh out of the oven, so it would only make sense for it to be warm—"

"HOLY SHIT YOU DID IT!"

What? 

Vincent glanced up at Rody, who wore the excitement of a puppy upon getting a treat.

"I...did what?" He kept his tone careful, hesitant. Some buried, obscene part of him wanted to hope, but the logical side of him knew Rody could get this excited over spotting a pretty bird, so it didn't really mean that much.

Rody laughed, that stupidly contagious laugh, and pushed the food over to Vincent. 

Vincent glared back at it. "I am not eating that." 

"Fine, fine—but—you did it, Vincent!"

Vincent rolled his eyes. "I don't speak implications, Rody." But perhaps he did. Perhaps he knew exactly what Rody was alluding to, perhaps he would rather die on this rock than make the connection himself. Because he couldn't have. He couldn't have been striving for something for so long, only to get it now, with his boyfriend. Hah. Wouldn't that be the biggest fuck you to all his hard hours?

...

Maybe he was just trying to get a negative take on the situation, so when he was wrong, he couldn't be disappointed.

Rody leaned over the table, his face just centimetres from Vincent's. So close the ravenete could count his moles, how his eyelashes were uneven.

"The steak! It was—You cooked with love!"

And there. That. The sentence Vincent couldn't decide if he was dreading or longing for. The words he had wanted to hear for his entire fucking career come from the person he wanted to say them the most. He couldn't breathe. He thought that if he breathed too heavily, the scene might topple over, and it would all be a lie. If he moved too fast, it would be over, and he wanted to preserve this memory in his head for years to come. Rody was looking at him like he had hung the stars. The food on the table, proof that he had did it. 

It didn't feel real. The words the ginger had said. 

They swam around his head like butterflies, quick and fragile.

He cooked with love.

He cooked with love.

He cooked with love.

“Are—is this some sick joke?”

Even now, he couldn't quite believe it. Couldn't bring himself to, though Rody shook his head wildly. "Not a joke! I—I could feel it! The love in it! Y-You did it!"

He breathed, for the first time in forever. Tears pricked his eyes. Happy tears. Some part of him said that boys didn't cry. Most of him didn't fucking care anymore. Crying made this dish. Crying was the result of it. 

Boys didn't cry.

He was a man.

“You will never be able to love, and you know it!”

“Can’t even provide for his fucking family—”

“Yeah, but like, aren’t his meals a bit bitter to you? I dunno, man.”

"V-Vince?"

The ravenet locked eyes with Rody. “Lamoree. You did it. You helped me cook with love. Thank you-”

“No, no, no—don't discredit yourself. I burnt the meat and licked the spoon, YOU did all the hard work—”

“No, not like that. Thank you for being my love.”

The words hang in the air, so vulnerable and loving that they almost made Vincent cringe. But he didn’t because it was real, the food was real, Rody was real and with him. 

Real boys don't cry, but tears don't lie.

Men don't love, but food doesn’t hide. 

Rody can’t cook, but he can inspire.

The redhead just grinned back at him, with the biggest smile, like he was proud. 

A second later, his lips were on Vincent's once again. Gentle this time. Soft. Showing the amount of love that Vincent hadn't known was possible, before he met Rody.

“‘Thanks for being my love, yourself!’ You're the best, Vincey!”

Vince glared, pulling away to catch his breath, though there was no cold in his gaze. “It’s Vincent. Don’t you ever fucking call me ‘Vincey’ again, Lamoree.”

But I love you too.

Thanks to [anonymous] for the prompt! uh. Yeah so. (sory it took so long)

I SWEAR, IT WAS MEANT TO BE JUST FLUFF. IT WAS. AND THEN I WAS LIKE- WHAT IF RODY HELPED VINCE COOK WITH LOVE? THAT WOULD BE CUTE, RIGHT? AND THEN I STARTED WRITING AND-

NOOOOO I MADE IT ANGSTY AND SAD😭


I hope it counts, bc there IS fluff. It IS there. Its just...buried a little. thats all...