Dead Plate Oneshots Ageless

The soft hum of the coffee machine filled the quiet kitchen as Rody waited patiently by the counter, tapping his fingers to some internal rhythm, a small smile curling on his lips. Outside, the afternoon sun cast a warm glow through the windows, illuminating Rody’s face, still boyish and bright as ever. His auburn hair, as messy as it had always been, was tinged golden in the light. There was an ageless energy about him, one that seemed as much a part of him as his smile. It never tired, never faded.

Vincent looked up from the table where he sat with his reading glasses perched low on his nose, watching Rody as he poured the coffee into two mismatched mugs. Vincent’s face softened at the sight; he remembered how he’d first fallen for that easy warmth and vitality. But that was years ago now—decades, in fact.

It used to be the two of them against the world, effortlessly. But recently, the looks they got in public had grown sharper. He’d started noticing every raised brow, every side glance, every whispered comment. It had been bearable at first, easy to ignore. Yet, in time, the strain of it had crept into Vincent’s bones, into his self-image. He no longer saw himself as just Vincent Charbonneau, passionate chef and devoted partner. He was now the old man. The leech. The creep. Or, at least, that was what the world saw.

“Vin?” Rody’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He was standing beside him now, holding out one of the mugs with that familiar smile, unbothered, perfectly content. For Rody, time might as well have been standing still.

“Hmm?” Vincent took the coffee, warming his hands on the mug. “Oh… thank you.”

“You were spacing out again.” Rody took a seat across from him, cupping his own mug and peering over the rim with a slight frown. “Are you okay?”

Vincent didn’t answer right away. He studied Rody’s face, so full of youthful curiosity, bright green eyes sparkling as always. Rody’s looks had been an unusual charm when they met, something Vincent admired and found himself drawn to. Now, though, those same qualities only reminded him of what he lacked.

“Just… thinking.” Vincent forced a smile, though it fell short of reaching his eyes. “About us.”

Rody tilted his head, a hint of worry slipping into his gaze. “Why?”

Vincent took a slow sip of his coffee, letting the taste ground him, though it did little to ease his nerves. “People have… assumptions about us, you know.”

“Who cares what they think?” Rody shrugged, leaning back in his chair with casual confidence, but his expression was soft, understanding. “You don’t care what they think, right?”

It should have been that simple. But for Vincent, things had changed. With each passing year, he’d found himself slowing down, his hair touched with more grey, fine lines collecting around his eyes. He was aging, mortal in every way, while Rody remained unchanged—forever the vibrant man Vincent had fallen in love with. People stared. They saw something wrong in it, something perverse. And in some dark, quiet part of himself, Vincent wondered if they might be right.

“It’s… not easy to ignore,” Vincent admitted, the words almost painful as he voiced them. He set his mug down, fixing his gaze on the grain of the table instead of Rody’s face. “You look exactly as you did when we met, Rody. And me? I’m older now. People see us, and they think I’m… taking advantage of you, or…” He trailed off, unable to finish.

Silence filled the space between them, heavy and lingering. Vincent didn’t dare look up. But then, he felt a hand on his, warm and steady, gently squeezing his fingers. He finally looked up to see Rody, his gaze steady and unwavering, his smile a gentle thing, but tinged with a sadness Vincent hadn’t seen before.

“Vincent,” Rody murmured, “I don’t care what they think. I care about you.” He reached across the table, cupping Vincent’s hand in both of his own, grounding him. “Age doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve lived… longer than I can even remember. I could live for centuries more. But the only thing that’s felt right, that’s ever felt real, is you.”

Vincent’s chest tightened at the words. He wanted to believe them, wanted to let Rody’s assurance wash away all his doubts, but the nagging ache in his heart remained. “But you could be with someone who doesn’t… look like me,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Someone who doesn’t age like this.”

Rody shook his head. “I don’t want someone else, Vincent. If I wanted someone who’d never grow old, I would’ve found them. But I chose you. And I still do.”

Vincent swallowed, his throat tight with emotion. It was both comforting and heartbreaking to hear Rody speak with such certainty, with such undying love. But a part of him couldn’t let go of the bitterness, the feeling that he was holding Rody back, forcing him to bear the weight of stares and assumptions. Even if Rody didn’t care, Vincent felt that shame in his own skin.

“I wish… I could give you more,” Vincent said, his voice strained. “I wish I didn’t have to drag you down with this.”

“You’re not dragging me down,” Rody replied firmly. He leaned closer, his gaze intense, willing Vincent to hear him. “You’re not. I love you, and I know you, Vincent. I know every line on your face, every quirk, every scar. You’ve grown, and yes, you’ve aged. But that’s what I love about you. Every year, you become more yourself. More beautiful.”

A small laugh escaped Rody, soft and a bit self-deprecating. “I’ve had all the time in the world, but I don’t have what you have. Mortality. The reality of it all. And honestly? Sometimes, I’m jealous of that.”

Vincent’s breath hitched as he looked at Rody, truly looked at him, seeing past the youthful exterior to the centuries-old soul underneath. Rody had lived through ages, unchanging, watching the world evolve around him while he stayed the same. And here he was, grounding himself in Vincent, a mortal man, with all his flaws and imperfections.

“I don’t want to be alone again, Vincent,” Rody whispered, his voice thick with an emotion that rarely surfaced. “I’ve seen so much change, but I don’t care about any of it. I just… I don’t want to lose you, too.”

A lump formed in Vincent’s throat. He’d been so absorbed in his own insecurities that he hadn’t realized the weight Rody carried—the weight of eternity, of endless loneliness. All of a sudden, his aging, his fears, his insecurities felt small, selfish even.

Vincent tightened his grip on Rody’s hands, feeling a fierce protectiveness rise in him. “You won’t be alone,” he promised. “As long as I’m here, you won’t be alone.”

A flicker of relief crossed Rody’s face, and he offered Vincent a gentle, almost shy smile. “Good.” He squeezed Vincent’s hands one last time before letting go, reaching for his coffee. “Then don’t worry about them,” he said, tilting his head toward the window, as if gesturing to the judgmental world outside. “They can stare all they want. I’ll still be here. With you.”

Vincent took a deep breath, feeling some of the tension melt away. It wasn’t easy to let go of the shame he felt, the fear of being seen as something unsavory. But as he looked at Rody, he felt a spark of hope, a reassurance that he hadn’t dared to believe in before.

“Thank you,” he said softly, meaning it with every fiber of his being.

Rody grinned, a bit of his usual mischievous charm returning. “Anytime, old man,” he teased.

Vincent rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t push your luck.”

Rody laughed, the sound light and warm, filling the room and washing away the last of Vincent’s lingering doubts. It was in moments like these that he could forget the looks, the stares, the whispers. Because Rody was right: they didn’t matter. All that mattered was this—sitting here, in this quiet kitchen, holding onto each other.

I feel like I made this too confusing. In case y’all didn’t get it, Rody is supposed to be immortal. Also you guys know I can see the names of your reading lists if you add my book in there right? Some of y’all need god 😭