The apartment was cold, unnaturally still. The only sound was the faint tick-tick of the old clock hanging crookedly on the wall. Vincent Charbonneau stood by the kitchen counter, staring intently at the delicate porcelain plate in his hands. He was humming softly to himself, a fractured, disjointed tune that echoed through the small space. The soft melody would have been comforting once, a sound Rody always teased him for, but now it was all that filled the void.
“Breakfast is ready, mon cÅ“ur.”
His voice was tender, a little too gentle. He placed the plate carefully on the small dining table, making sure it was positioned just right, directly in front of the motionless figure sitting in the chair.
Rody.
Rody Lamoree’s once vibrant auburn hair had dulled over the weeks, but Vincent had brushed it just this morning, taming its usual wildness. His green eyes stared blankly ahead, forever open, empty of life but frozen in a gentle smile-just the way Vincent liked him. His skin, pale and waxen now, was smooth, polished from hours of care. The faint scent of chemicals clung to him, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Rody looked perfect.
Vincent stood back, admiring his work, his dark eyes glowing with a strange satisfaction. He smoothed down the sleeves of the shirt he had carefully dressed Rody in last night-a clean white button-up, just like the one he used to wear when they went out. Vincent always made sure his Rody looked presentable. It was important. He couldn’t allow decay, couldn’t allow time to take from him what was his. That was why he’d learned everything he could to keep Rody in this state, this perfect, eternal state.
“Your favorite, lemon zest pancakes. Extra syrup, just the way you like them.” He smiled softly, pulling up a chair next to Rody, his movements unhurried, precise. He leaned in, brushing a lock of hair behind Rody’s ear, letting his fingers trail over the cold skin of his cheek.
Rody, of course, said nothing. He never did, not anymore. But that was alright. Vincent didn’t mind. He had gotten used to the silence, filling the gaps with his own voice, his own memories.
It hadn’t always been this way. No, once, Rody had been full of life. Loud, clumsy, passionate-everything Vincent wasn’t. They had been together for almost 3 years, and for a while, Vincent had believed-no, *known*-that Rody was his. That they were meant to be. The way Rody smiled at him, laughed at his dry humor, the way he teased Vincent about his culinary obsession-it all felt right. So why did it fall apart?
Vincent could still hear Rody’s voice from that evening, shaky and hesitant, filled with guilt as he had confessed. “I’ve fallen in love with someone else,” Rody had said, his eyes flickering with regret. “It’s not you, Vincent. It just happened. I can’t stay with you.”
Vincent had felt something snap inside him that night. His love for Rody had been overwhelming, consuming-and the idea of losing him had been unbearable. He had begged, pleaded for Rody to stay, dropping all pretense, letting every ounce of his fear and desperation pour out. He had gripped Rody’s arm so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
“But I love you!” Vincent had cried, his voice cracking in a way that Rody had never heard before. “I need you.”
Rody had shaken his head, biting his lip. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Those words had echoed in Vincent’s mind for hours afterward, gnawing at him like a slow poison. He couldn’t let Rody go. He wouldn’t. If he couldn’t have Rody, no one could.
That night, the apartment had been filled with shouting, with pleading, with panic. Rody had tried to leave, had even made it to the door, but Vincent had grabbed the knife before he could stop himself. The moment had been fast, frantic, a blur of blood and gasps as Vincent plunged the blade into Rody’s chest.
Rody’s body had slumped against Vincent, his eyes wide with shock, his breath ragged and shallow. And Vincent had held him, whispering softly, “It’s okay, mon amour. You’ll stay with me now. Forever.”
That had been two months ago.
Since then, Vincent had worked tirelessly to preserve what remained of Rody. He couldn’t stand the idea of decay, of Rody’s beauty being eaten away by time. So he had learned how to keep the body intact-researching embalming techniques, procuring the necessary chemicals, dedicating hours to making sure that every inch of Rody remained untouched by rot.
Every day, Vincent washed the corpse, careful not to disturb the skin, ensuring it stayed as smooth and flawless as possible. He dressed Rody in clean clothes, choosing outfits that brought back memories of their time together. He brushed Rody’s hair, untangling the knots, making sure it lay neatly around his shoulders.
He made sure Rody looked alive. Perfect. As he always had.
Today was no different. After breakfast, Vincent would take Rody to the bedroom, undress him, and clean him carefully, methodically. He had grown efficient in the routine, his touch always tender, as though Rody could still feel it. When he was done, he would redress him, brush his hair again, and sit him back in the chair.
He ran his fingers through Rody’s hair now, his touch soft but possessive. “You’re still beautiful, you know,” he whispered, his breath warm against the cold skin. “Even now. You’ll always be beautiful.”
Vincent leaned in closer, brushing his lips against Rody’s cheek. He could feel the stiffness beneath the skin, but he didn’t care. It was still *his* Rody. Still perfect. Still here.
That’s what mattered. Rody was with him. And no one else would ever take him away.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, mon amour,” Vincent said softly, standing up and lifting Rody from the chair. His strength strained as he carried the body across the room, but he didn’t complain. He cradled Rody’s stiff form with the same care he always did, as if he were handling something precious. Something fragile.
In the dim light of the bathroom, Vincent began the process he knew so well. He undressed Rody first, his hands never trembling, his mind focused. He worked slowly, meticulously washing every part of the cold, lifeless body, scrubbing away any traces of time. His fingers lingered over the curves of Rody’s face, the lines of his arms, his chest.
As he worked, he spoke, his voice low, affectionate. “Remember when we went to that little bistro by the river? You hated the food, but we laughed so much that night. You made everything better, Rody. Everything.”
The memories drifted back to him, swirling like smoke in the quiet room. He could still remember the way Rody had laughed-*really* laughed-at his poorly chosen wine pairing. He had teased Vincent for hours about it, even daring to challenge him to an arm-wrestling contest over the dessert. Vincent had known he was going to lose, but seeing Rody’s smug grin as he slammed Vincent’s hand down had been worth it. Those moments, those small, fleeting moments, had once been Vincent’s everything.
But they were fleeting for a reason.
When Rody had said goodbye that night, Vincent had known that he could never feel that kind of joy again. The emptiness that followed had been more unbearable than anything. That’s why, even now, with Rody’s cold body lying in front of him, Vincent held on to those memories. They made Rody’s silence bearable.
He wrapped Rody in a towel, drying him off, and redressed him, picking out a fresh outfit-a grey sweater and tan pants. Vincent brushed Rody’s hair one last time, making sure it lay just right, before he stepped back to admire his work.
Perfect.
He smiled, gently running his fingers through Rody’s hair, smoothing it down. “There. You’re all set.”
With a sigh, Vincent lifted Rody once more, carrying him back to the chair, setting him down as carefully as ever. The room grew quiet again, the ticking of the clock the only sound.
Vincent sat beside him, his fingers lacing through Rody’s cold, stiff hand. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’ll always love you. And I’ll take care of you. Forever.”
The shadows in the apartment deepened as the day passed, but Vincent paid no attention. Time no longer mattered. The world outside no longer mattered. There was only Rody. Only the way his presence filled the empty spaces in Vincent’s soul, even now, when his body had lost its warmth.
Vincent glanced at the photo on the shelf-the one of him and Rody from last winter, taken before things had fallen apart. Rody had been beaming in that photo, his arm slung around Vincent’s shoulder, his face bright with happiness. Vincent’s own smile had been more reserved, but the affection had been there. Real. Tangible. That had been before Vincent had realized how fragile love could be, how easily it could be ripped away.
No, not ripped away. Not anymore. He had made sure of that.
He turned back to Rody, his hand lingering on Rody’s, brushing his cold fingers with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. The weight of silence hung between them, thick and oppressive, but it no longer suffocated Vincent the way it had in the beginning. He had grown accustomed to it. The stillness was their new normal, the absence of Rody’s voice and laughter filled with Vincent’s careful attention, his obsessive devotion.
“You remember this sweater, don’t you?” Vincent whispered, his voice cracking slightly. He traced a finger along the edge of the grey fabric, smoothing out an invisible crease. “I bought it for you on your birthday. You said it was too plain, but you wore it because it made me happy.”
The words drifted through the air like fragile smoke, dissipating in the gloom of the room. Vincent’s eyes, dark and gleaming with an unsettling mix of sorrow and satisfaction, traced over Rody’s lifeless form, as if waiting for a response he knew would never come.
But that didn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter that Rody could no longer speak or laugh or tease him like he used to. What mattered was that Rody was here, with him. Permanently. No one else could ever have him. Rody was his and his alone, and nothing-no one-could take him away.
Vincent rose from his chair, pacing slowly around the small apartment, his thoughts spiraling into the past. He remembered the first time he had laid eyes on Rody-the wild energy in his eyes, the recklessness in his laughter. Rody had been like a force of nature, untamable and intoxicating. Vincent had been drawn to him, despite his better judgment, despite the warning signs that flickered in the back of his mind.
He had loved Rody fiercely, obsessively, in a way that scared him. Rody had been his muse, his everything. And when Rody had pulled away, had fallen for someone else, Vincent had felt his world collapse in on itself.
“I gave you everything,” he muttered under his breath, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the back of the chair. “Everything.”
His gaze returned to Rody, his expression softening again, the anger that had surged moments before replaced by something far more tender, far more twisted. He knelt beside the body once more, smoothing out Rody’s hair, adjusting his collar, making sure every detail was perfect. His hands lingered on Rody’s face, tracing the cold skin with an almost worshipful touch.
“You don’t need anyone else,” Vincent whispered, his voice barely audible. “You never did. I’m the only one who will take care of you. I’ll love you forever.”
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against Rody’s, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. There was no warmth left in the body before him, but Vincent didn’t mind. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as if to take in the remnants of Rody’s presence, the ghost of what they had once shared.
“I’ll keep you safe, mon amour,” he murmured, his lips brushing against Rody’s cold temple. “I’ll keep you beautiful. I’ll never let you go.”
He stayed like that for what felt like hours, holding Rody’s lifeless hand, tracing the familiar lines of his face, reliving the memories that had once been filled with so much light. In his mind, Rody was still with him-still laughing, still teasing, still alive. The body may have been cold, but to Vincent, it was still his Rody. His *perfect* Rody.
The room darkened as night fell, but Vincent didn’t move. He sat there in the deepening shadows, his fingers intertwined with Rody’s stiff ones, his heart swelling with a twisted, obsessive love. He would take care of Rody. He would clean him, dress him, brush his hair every day, just like he had done when Rody was alive. He would keep him whole, preserved, perfect.
Forever.
Vincent’s gaze flicked toward the window, where the faint glow of the city lights seeped in through the curtains. Outside, the world moved on-people lived their lives, laughed, cried, loved. But not here. Here, in this small apartment, time stood still. The outside world didn’t matter. It never would again.
Vincent leaned in closer, pressing a soft kiss to Rody’s cold lips, his touch lingering for just a moment longer than it should. His lips curved into a faint smile, his eyes shining with a dark, possessive gleam.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice filled with a strange, twisted satisfaction. “And you always will be.”
The silence in the room felt heavier now, oppressive and absolute, as Vincent sat back, admiring the still figure in the chair. His Rody. His perfect, eternal Rody.
And as the night stretched on, Vincent stayed by Rody’s side, his fingers brushing through the dead man’s hair, his whispered words filling the empty spaces where life had once thrived.
Because in the end, nothing else mattered. Rody was his. Forever.
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