Dead Plate Oneshots I’m Sorry I Was A Coward

Lol had a panic attack while writing this

Rody sat on the steps of his apartment complex, staring down at the cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily into the air, drifting off into the night. He didn’t really like smoking, but it was something to do while he waited for Vincent to come home. It was late, as usual. The lights in the hallway flickered—cheap electrical work they never bothered to fix—but that was the least of anyone’s problems here. The authorities had their eyes everywhere, cracking down on anyone who stepped out of line, and in a place like this, they never ran out of people to watch.

But Vincent… Vincent was different.

Rody had known him for almost a year now, their lives intersecting by chance when Vincent moved into the apartment next door. At first, Rody had kept his distance. Being in the Special Police meant he couldn’t afford to get close to people, not in the way most could. But Vincent had this magnetic pull. Rody didn’t know if it was his sharp wit or the way he spoke his mind without fear, but it drew Rody in. Vincent wasn’t quiet about his disdain for the way things were, calling out the system for what it was—controlling, oppressive, suffocating. He talked about freedom like it was something they had forgotten, something they’d traded for the illusion of safety.

Rody knew better than to join in. His job depended on loyalty, silence, and keeping the peace—peace in the sense of keeping people too afraid to question things. But when he was with Vincent, it was easy to forget all that. Vincent would lean against the counter in his kitchen, casually talking about everything wrong with the world, his eyes bright and animated, and Rody would find himself listening, just listening.

It didn’t hurt that Vincent was beautiful. He wasn’t traditionally handsome, not in the way people on the street would double-take, but there was something arresting about him. His pale skin, black hair, and the sharpness of his gaze. There was a calm intensity about him, a quiet strength. And then, there were the nights when they got closer. The times Rody let himself be pulled into Vincent’s orbit. The quiet, stolen kisses in the darkened hallways, the way Vincent’s hands felt in his hair, the softness in his touch that Rody didn’t think a man like Vincent would have.

It was more than attraction. Rody knew that. He knew he was falling for Vincent in a way that made things complicated.

Vincent came around the corner, his footsteps quiet, but Rody noticed. He always noticed when Vincent was near. There was an electricity in the air whenever Vincent entered the room.

“Smoking again?” Vincent asked as he walked up, his lips tugging into a half-smile.

“Trying to quit,” Rody said, stubbing it out on the step beside him. He glanced up at Vincent, standing there with his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jacket. Rody had seen him like this before—disheveled but confident, like he couldn’t care less how the world saw him.

“You always say that,” Vincent murmured. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

Rody followed him into his apartment, the door clicking shut behind them. Vincent’s place was small, barely more than a couple of rooms, but it felt… lived in. There were books stacked on the coffee table, papers scattered everywhere, and an ashtray by the window, though Vincent had quit smoking years ago. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, always fresh, as if Vincent never quite managed to finish a cup before starting another one.

“Busy night?” Vincent asked, throwing his jacket onto the back of the chair. He looked at Rody with those eyes, the ones that always seemed to know too much.

Rody shrugged, trying to shake off the tension coiling in his chest. He stepped closer, catching Vincent by the wrist, pulling him towards him. “I don’t want to talk about work.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow but didn’t resist, letting Rody pull him closer. “Fine,” he said softly. “What do you want to talk about?”

Rody didn’t answer. He pressed his lips to Vincent’s, silencing him. The kiss was rough, needy, like Rody was trying to lose himself in the moment. Vincent let out a soft sigh, his hands slipping into Rody’s hair, fingers tangling there as he kissed him back, slow and deliberate. They always had this way of communicating without words, these moments where the world outside didn’t exist, where it was just the two of them. Vincent’s body pressed against Rody’s, familiar and warm, and for a moment, Rody let himself forget. Forget the file, forget the order that was coming.

Because Rody knew what was coming.

When his superiors had handed him the file, they hadn’t minced words. “Vincent Charbonneau is a threat,” they’d said. “He’s stirring up unrest. Talking too much. People like him cause revolutions, and we can’t have that. Get rid of him.”

Rody had sat in that meeting, his hands clenched into fists beneath the table. They wanted it clean, an accident—something that wouldn’t raise questions. And Rody knew why they’d chosen him for this. Because Vincent trusted him. Because Vincent wouldn’t see it coming from him.

As he stood there now, in Vincent’s apartment, the weight of the file felt heavy in his mind. He knew everything about Vincent—his past, his struggles with addiction, how he’d been clean for five years. They wanted Rody to use that against him, to make it look like Vincent had slipped. A tragic relapse. It wouldn’t be hard. Just a few drinks forced down his throat and then—

Rody pulled back from the kiss, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Vincent blinked up at him, his lips still slightly parted, looking confused by the sudden shift in Rody’s mood.

“What’s wrong?” Vincent asked, his voice soft, concerned.

“Nothing,” Rody lied, stepping away. “I… I need to go.”

Vincent frowned, clearly not buying it, but he didn’t press. “Alright. If you say so.”

Rody left without another word, the door closing too quietly behind him.

—

The next time he came to Vincent’s door, it was late, much later than usual. Rody stood there for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Inside, he could hear the faint sound of music playing, something soft, and it made his stomach twist. He had a flask tucked into his jacket, and the plan had already been laid out in his mind. He was going to do it tonight.

He knocked.

Vincent answered, looking surprised to see him so late, but he stepped aside, letting Rody in. “I wasn’t expecting you,” Vincent said, his tone casual but guarded.

“I needed to see you,” Rody said, his voice tight.

Vincent’s eyes searched Rody’s face, sensing something was wrong, but before he could ask, Rody was on him, kissing him hard, almost desperately. Vincent didn’t fight it, but there was a hesitation now, a questioning look in his eyes even as he kissed Rody back.

They stumbled into the living room, Rody pushing Vincent back onto the couch, his hands rougher than usual, his grip tighter. Vincent gasped, his hands clutching at Rody’s shirt as if trying to steady himself.

“Rody, what—”

Rody silenced him with another kiss, his hands trailing down to the small of Vincent’s back, pulling him closer. Vincent melted into him, his body soft and pliant against Rody’s. It would be so easy. Too easy.

“I love you,” Rody whispered against Vincent’s neck, his voice breaking just slightly.

Vincent froze, his breath hitching. “What?”

Rody didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He pulled away, reaching into his jacket for the small flask they had given him, the alcohol that would make it look real. Vincent frowned, looking up at him with confusion that quickly turned to fear.

“Rody… what is that?”

“Don’t… just don’t fight me on this,” Rody muttered, his voice shaking as he unscrewed the cap. He moved towards Vincent, grabbing him by the jaw, forcing the flask to his lips.

Vincent struggled, pushing at Rody’s chest, his eyes wide with panic. “Rody, stop! What the hell are you doing?!” he choked, sputtering as the liquid hit his tongue. “Stop! I don’t—”

But Rody didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He forced more of the alcohol into Vincent’s mouth, ignoring the desperate sounds Vincent made, the way he weakly tried to shove him away. Tears streamed down Vincent’s face as he gagged, his body trembling.

“Please, Rody,” Vincent begged, his voice breaking. “Please… don’t do this…”

But it was too late. Rody knew it was too late. He dragged Vincent towards the balcony, the city lights flickering outside, casting long shadows over them.

Vincent was sobbing now, his legs barely able to hold him up, his hands clawing at Rody’s arms. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

Rody couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t let himself feel it. The betrayal, the horror.

With one last shove, he pushed Vincent off the balcony.

The scream echoed through the night, followed by a sickening thud as Vincent’s body hit the pavement below.

Rody stood there, staring down at the lifeless figure on the pavement below, his mind struggling to process what he’d just done. Vincent’s body lay twisted and broken, blood pooling beneath him, the streetlights casting an eerie glow over the scene. The noise of the city kept moving around him—cars passing, distant sirens—but for Rody, everything was muted. Silent.

His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps, but he couldn’t move. All he could do was stare.

He’d killed him.

The man he loved. The only person in this hollow, oppressive world who made him feel like he was still human. Gone.

Rody swallowed hard, his throat burning, but no tears came. His hands were shaking, though, so violently that he had to clench them into fists to stop himself from falling apart. They told him it had to be this way, and in some twisted part of his mind, he still believed them. They’d said it would be quick, clean, just another accident in a world full of tragedies. And maybe, to everyone else, that’s all it would be.

But Rody would know. He would always know.

His superior had been explicit when they’d handed him the file earlier that week.

_”He’s trouble, Lamoree. Someone like that starts talking, people listen. If we don’t shut him down now, he’ll spark something bigger. A revolution, maybe. People are hungry for it.”_

Rody had sat there in silence, nodding as they laid out the plan. They had been watching Vincent for months, tracking his movements, recording his conversations. Every word, every defiant look. It all went into the file, a thick stack of papers documenting Vincent’s life, his past, and his outspoken views on the system that held them all in check.

_”He’s an addict, you know. Was, anyway. Five years clean, but those types always relapse eventually. People won’t question it when he falls off the wagon. He’s just another casualty of a world too hard to handle.”_

They knew exactly what they were doing. And they knew exactly who to send.

Vincent had trusted Rody, welcomed him into his life. And Rody had betrayed that trust in the worst way possible. He had killed Vincent, not with the cold precision of a soldier, but with the intimacy of a lover. Forced the alcohol down his throat, watched the panic in his eyes, felt his body go limp as he tried—and failed—to fight back.

Rody had been the one to hold him, kiss him, make him believe—right up until the end—that he was safe and loved.

—

Hours later, Rody sat in the darkened corner of his apartment, staring blankly at the wall. The bottle of whiskey on the table beside him was nearly empty, but he hadn’t touched a drop. He didn’t deserve to numb the pain, to drown the guilt in alcohol like he had done to Vincent. No, he needed to feel this, needed to sit with it, let it fester in his chest until it consumed him whole.

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, letting out a sharp breath. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Vincent’s face—the fear, the betrayal etched into his features as he begged for his life.

_”Please, Rody… don’t do this… please…”_

His voice echoed in Rody’s mind, relentless and raw. Vincent had fought, weakly, but he had fought. It hadn’t mattered in the end. Rody had been stronger, and Vincent had been too shocked, too broken to stop him. Rody wondered if it had been worse for Vincent because it had been *him*. The person Vincent had trusted most in this world, the one who’d always been at his side, who’d kissed him with tenderness, had now become his executioner.

God, he hated himself.

And for what? For some higher cause that didn’t even make sense anymore? He knew the truth. He’d known it from the beginning. There was no stopping the suffocation. The walls of this city had been closing in for years, and the people who controlled it, the ones who pulled the strings, didn’t care about freedom. They cared about power. Keeping everyone in line, keeping everyone afraid. And Vincent—brave, reckless Vincent—hadn’t been afraid.

That was his crime.

Rody’s phone buzzed on the table, a jarring reminder that he was still expected to carry on. Still expected to fall in line. He didn’t have to check the message to know what it said. His superior would want confirmation, a clean report to close the file. Rody had done what they asked, after all. They wouldn’t even care about the details. The only thing that mattered was that Vincent was dead, his voice silenced.

He was a good soldier. That’s what they would say.

But Rody knew the truth. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t anything. He was a coward. A murderer.

He stood up slowly, his body aching with the weight of what he’d done. The apartment was suffocating, Vincent’s scent still lingering in the air, mingling with the scent of coffee and cigarette smoke. Every corner, every shadow reminded him of Vincent—the small quirks, the way he laughed when he let his guard down, the way he would rant about the state of the world with such passion that Rody had found himself mesmerized.

And now, there was nothing left. Just the hollow echo of what used to be.

—

Rody found himself standing in front of Vincent’s apartment again, his hand resting on the door. The blood had long since been cleaned up from the street below, but the stain it left on his mind was permanent. He hadn’t been able to stay away, not even for a day. Some sick part of him needed to see the place where it had all ended.

The door creaked open. The room was dark, but the outline of Vincent’s things was still there, untouched. They hadn’t come to clear it out yet, hadn’t sanitized the scene to wipe away any trace of his existence. It was like walking into a ghost’s house, everything frozen in time, as if Vincent might walk back in any minute, throw his jacket over the chair, and offer Rody a cup of that bitter coffee he always drank.

Rody stepped inside, the air cold, empty. His footsteps echoed too loudly in the silence. The couch where they had kissed just hours before was still rumpled from their last embrace, a reminder of how close they had been, how peaceful it had felt. But it hadn’t been peaceful, not for Rody. Not in the way it should’ve been.

He walked to the window, the one that overlooked the balcony where it had all happened. He could see the faint outline of the street below, the spot where Vincent had fallen. His stomach twisted painfully, the bile rising in his throat as he gripped the windowsill, his knuckles turning white.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though there was no one left to hear it.

But sorry wasn’t enough. Sorry wouldn’t bring Vincent back. Sorry wouldn’t erase the fact that Rody had killed the only person who’d made him feel alive.

And now, he was more dead than ever.

—

The weeks that followed were a blur. Rody returned to work, returned to the life he had known before Vincent, but nothing felt the same. His superiors praised him for his efficiency, for following orders without question. He’d received a promotion, even, as if killing the man he loved was something to be rewarded for.

He went through the motions, mechanically, doing what was expected of him, but every night he returned to that empty apartment, staring at the space where Vincent used to be. His mind replayed the night over and over—the look on Vincent’s face as he begged, the sound of his body hitting the pavement, the silence that followed.

It consumed him.

Rody couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Vincent’s broken body, heard his voice, felt the weight of his own betrayal crushing him from the inside out.

He started drinking, trying to drown the guilt, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. The alcohol only made it worse, blurring the lines between reality and nightmare until Rody wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began. He could still feel Vincent’s hands on him, still taste him on his lips, still hear the way he’d said Rody’s name that last time, like he still believed Rody could stop it.

But Rody hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t even tried.

The guilt gnawed at him, festering in the darkest corners of his mind until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He saw Vincent everywhere—in the streets, in his dreams, in the mirror. Every time he blinked, he saw those terrified eyes, pleading for a mercy Rody hadn’t been able to give.

And now, there was no escape.