Dead Plate Oneshots Obsessive Fanboy

The trouble started with the body pillow.

When Rody moved in, Richard was mostly unbothered by the quirks—mismatched socks, an ever-growing pile of dishes, Rody’s complete inability to cook without setting off the smoke alarm. But then Richard noticed the massive, life-sized pillow on Rody’s bed—a print of Vincent Charbonneau, the most intense and famous chef in France. Right there, frozen in eternal sternness.

“What do you think?” Rody said one day, giving the pillow a proud pat. “I got it custom-made. A masterpiece, non?”

Richard gave him a look. “Uh… you’re joking, right?”

Rody just shrugged. “You don’t understand. Vincent and I—*we go way back*.”

Right. *Of course*. Richard shook his head. He figured it was probably best not to engage.

But as the days went on, Rody’s *admiration* for Vincent started to get weird.

At first, it was small things. Rody would mumble things like, “Vincent would have never tolerated this mess,” while trying (and failing) to make a half-decent omelette. Or he’d mutter about Vincent’s meticulous standards while waving a cracked spatula around.

And then one day, he casually dropped, “Vincent’s favorite dessert is tarte au citron,” as though they’d shared an intimate candlelit chat over lemon tarts.

Richard scoffed. “Oh yeah? And you know that because…?”

Rody shrugged, leaning back like he was reciting poetry. “He told me once. Back in college.”

“Wait, you *went to school with him?*”

Rody only gave a goofy smile, winking. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”

From that day on, Richard endured Vincent stories daily.

“I remember Vincent complaining about people who use metal spoons in non-stick pans,” Rody said wistfully one morning. “Always so strict about kitchen rules… the man’s a genius.”

“Right…” Richard tried not to sigh. “Do you… realize he’s just a famous chef, Rody? He’s not your friend.”

Rody’s eyes flashed in horror. “Not my friend?!” He gave a dramatic sigh, clutching his chest. “Richard, Vincent and I are basically soulmates.”

Right. That explained the body pillow. And the posters. And the daily Vincent trivia sessions. Richard could only nod along, hoping it was just a phase.

One day, he walked into the living room and found Rody sprawled across the couch, headphones in, scrolling through Instagram. Richard could just make out the faint sounds of… was that a *Vincent Charbonneau interview*?

Rody saw him and yanked out an earbud. “Oh hey, Richard. Did you know Vincent hates coriander?”

“Uh-huh.” Richard nodded, glancing around. “You know, this obsession thing is getting a little…”

“Obsession? Please,” Rody scoffed. “If you knew him like I did, you’d understand.” He dropped his voice, adding with a dreamy smile, “He just has *standards*, Richard. Standards no one else can meet.”

Richard gave him a wary look. “And, uh… how close were you and Vincent, exactly?”

Rody shrugged, nonchalant. “I’d say we’re pretty close.” Then he switched the topic to how Vincent was probably the only person who would “get” his culinary struggles.

But things took a turn for the bizarre one evening, when Richard walked in after a long day, tossed his bag aside, and froze. There was Rody, sprawled on the couch, clearly in the middle of… something he probably shouldn’t be doing on their *shared couch*, murmuring “Yes, chef” in the breathiest voice Richard had ever heard.

“Oh, *come on!*” Richard threw his hands up. “Rody, that’s *our* couch!”

Rody jumped up, face redder than a tomato, adjusting his shirt and trying to look casual (he failed). “Oh! I, uh, didn’t hear you come in…”

“You are unbelievable,” Richard groaned, trying to burn the image out of his mind. “You’re acting like you *know* this guy! He’s just some celebrity chef!”

But Rody just shook his head, looking oddly calm. “Richard, *you just don’t get it*. Vincent and I, we share something real.”

“Real?” Richard scoffed, waving his hand. “This guy doesn’t even know you *exist*, Rody!”

Rody looked offended. “He does know I exist!”

That evening set the tone for the next few weeks. Rody’s obsession continued to escalate, with random bits of “Vincent wisdom” popping up in the most mundane conversations. Richard learned more about Vincent’s taste in wine, preferred knife brands, and apparently even his favorite toothpaste (who could even *verify* that?).

And then one Friday night, it all came to a head.

Richard came home late, tired, mentally bracing himself for more Vincent trivia. But as he opened the door, he was met with… quite the scene.

Rody was in the living room. So was Vincent—*the real, actual Vincent Charbonneau*, wearing nothing but his glasses and what seemed to be a look of complete mortification.

“Oh, mon dieu…” Richard froze, his mouth agape. “Are you… *serious?*”

Rody’s face went a shade of red that Richard didn’t think humanly possible. “Ah! Richard! This… isn’t what it looks like?”

“Oh really?” Richard spluttered. “Because it sure looks like you and Vincent Charbonneau are naked on our *couch*! Is this a *hallucination*?”

Vincent covered his face with his hands, mumbling something in French that sounded like a prayer for mercy. “This is… beyond humiliating.”

Richard held up a hand, still reeling. “I just—Rody. I thought he was just a celebrity crush!”

Rody froze, glancing between Vincent and Richard with an awkward chuckle. “Uh… surprise?”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, wait. So… all those times you talked about him like you were friends… you weren’t just making that up?”

Rody scratched his head, looking sheepish. “Why would I lie about that…?”

Richard’s jaw dropped. “You’re telling me all this time, Vincent Charbonneau—the actual famous chef you ranted about daily—was your boyfriend?”

“Yes!” Rody said, a little too cheerfully. “Been together since college!”

Vincent, still hiding behind his hands, muttered, “You said he wouldn’t be back until later…”

Richard could feel his brain short-circuiting. “So, you’re telling me all those times you talked about him as if you *knew him*—”

“Because I *do* know him!” Rody exclaimed, his face still flushed.

Vincent threw him a glare, looking both flustered and exasperated. “I told you not to… discuss our private matters *everywhere*.”

Rody waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, you’re just being modest. Richard’s practically family! And besides, it’s not like he’s freaking out about it.”

“Are you *kidding*?” Richard yelped, his voice high-pitched. “I thought you were *fantasizing* about him! I had no idea you actually knew him!”

Vincent rolled his eyes, looking about ready to sink into the couch itself. “Believe me, I was hoping it could stay that way.”

Rody reached over, giving Vincent’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “Well, now that the secret’s out, we don’t have to keep pretending!”

Vincent’s jaw clenched, his cheeks still glowing. “*Pretending*? This was never supposed to be some public affair, Rody!”

Richard gawked. “Okay, hold on. So *all* this time, you two have been… what, secretly dating?”

“Yes!” Rody said with a grin. “Since college! He was my TA, and I thought he was the snobbiest guy I’d ever met.”

Vincent scoffed, his own face finally softening as he gave Rody a reluctant smile. “And I thought he was insufferably cocky.”

“But it was love at first sight,” Rody added, with all the sincerity of a bad romantic movie.

Vincent muttered something under his breath about *absolute idiocy*.

Richard rubbed his temples, still in disbelief. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been together for *years*, and you just never thought to tell me?”

“Well, I figured you’d get it eventually,” Rody shrugged.

“Rody, I thought you were just… *delusional*. I caught you—doing things—to his picture!” Richard gave an exaggerated shiver, the memory still fresh in his mind.

Rody waved him off, grinning sheepishly. “Ah, no big deal. Right, chef?” He nudged Vincent, who immediately turned red again, looking like he might actually combust.

“Rody,” Vincent managed, voice tight, “we are never talking about this again.”

Richard raised his hands. “Please, don’t let me stop you. In fact, pretend I’m *not even here*!”

Vincent gave a resigned sigh, glancing at Rody with an amused sort of exasperation. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re cute when you’re annoyed,” Rody replied, pulling Vincent into a kiss.

Richard groaned, backing away. “You know what? I’m going to bed. If I hear anything… I’ll pretend it’s the wind.”

Rody waved, not even looking up. “Night, Richard!”