Dead Plate Oneshots The Ballad Of El Sombrerón

Warning: Effeminate Vincent

—

the village of tequila was steeped in legend. its streets, narrow and cobbled, seemed to hold memories of every soul that passed through. the winding alleyways echoed with whispers of old tales, passed from mouth to mouth, year after year. and one name, spoken only in hushed tones, held more weight than any other:

**el sombrerón**.

the women of the village told stories about him—a figure who walked through the streets at night, a wide-brimmed hat casting his face in shadow. his silver guitar never left his back, and his voice could melt the coldest heart. but el sombrerón was no mere serenader. his gifts were flowers and braids, but his love was a curse. he sought out beautiful women, targeting those with long, flowing hair, and when they fell under his spell, they withered away—slowly losing sleep, their appetite fading until all that remained was a hollow shell of their former selves.

no one knew his true name, only that he appeared as mysteriously as he vanished. and none who fell into his trap ever returned.

—

**vincent charbonneau** wasn’t the typical target of the legend, but he had hair just as long and eyes just as beautiful. he stood out in tequila—a french-born father and a mexican mother, yet not quite fitting in with either side. his pale skin, delicate features, and waist-length black hair made him the subject of much ridicule. he was called “effeminate,” mocked for his softness. but beneath it all, vincent carried a quiet dignity, never letting the words truly wound him.

he worked at the local bakery, his days spent shaping bread and pastries. the work kept him busy, his hands strong, but as he walked home in the evenings, the solitude would wrap around him like a second skin. he enjoyed the coolness of the air at dusk, the way the light softened against the mountains, and the peace it brought him after a long day. but recently, that peace had been disturbed.

a week ago, it had begun. the music.

soft, gentle strumming, carried on the breeze. at first, vincent dismissed it as a neighbor’s guitar or a passing musician. but each night, the music followed him, weaving through the streets like a lover’s caress. the notes were slow, haunting, and intimate. it made his pulse quicken, though he couldn’t explain why.

he never saw the musician, only heard him. the songs crept into his thoughts and lingered there long after he arrived home. he would sit in his small room, staring at the wall, waiting.

for what? he didn’t know.

that night, the music began again as he locked up the bakery. the streets were deserted, save for a few cats darting between shadows. vincent hesitated, his hand gripping the key tightly. he could feel it—the presence behind the melody. someone was there, watching.

he turned, and there, under the flickering light of a streetlamp, stood a figure. the man was tall, his posture relaxed, but his presence filled the space between them. his wide-brimmed hat obscured his face, but the gleam of a silver guitar caught vincent’s eye, reflecting the moonlight.

vincent swallowed hard.

the man took a step forward, his spurs clicking softly against the stone. “you have beautiful hair,” he said, his voice smooth, like silk sliding across skin.

vincent’s breath caught in his throat. he had been complimented on his hair before, but this felt different. there was something in the way the man said it, like a secret whispered just for him.

“thank you,” vincent replied, his voice quieter than he intended.

the man took another step closer, his boots stirring up the dust from the road. “i’ve been watching you for a while now,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “you walk these streets alone, and i wonder… why does someone so beautiful seem so lonely?”

vincent blinked, his pulse quickening. his heart thudded in his chest, loud enough that he was certain the man could hear it. “i—i’m not lonely,” he lied.

a soft chuckle escaped the man’s lips. “lying doesn’t suit you, vincent.”

vincent stiffened. “how do you know my name?”

the man tilted his head slightly, and for a moment, the brim of his hat lifted just enough for vincent to catch a glimpse of his eyes—dark, intense, and gleaming with something vincent couldn’t quite place. “i know many things,” the man said softly, “but it’s only fair i introduce myself. you can call me **rody**.”

the name sent a shiver down vincent’s spine. he’d never heard it before, but somehow, it felt familiar. like a song that had always been playing in the background of his life, waiting for him to notice.

“rody…” vincent echoed, his voice barely more than a breath.

rody smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. “you shouldn’t walk alone, vincent,” he said, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “not when there’s someone who would gladly walk with you.”

vincent’s mind screamed at him to step back, to break the trance this strange man was weaving around him. but his body refused to obey. he found himself drawn closer, as if pulled by an invisible thread. “why me?” he managed to ask, his voice trembling.

“because you’re unlike anyone i’ve ever seen,” rody replied. “you have something… special. a beauty that goes beyond your appearance. i could sense it from the moment i first saw you.”

vincent’s mouth went dry. the words felt like a seduction, not of his body, but of his very soul. he had always felt out of place in tequila, always felt like he didn’t belong. but now, standing in front of this stranger, he felt… seen. truly seen.

“i’ve brought you something,” rody said, his voice breaking through vincent’s thoughts. from behind his back, rody produced a small bouquet of wildflowers, delicate and vibrant, tied together with a thin silver ribbon.

vincent stared at the flowers, speechless. no one had ever given him flowers before. hesitantly, he reached out and took them, his fingers brushing against rody’s as he did. the touch sent a jolt of electricity through him.

“i’ll see you again tomorrow, vincent,” rody said, his voice soft and full of promise. “until then, think of me when you hear the music.”

and then, just as quietly as he had appeared, rody vanished into the shadows.

—

the next day, vincent couldn’t focus. his hands fumbled over the dough in the bakery, and his mind wandered back to the night before. he found himself absentmindedly touching his hair, the place where rody’s fingers had brushed against him.

that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the music began again. this time, it was closer, more intimate. vincent’s heart raced as he hurried home, his eyes scanning the streets for any sign of rody.

he didn’t have to wait long. rody was already there, standing under the same streetlamp, his silver guitar resting against his chest. his eyes gleamed as he watched vincent approach.

“i’ve been waiting for you,” rody said, his voice like velvet.

vincent swallowed hard, his steps faltering. “why… why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice shaking.

rody smiled, a slow, deliberate smile that made vincent’s skin tingle. “because i can’t stop thinking about you, vincent. you’ve captivated me. i want to know everything about you. what makes you laugh, what makes you cry… what makes you dream.”

vincent’s breath caught in his throat. no one had ever spoken to him like this before. no one had ever made him feel so… wanted.

rody stepped closer, his fingers brushing against vincent’s cheek. “you’re special, vincent. don’t you see that?”

vincent’s heart pounded in his chest, his skin tingling under rody’s touch. he wanted to pull away, to break free from the spell rody was weaving around him. but he couldn’t. he was trapped, ensnared by the music, the words, the touch.

—

as the weeks passed, vincent found himself falling deeper and deeper into rody’s web. every evening, rody would appear, always with a gift—a comb, a flower, a silver ribbon. and each night, rody would braid vincent’s hair, his fingers moving with practiced precision.

“you belong to me now,” rody would whisper as he tied the final ribbon, his lips brushing against vincent’s ear. “no one else will ever love you like i do.”

vincent’s health began to decline. he stopped eating, his appetite replaced by a gnawing hunger for rody’s attention. his skin grew pale, his once-lustrous hair now dull and limp. but no matter how weak he became, he couldn’t stop himself from seeking out rody’s presence.

—

one evening, vincent’s mother confronted him. “you’re wasting away, mijo,” she said, her voice filled with worry. “you don’t eat, you don’t sleep. what’s happening to you?”

vincent opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. how could he explain what was happening  to him? How could he make his mother understand the way Rody had ensnared his heart, his mind, his very soul? The truth was that Vincent didn’t fully understand it himself.

His mother reached out, her hands trembling as she took his face between her palms. “Vincent, look at you,” she whispered. “You’re fading away. Who is doing this to you?”

Vincent lowered his gaze, unable to meet her eyes. He could feel the weight of the flowers Rody had given him, the silver combs woven into his hair, the delicate braids that now felt like chains. He could feel the presence of Rody—everywhere, wrapping around him like a suffocating blanket. His mind flashed back to the nights spent under the lamplight, Rody’s soft whispers, the songs that had lulled him into this strange, intoxicating love. But how could he explain that?

“I—” His voice cracked, weak and brittle, just like the rest of him. “I don’t know what to do, mamá.”

His mother’s brow furrowed in concern, but before she could ask more, the faint sound of music drifted through the open window, soft and haunting. A shiver ran down Vincent’s spine, his heart skipping a beat as he recognized the melody. It was **his** melody—the one Rody played for him every night.

His mother’s grip tightened on his face, her eyes widening. “Do you hear that?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Vincent nodded, the words caught in his throat. He could already feel the pull, the irresistible need to follow the sound. It was calling him, beckoning him into the night.

Without another word, he turned away from his mother and headed for the door.

“Vincent!” she called after him, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

—

The air was cool as Vincent stepped outside, the streets of Tequila bathed in the silver light of the full moon. And there, under the same streetlamp, stood Rody, his wide-brimmed hat casting his face in shadow. His silver guitar gleamed in the moonlight, the haunting melody filling the empty streets.

“Vincent,” Rody’s voice was soft, dripping with affection as he strummed the final chord. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Vincent’s heart clenched in his chest. The music was like a drug, filling his veins with warmth, making his mind foggy and light. He felt Rody’s eyes on him, even though the shadow of his hat concealed them, and it was as if the world around them faded into nothing.

“I don’t understand,” Vincent whispered, his voice weak. He felt so tired, so worn down. “What are you doing to me?”

Rody smiled, slow and tender. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his hand reaching out to tuck a loose strand of Vincent’s hair behind his ear. “I’m giving you what no one else can,” he murmured. “Love. True love.”

Vincent’s knees nearly buckled at the words. The longing that had been growing inside him for weeks—the desire to be wanted, to be seen—was unbearable. He wanted to believe Rody, wanted to give in, but he could feel the weight of his mother’s warning, the fear clawing at his chest.

“You’re killing me,” Vincent breathed, his voice shaking. “I… I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I’m losing myself.”

Rody’s smile didn’t falter. “No, Vincent. You’re becoming mine. That’s what love is—giving yourself entirely to someone else. And you… you’ve already given yourself to me.”

Tears pricked at the corners of Vincent’s eyes. He wanted to fight it, to pull away, but his body betrayed him, leaning into Rody’s touch as if it were the only thing keeping him alive. He couldn’t deny it any longer. Rody had woven himself into every part of his life, every part of his mind. His music, his touch, his voice—it was all that Vincent had left.

“Come with me,” Rody whispered, his voice like honey, sweet and dangerous. “Let me take care of you.”

Vincent’s breath hitched. He wanted to say no. He knew he should. But when Rody held out his hand, Vincent found himself reaching for it without hesitation.

—

They walked through the village together, Rody leading Vincent down the quiet, deserted streets. The sound of Rody’s guitar still echoed in Vincent’s ears, the melody looping endlessly in his mind. Every step felt heavier than the last, his exhaustion creeping deeper into his bones, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when Rody was beside him, holding his hand, guiding him.

Rody led him to the edge of the village, where the houses gave way to the open fields and rolling hills. There, under the wide, star-filled sky, stood a small, rundown shack. It looked abandoned, the wood weathered and worn, but the sight of it sent a strange wave of comfort through Vincent. It felt like a sanctuary, a place removed from the world where he and Rody could exist together, untouched by anything else.

Rody smiled, his dark eyes gleaming as he looked at Vincent. “This is where I’ve been staying,” he said softly. “It’s not much, but it’s ours now.”

Vincent nodded numbly, his body swaying with exhaustion. His legs felt weak, his vision blurring at the edges. He hadn’t eaten in days, and the lack of sleep was starting to take its toll. But despite it all, he couldn’t bring himself to let go of Rody’s hand.

Rody led him inside, the door creaking as it swung open. The inside of the shack was bare, save for a single chair and a makeshift bed in the corner. Moonlight filtered through the broken windows, casting long shadows across the floor. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the wildflowers that grew outside.

“Sit,” Rody whispered, guiding Vincent to the chair.

Vincent obeyed, sinking into the wooden seat as his limbs grew heavy. He watched as Rody knelt before him, gently taking his hands and placing them in his lap. Rody’s fingers were warm, his touch soft, and Vincent felt a strange sense of calm wash over him, despite the confusion and fear that still churned in his chest.

“Why… why are you doing this?” Vincent asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Rody smiled, a soft, sad smile that made Vincent’s heart ache. “Because I love you,” he said simply. “I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you.”

Vincent’s breath caught in his throat. The words sounded so genuine, so real. But there was something else there, something darker hidden beneath the surface. A possessiveness, an obsession.

“I…” Vincent’s voice faltered. “I don’t know if I can…”

“You already have,” Rody murmured, his fingers trailing up Vincent’s arm, tracing the delicate line of his collarbone. “You’re mine, Vincent. You’ve always been mine.”

Vincent’s heart pounded in his chest, his pulse quickening under Rody’s touch. His mind screamed at him to pull away, to break free, but his body remained frozen, trapped in the warmth of Rody’s presence. He was losing himself, and he knew it. But part of him didn’t care anymore. Part of him welcomed it.

“I’ll take care of you,” Rody whispered, his lips brushing against Vincent’s ear. “You’ll never be alone again.”

Vincent closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He was too tired to fight anymore. Too tired to resist. And so, he let himself fall—fall into the arms of the man who had taken everything from him.

—

As the days passed, Vincent wasted away, his body growing weaker with each passing moment. He could no longer leave the shack, his legs too frail to carry him. Rody stayed by his side, his presence a constant, unyielding weight. He braided Vincent’s hair, combed it with silver combs, and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. The music never stopped, always playing in the background, lulling Vincent into a dreamless sleep.

He had become a ghost, a shadow of the man he once was. And yet, Rody remained. He watched over him, his dark eyes filled with a strange, twisted love.

“You’re mine,” Rody would whisper, over and over again. “You’ll always be mine.”

And Vincent, too weak to respond, would only nod, his once-bright eyes now dull and lifeless.

Vincent’s breath had become shallow, each inhale a labored effort, like drawing air through a sieve. His once-vibrant skin, the color of sun-kissed ivory, had turned pallid and gaunt. The weight of the braids—woven tighter and tighter by Rody’s expert hands—felt like anchors on his scalp, pulling him further down into oblivion. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten or slept. The flowers Rody brought him, once so beautiful, now filled the room with a sickly-sweet fragrance that made him nauseous.

The shack had become his prison, with Rody as both his jailer and his lover, always by his side, watching over him with those dark, unreadable eyes. The silver combs glinted in the moonlight, woven through his hair like tiny gravestones marking the passing of his vitality.

“I brought you something,” Rody whispered, his voice like silk as he knelt beside Vincent’s bed. His hands, warm and gentle, brushed against Vincent’s cheek, sending a shiver down his frail spine. In his hand, Rody held a fresh bouquet of wildflowers—vibrant purple, red, and yellow. They should have been beautiful, but to Vincent, they were another reminder of how trapped he was, how close he was to the end.

Vincent’s vision swam, his once-bright green eyes now dull, framed by dark circles that marred his once handsome features. “Rody…” His voice was barely audible, a broken rasp that echoed in the empty shack. His throat was so dry it hurt to speak. “Please… let me go.”

Rody smiled, soft and tender, as if Vincent had asked for something sweet. He leaned forward, brushing his lips across Vincent’s forehead, the weight of the kiss featherlight. “I can’t, mi amor,” he whispered. “You’re mine. I told you, didn’t I? I’ll take care of you. No one else will ever love you like I do.”

Vincent’s heart clenched, a weak and fluttering thing in his chest. His body was failing, but his mind, even in its exhaustion, was screaming at him to fight, to break free. But how could he? He hadn’t the strength to lift a finger, let alone leave the shack. The music—the haunting melody that Rody played night after night—had seeped into his very soul, draining him of everything. It had lulled him into this submission, this terrifying, peaceful surrender.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember his mother’s face, her warm smile, her gentle voice calling him *mi niño*. But even those memories were slipping away, replaced by the sound of Rody’s guitar, the feel of his fingers braiding his hair.

“Don’t… please…” Vincent gasped, a tear slipping down his gaunt cheek. He didn’t want to die—not like this.

Rody hummed, soft and low, as he began to braid Vincent’s hair again. “Shh, mi amor,” he cooed, his fingers moving with practiced ease. “You’re so beautiful like this, so perfect. Don’t worry. You’ll be with me forever.”

The weight of the braids felt heavier this time, each twist pulling at Vincent’s scalp, tugging him deeper into the darkness. His vision blurred further, the edges of the room fading into a haze of shadows. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore, couldn’t move his arms. He was fading, slipping away like water through his fingers.

“Rody…” Vincent’s voice was barely a whisper now, more a breath than a word. His chest ached with every shallow inhale, his lungs burning for relief they would never find.

Rody’s fingers paused in their braiding, his eyes softening as he looked down at Vincent. “Shh,” he whispered, pressing his lips to Vincent’s temple. “Don’t fight it. Just rest. You’re mine now.”

The words were meant to comfort, but to Vincent, they were a final nail in the coffin. His eyelids fluttered, too heavy to keep open any longer. The world around him dimmed, the music growing distant, faint, as if it were being played from another world. He wanted to scream, to beg for freedom, but his body no longer obeyed him.

With his last breath, Vincent’s heart gave one final, weak beat before falling silent.

—

Rody sat back, his eyes dark and contemplative as he gazed down at Vincent’s still form. The moonlight streamed through the cracks in the shack’s walls, casting long shadows over the room. Vincent’s chest no longer rose and fell, his skin pale and cold to the touch. His once-beautiful green eyes were now closed forever, and the silver combs glinted softly in his long, intricately braided hair.

For a long moment, Rody simply stared, his expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, he stood, his wide-brimmed hat casting his face in shadow as he turned toward the door. The night was still young, and there were other towns, other streets, where another beautiful soul with long hair and sad eyes would be waiting for him.

With a soft hum, Rody lifted his guitar, the familiar melody filling the quiet night air as he walked out into the moonlit streets, leaving Vincent behind—just another victim in his long, tragic tale.

**El Sombrerón** never stayed in one place for long, after all.

The legend would continue.