Vincent awoke with a sharp intake of breath, hand instinctively flying to his neck where he expected to find the deep, jagged wound Rody had inflicted with the broken wine bottle. But there was nothing-no blood, no pain, just smooth, unbroken skin. His heart pounded as he took in his surroundings. This wasn’t the bistro, or the cold, sterile space of a hospital. The room was warm, softly lit by the morning sun filtering through the curtains, and distinctly domestic. It felt lived-in.
Vincent’s mind raced, trying to piece together how he was still alive, where he was, and, most confusing of all, why he felt a strange, inexplicable sense of calm. This shouldn’t be possible. He should be dead.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Vincent turned his head sharply, his body tensing as Rody walked into the room, carrying two mugs of coffee. But this wasn’t the Rody he remembered from his world-the one who had looked at him with a mixture of fear and desperate resolve before stabbing him. This Rody was different. His auburn hair was tousled, his expression relaxed, almost… content?
“Morning,” Rody said, his voice warm and casual, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He set one of the mugs on the bedside table beside Vincent and took a sip from his own.
Vincent’s mind spun. He didn’t know what to say, how to react. “Rody…?” His voice was hoarse, uncertain.
Rody glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Vincent blinked, trying to make sense of everything. “Why am I here? How am I…alive?”
Rody’s smile faltered for a moment, replaced by a look of confusion. “Alive? What are you talking about, Vincent?” He set down his coffee and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in closer. “You had a rough night, but you’re fine now. Don’t worry about it.”
Vincent stared at him, trying to reconcile this Rody with the one he knew. But then, a strange thought struck him. What if this wasn’t his world? What if this was some kind of alternate reality? The idea was absurd, but everything about this situation was impossible. Still, he found himself not caring as much as he should. The anxiety he should’ve felt was overshadowed by the simple fact that Rody was here, he was alive and Rody seemed…. different.
Vincent’s eyes darted over Rody’s face, searching for any hint of the man he knew-the man who had turned on him, who had driven that broken bottle into his neck. But this Rody… this wasn’t the same person. The differences were subtle but unmistakable. The way he carried himself, the confident ease in his movements, the way he looked at Vincent without the fear, without the hesitation.
“I remember… I was in the bistro,” Vincent murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the delicate reality around him. “You… you stabbed me. The fire-“
Rody’s expression softened, but there was no trace of the remorse or guilt Vincent might have expected. Instead, there was only a gentle concern, as if Vincent was speaking nonsense. “You must have had a nightmare,” Rody said, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from Vincent’s forehead. The touch was tender, almost intimate, sending a shiver down Vincent’s spine. “You’ve been working too hard again, haven’t you?”
Vincent flinched at the touch, more out of shock than discomfort. This wasn’t right. “This… this isn’t real,” he muttered, more to himself than to Rody. He pulled away, clutching the blanket tightly around himself as if it might offer some protection from the confusion and fear that swirled within him. “You’re not… my Rody.”
Rody’s smile faltered, but he didn’t withdraw. Instead, he leaned in closer, his green eyes locking onto Vincent’s. “What are you talking about, Vincent?” There was a strange edge to his voice, something almost possessive. “I’m right here. I’m yours. What else matters?”
Vincent’s breath hitched. The words were so sincere, so full of a promise he had never heard from his Rody. The realization that this might not be his world began to settle in, heavy and suffocating, but with it came a dark, twisted sense of relief. In this reality, Rody was his. Entirely and unquestionably his.
His mind grappled with the impossibility of it all, but the allure of this new reality was undeniable. Could he let himself believe it? Could he accept this strange twist of fate that had delivered him a version of Rody who wasn’t afraid, who didn’t see him as a monster?
“You don’t have to worry about anything,” Rody continued, his hand resting on Vincent’s thigh now, firm but reassuring. “We’re together, and that’s all that matters. Isn’t it?”
Vincent felt his resolve weakening, his grip on the truth of his world slipping as he looked into Rody’s eyes. There was something almost intoxicating about this new dynamic, about the way Rody was taking charge, leading him into this new, surreal life where they were together. The thought of losing Rody a second time-no, he wouldn’t allow it.
The gnawing discomfort at the back of his mind was still there, the knowledge that something was deeply wrong with this world. But for the first time in his life, Vincent found himself willing to ignore it. If this was some twisted dream or an alternate reality, he didn’t care. He wouldn’t lose Rody again, no matter what.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, a sound that sent an unwelcome surge of dread through Vincent. Rody’s gaze flicked toward the door, his expression hardening ever so slightly. “Stay here,” he instructed, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’ll take care of it.”
Vincent watched as Rody stood and moved toward the door, his movements fluid, confident. He heard the door open, followed by the sound of a familiar female voice-Manon.
“I just came to check on Vincent,” Manon said, her voice laced with concern. “He didn’t look well last night.”
Rody’s tone was sharp, almost dismissive. “He’s fine. He just needs rest.”
Vincent’s blood ran cold. Manon. His memories of her-of her relationship with Rody-were hazy in this new world, but he knew one thing for certain: he didn’t trust her. She was too close, too involved with Rody. And now, in this twisted reality, Vincent wasn’t going to let her take Rody from him.
He wouldn’t lose Rody. Not again.
Vincent’s eyes darkened with resolve. Whatever this world was, whatever had brought him here, it didn’t matter. Rody was his, and he’d do whatever it took to keep it that way.
No one, not even Manon, would stand in his way.
Vincent’s pulse quickened as he strained to hear the conversation between Rody and Manon just outside the door. His fingers dug into the bedsheets, tension coiling within him like a tightly wound spring. The fear of losing Rody again, of this strange new reality slipping through his fingers, was too much to bear.
“Are you sure?” Manon’s voice carried through the door, tinged with genuine concern. “He seemed… off. Maybe he needs to see a doctor?”
“I said he’s fine, Manon,” Rody replied, his tone firm, final. “He just needs some rest. You don’t need to worry about him.”
There was a pause, and Vincent imagined the skeptical look Manon must be giving Rody. His jealousy flared, irrational but potent, as he pictured her too close to Rody, her concern too intimate.
“I don’t mean to overstep, but-“
“You are overstepping,” Rody interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone that sent a shiver down Vincent’s spine. “Vincent doesn’t need your help. I’m taking care of him.”
Another silence followed, thick with unspoken tension. Vincent could almost feel the air crackling between them. He hated how close they seemed, how involved Manon was in their lives here. It was too much, too invasive. He needed her gone.
“Alright,” Manon finally conceded, her voice tight. “Just… if anything changes, let me know, okay?”
“Sure,” Rody said, but the word carried no warmth, no invitation. It was a dismissal, plain and simple.
Vincent heard the door close softly, followed by Rody’s footsteps as he returned to the room. When Rody reappeared, Vincent’s heart thudded in his chest, a mix of relief and possessiveness surging through him. He couldn’t shake the feeling of danger Manon represented, but seeing Rody re-enter the room alone brought a sense of safety back.
“She’s always hovering,” Rody muttered, more to himself than to Vincent, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Thinks she knows what’s best for everyone.”
Vincent’s eyes followed Rody’s every movement, drinking in the sight of him. He was different, yes, but there was still something undeniably Rody about him. And in this moment, all Vincent could think about was keeping him close, ensuring that no one-not even Manon-could take him away.
“She’s too close,” Vincent said, his voice low, betraying the dark edge of his thoughts. “I don’t trust her.”
Rody glanced at him, surprise flickering in his eyes. “Manon? She’s just a friend, Vincent. She’s not a threat.”
“She wants you,” Vincent insisted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He hated how desperate he sounded, how needy. But the fear of losing Rody was too strong, too raw. “I won’t let her take you from me.”
Rody stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to Vincent’s surprise, a slow smile spread across his face, a smile that was both reassuring and… possessive. “No one’s taking me from you, Vincent,” he said, his voice firm, final. “You’re mine and I’m yours, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Vincent’s breath caught in his throat at the words, the possessiveness in Rody’s tone mirroring his own feelings. For a moment, the reality of where he was-how impossible this all seemed-faded into the background, replaced by a burning need to keep Rody close, to protect what they had here, whatever it was.
“Promise me,” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of his desperation. “Promise me you won’t leave me.”
Rody leaned in closer, his hand cupping Vincent’s cheek with a tenderness that sent a shiver down his spine. “I promise,” Rody murmured, his voice low and intense. “I’m not going anywhere, Vincent. I’m yours, and nothing’s going to change that.”
Vincent felt the tension drain from his body at Rody’s words, replaced by a warm, intoxicating sense of security. Whatever this world was-whether it was real or some twisted dream-he didn’t care anymore. All that mattered was that Rody was here, with him, and that he wouldn’t lose him again.
But even as he savored the moment, the dark thought of Manon lingered at the edges of his mind, a reminder that there were still threats to this fragile reality. He couldn’t let his guard down. Not now, not ever.
Rody was his, and he’d do whatever it took to keep it that way. Even if it meant dealing with Manon once and for all.
Days passed, and Vincent settled into this strange, surreal life with a wary sense of peace. The initial shock of waking up in a world where he hadn’t died and where Rody was inexplicably different had dulled into a cautious acceptance. But beneath that acceptance was a quiet, burning determination. He wouldn’t lose Rody again. Not to anything or anyone, especially not to Manon.
Rody, for his part, was attentive—almost too attentive. He rarely left Vincent’s side, always making sure he was comfortable, well-fed, and reassured. The gentleness was new, a stark contrast to the tense, hesitant man Vincent had known. This Rody was confident, assertive, and fiercely protective, a side of him Vincent had never seen before. It was unsettling, but Vincent found himself drawn to it, craving the security it offered.
Yet, despite Rody’s reassurances, Vincent couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Manon continued to visit, her concern for Rody a constant presence. Each time she came, Vincent’s anxiety flared, his mind racing with dark thoughts. He watched the way she looked at Rody, the way she touched his arm or laughed at his jokes, and the jealousy gnawed at him, deep and insidious.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Manon arrived unannounced. Vincent was in the kitchen, pretending to read a newspaper, but his ears were attuned to every word exchanged between them.
“Rody, we need to talk,” Manon said, her voice serious, almost pleading. “I’m worried about you.”
Rody’s response was curt. “I’m fine, Manon. You’re overreacting.”
“No, I’m not,” she insisted. “You’ve changed. You’re… different. Ever since Vincent—” She hesitated, lowering her voice, but Vincent caught the words. “Ever since Vincent got sick, you’ve been acting strange.”
Vincent’s grip tightened on the newspaper, the paper crinkling under his fingers. Sick? Was that what they were calling it?
“I’m just taking care of him,” Rody replied evenly. “He needs me.”
“And what about you?” Manon pressed. “You’re not yourself, Rody. I barely recognize you anymore.”
Vincent couldn’t stand it any longer. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he stepped into the doorway. Manon looked up, her eyes widening slightly in surprise. Rody turned as well, his expression unreadable, but there was a sharpness in his gaze that made Vincent’s heart skip.
“Is there a problem?” Vincent asked, his voice cold, eyes locked on Manon.
Manon hesitated, glancing between the two men. “I just… wanted to make sure Rody’s okay.”
“I’m fine,” Rody repeated, stepping closer to Vincent, his hand brushing lightly against Vincent’s back in a gesture that was both possessive and calming. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
But Manon didn’t back down. “I do need to worry, Rody. You’re not thinking clearly. This… this obsession with Vincent—”
“Obsession?” Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone. He could feel the rage simmering beneath his skin, the jealousy that had been festering for days now bubbling to the surface. “You think I’m some kind of problem?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Then what are you saying?” Vincent pressed, stepping closer, feeling Rody’s hand tighten on his back as if to hold him back. But he couldn’t stop himself. The idea that Manon might try to take Rody away, to convince him to leave—he couldn’t bear it.
“Vincent, calm down,” Rody murmured, but his voice was firm, almost commanding. “Manon, I think it’s time for you to go.”
Manon looked stricken, her eyes wide with shock and hurt. “Rody… please. I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help,” Rody said, his tone final, brokering no argument. “Vincent and I are fine. We’re happy. Please leave us alone.”
There was a long, tense silence as Manon processed his words. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. Finally, she nodded, her expression a mixture of sadness and resignation.
“Alright,” she whispered, stepping back. “But if you ever need anything—”
“I won’t,” Rody cut in. “Goodbye, Manon.”
With that, Manon turned and left, the door closing softly behind her. The moment she was gone, Vincent let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The anger drained from him, leaving behind a sense of relief—relief that she was gone, that Rody had chosen him.
But as he turned to face Rody, he saw the tension in his eyes, the way his jaw was set in a tight line. “Vincent,” Rody said quietly, his voice heavy with something Vincent couldn’t quite place. “We need to talk.”
A chill ran down Vincent’s spine at those words. “About what?”
“About us,” Rody replied, his gaze intense, almost unreadable. “And about what’s really going on here.”
Vincent’s heart skipped a beat. The words sent a jolt of fear through him, as if the very foundation of this reality was starting to crack. “What do you mean?”
Rody sighed, running a hand through his hair, his confidence faltering for the first time since Vincent had woken up in this world. “Vincent… you’ve been acting strange ever since you got sick. You keep talking about being dead, about this not being real. I need to know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling.”
Vincent swallowed hard, trying to find the words. But how could he explain it? How could he tell Rody that he wasn’t supposed to be here, that this world wasn’t his? That he’d died, that he remembered the searing pain of a broken bottle slicing into his neck, the heat of the flames as Rody burned everything to the ground? How could he admit that he was terrified of losing him again, that he’d do anything to keep this reality intact, no matter how twisted it might be?
“I…” Vincent’s voice cracked, and he hated how vulnerable he sounded, how lost. “I’m scared, Rody. Scared that this isn’t real, that I’ll lose you again.”
Rody’s expression softened, and he took a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup Vincent’s face. “You’re not going to lose me, Vincent,” he whispered, his voice full of conviction. “I’m here. This is real. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
Vincent nodded slowly, the tension in his chest easing slightly at Rody’s words. But even as he tried to cling to that reassurance, the nagging doubt remained, a dark shadow lurking at the edge of his mind.
Because deep down, he knew that no matter how much he wanted to believe in this reality, there were things about it that didn’t add up. Things that didn’t make sense. And the more he tried to ignore them, the harder they became to forget.
But for now, he pushed those thoughts away, focusing instead on the warmth of Rody’s touch, the steadiness of his presence. Whatever was going on, whatever this reality was, he wasn’t going to lose Rody again. He couldn’t.
Even if it meant confronting the truth he wasn’t ready to face.
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