Dead Plate Oneshots Mine Even In Death

**Paris, 1971.**

It started on an overcast afternoon in the dim corner of a café. The air was thick with the smell of roasting beans and rain-slicked streets, but all Vincent could focus on was the man sitting near the window, his head turned slightly toward the light as if he belonged to it. Rody’s hair, auburn and wild, caught the grey light in soft strands, messy but almost intentionally so. There was a careless grace to him, a rugged charm that made Vincent’s heart lurch.

Vincent hadn’t meant to stare, but the moment he saw Rody, he was transfixed. He watched him sip his coffee, his broad shoulders hunched slightly over the small table, lost in some quiet reverie. The light framed Rody perfectly, making him seem untouchable yet strangely familiar, like a dream Vincent had never fully awakened from.

But then, she arrived.

Manon slid into the seat across from Rody, her laughter filling the space like bells chiming in a distant tower. Rody’s face lit up when he saw her, a warm smile spreading across his lips as he leaned in close, whispering something that made her giggle. They looked perfect together. Too perfect.

Something sharp twisted in Vincent’s chest, a seed of jealousy so bitter he could taste it. He didn’t even know Rody—hadn’t even spoken to him—but the sight of them together made Vincent want to rip the world apart.

For weeks, Vincent kept returning to the café, watching from the same corner, listening to their conversations, observing every detail. Rody’s relationship with Manon seemed solid, but Vincent had always been good at finding cracks. He began to notice the little things—how Manon would frown when Rody wasn’t looking, how sometimes Rody’s smile seemed a bit too forced. Vincent convinced himself that Manon wasn’t good enough for him. She didn’t see Rody for who he truly was. She wasn’t *worthy* of him.

One night, after following them from the café, Vincent cornered Manon just outside her apartment. The streetlights cast long shadows over Vincent’s sharp features, and when he stepped from the darkness, Manon gasped, startled.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice faltering as she took a cautious step back.

“I want you to leave him,” Vincent said, his voice cold and deliberate, his black eyes boring into hers. “You don’t deserve him.”

Manon blinked, confusion and fear washing over her face. “What are you talking about? Who even are you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Vincent murmured, stepping closer. “What matters is what happens next. You’re going to break up with Rody. Tonight.”

Her expression hardened with defiance. “And if I don’t?”

Vincent leaned in, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “If you don’t, you’ll regret it. I know where you work. I know where you live. I will make your life hell if you stay with him.”

Manon paled. She could tell Vincent wasn’t bluffing. His presence was like a black hole—something terrifying and inescapable. Without another word, she nodded and hurried into her building.

The next day, Rody sat alone in the café, his usual table for two now empty. Vincent watched as Rody’s face remained expressionless, though his fingers twitched nervously around the rim of his cup. The breakup must have stung, but Rody didn’t look devastated. Instead, he seemed… lost.

And that’s when Vincent made his move.

—

At first, it was simple—harmless, even. Vincent would come into the café, striking up casual conversations with Rody. He learned about Rody’s life, his work, how much he missed Manon but didn’t understand why she left so abruptly. Vincent soothed him, telling him he was better off without her, that sometimes people didn’t see what they had until it was too late.

Vincent was charming, too. He knew how to wrap his words around Rody like silk, offering comfort, sympathy, and a subtle hint of admiration that made Rody’s bruised ego feel a little less sore.

It wasn’t long before Vincent asked him out. Rody, still raw from the breakup, hesitated at first but eventually agreed. Vincent knew Rody wasn’t really *in love* with him—not yet, at least. He was just a rebound. But Vincent didn’t care. He had Rody now, and that was enough. He’d work on making it more. He could be patient.

—

But Rody was far from the gentle, broken man Vincent imagined him to be.

At first, Rody seemed shy, almost awkward around Vincent, but soon, a different side of him began to surface—something dark, possessive. Vincent noticed it the first time Rody got tense when he mentioned talking to one of his old friends.

“Why were you talking to him?” Rody asked, his voice a low rumble, barely masking the suspicion. “You two seem close.”

Vincent chuckled nervously, brushing it off. “Just catching up. Nothing to worry about.”

Rody’s eyes narrowed, but he let it go.

But the tension built, and soon, Rody’s possessiveness turned into something far more dangerous. He began to control Vincent, watching his every move, questioning every conversation, every interaction. His jealousy became suffocating, and Vincent, ever eager to please, would assure him that he was the only one. Still, Rody wasn’t satisfied.

One night, Rody came home, furious. Manon had apparently said something to him—something that set him off.

“She said dumping me was the best decision she ever made,” Rody fumed, pacing the apartment. “Called me *too possessive*. What does she know?”

Vincent, sitting on the couch, tried to calm him. “Well you are quite possessive. Maybe she had the right idea” he joked

But Rody’s anger was a living thing, a beast clawing at his insides. “You think she’s right?” he snapped, turning on Vincent. “You think I’m too possessive?”

Vincent, sensing the danger, forced a weak smile. “No, no, of course not. I was just joking.”

“*Joking*?” Rody’s voice dropped, low and dangerous.

Before Vincent could react, Rody was on him. His hands grabbed Vincent by the collar of his shirt, lifting him effortlessly off the couch and slamming him against the wall. Vincent’s head hit the drywall with a sickening thud, and Rody didn’t stop. He slammed him again, and again, the wall cracking under the force.

“Don’t you ever joke like that again,” Rody growled, his face inches from Vincent’s, eyes wild with rage. His grip was iron, crushing, and Vincent’s vision blurred as pain shot through his skull.

Then, as quickly as it started, Rody let go. Vincent slumped to the floor, gasping for air, his body trembling from the shock. Rody, standing over him, began to cry.

“I’m sorry,” Rody sobbed, his voice shaking. “I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it.”

Vincent, his heart still racing, could only nod. He reached up, weakly touching Rody’s arm, trying to soothe him. “It’s okay,” Vincent whispered, though it wasn’t. “I forgive you.”

But the violence didn’t stop. Over the following months, Rody’s possessiveness grew worse. His anger flared at the slightest hint of perceived betrayal. Vincent walked on eggshells, always trying to calm Rody before things spiraled out of control. But it was never enough.

One night, after a romantic getaway at a small cabin hotel in the countryside,Rody got upset again. They had gone for dinner in the hotel’s restaurant, where a young waiter had smiled a little too brightly at Vincent. Rody’s eyes had darkened, his mood souring instantly.

When they returned to their room, Rody’s fury erupted.

“You were flirting with him,” Rody accused, pacing the room like a caged animal.

“I wasn’t!” Vincent insisted, his voice trembling. “I don’t even know him!”

Rody didn’t listen. His face twisted with rage as he shoved Vincent into the bathroom, locking the door from the outside. “You can stay in there until you remember who you belong to,” Rody spat before storming off.

Vincent spent the entire night locked in the cold bathroom, his heart pounding in his chest as he listened to Rody pacing outside, muttering to himself. Fear gripped him like a vice, but still, he stayed.

—

It wasn’t long before Rody’s anger turned even more dangerous.

One night, after a particularly bad argument, Rody came home drunk, his words slurred as he accused Vincent of ruining his life. “You’ve turned everything to shit,” Rody snarled, grabbing Vincent by the arms. “I’ve given you everything, and you’ve ruined me!”

Vincent tried to calm him, but Rody wouldn’t listen. In a sudden burst of violence, Rody shoved him hard, sending Vincent crashing into the coffee table. The glass shattered beneath him, jagged pieces cutting into his skin as Rody stood over him, fists clenched, eyes wild.

Vincent didn’t even bother getting up. He just lay there, blood trickling from his cuts, his body trembling with fear and exhaustion. Rody’s face softened, guilt washing over him as he knelt beside Vincent, touching his arm gently.

“I’m sorry,” Rody whispered, his voice thick with emotion, trembling as he reached for Vincent. “I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Vincent stared up at him, pain blurring his vision. His body ached from the impact, but more than the physical hurt was the deep, gnawing ache in his heart—the growing realization that this wasn’t going to stop. Each time Rody apologized, he promised it would never happen again, and each time, the violence escalated. But Vincent still loved him. He couldn’t explain why. He clung to the memory of the man he first met—the shy, awkward Rody who had laughed nervously at his own jokes. He wanted to believe that man still existed somewhere, buried beneath all the anger and jealousy.

So, Vincent nodded, the bitter taste of resignation filling his mouth. “It’s okay,” he lied, his voice barely a whisper. “I forgive you.”

—

But the next time was worse.

A few weeks later, they were at the grocery store. Vincent had gone ahead to pick up some vegetables when Rody walked around the corner and saw him chatting with a man at the produce stand. The stranger had asked Vincent for directions, and Vincent had answered politely, a smile on his face. But when he turned and saw Rody standing there, the look on his face stopped Vincent cold.

Rody’s eyes were dark, his jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck taut with tension. Vincent’s heart sank. He knew what was coming.

“Who the fuck was that?” Rody growled, storming up to Vincent, his voice low but seething with barely contained fury.

“He just asked me about directions,” Vincent replied quickly, trying to defuse the situation. “That’s all.”

“*That’s all?*” Rody spat, grabbing Vincent by the arm, his grip like iron. “You’re just standing there, smiling like some kind of whore, talking to him? What the hell were you thinking?”

Vincent’s heart pounded in his chest, the familiar dread pooling in his stomach. “Rody, please,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

But Rody wasn’t listening. He dragged Vincent out of the store, his grip never loosening. By the time they reached the apartment, Vincent’s arm was throbbing, but he didn’t dare say anything. He could feel Rody’s anger radiating off him in waves, like a storm about to break.

As soon as they stepped inside, Rody shoved Vincent hard, sending him stumbling into the kitchen counter. “You think I’m stupid?” Rody snarled, pacing like a caged animal. “You think I don’t see the way you look at other men?”

Vincent’s breath hitched, fear gripping his chest like a vice. “I don’t—I wasn’t—”

“Shut up!” Rody roared, slamming his fist on the table. The sound echoed through the small apartment, making Vincent flinch. “You’re a liar. You’ve been cheating on me this whole time, haven’t you?”

Vincent shook his head frantically, tears welling in his eyes. “No, I swear! I haven’t been cheating on you!”

But Rody didn’t believe him. He never believed him.

Suddenly, Rody lunged, grabbing Vincent by the back of the neck and slamming his face down onto the kitchen stove. The cold metal pressed against Vincent’s cheek, but it didn’t stay cold for long. Rody’s other hand reached for the dial, turning the burner on with a sharp click. The blue flame roared to life beneath Vincent’s face, the heat intensifying with every passing second.

“Rody, please!” Vincent screamed, thrashing in a desperate attempt to get free. The heat seared his skin, the smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils as he sobbed, his voice raw with agony. “Please, stop!”

But Rody held him there, his grip unyielding as Vincent screamed and thrashed beneath him, the fire licking at his face, burning, melting.

“You deserve this,” Rody hissed, his voice cold and detached. “You think you can betray me and get away with it?”

Vincent’s world became a blur of pain, his vision swimming with tears and heat as the flames devoured the left side of his face. His screams were muffled by the stove, his body convulsing in agony as Rody finally let him go.

Vincent collapsed to the floor, clutching his face as the skin blistered and peeled, the unbearable heat still radiating from the burner. His sobs filled the apartment, broken and pitiful, but Rody just stood there, breathing heavily, his hands shaking.

For a moment, there was silence—just the sound of Vincent’s ragged breathing and the soft crackle of the stove. Then Rody’s rage melted into something softer, something regretful. His face twisted with guilt as he knelt down beside Vincent, gently reaching out to touch his shoulder.

“I didn’t mean it,” Rody whispered, his voice trembling. “I swear, Vincent, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Vincent recoiled from his touch, sobbing quietly, his body trembling from the shock. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Rody. The pain was too much, both inside and out.

But despite the agony, despite the terror that filled his heart, Vincent still loved him. He didn’t know why, but he did. And so, through the haze of tears and pain, Vincent managed to nod.

“I forgive you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

—

The next few weeks were a blur. Vincent’s face was a ruined mess, one side disfigured beyond recognition. He stayed inside most days, too afraid to go out, too ashamed of how he looked. Rody took care of him, hovering over him with guilt-stricken eyes, constantly apologizing, constantly promising to be better. Vincent wanted to believe him. He needed to believe him.

But deep down, he knew. He knew it wouldn’t get better.

—

The final straw came one rainy evening. Rody had been in a bad mood all day, and Vincent had tried his best to stay out of his way, to avoid anything that might set him off. But it didn’t matter.

When Rody saw Vincent standing by the door, coat in hand, ready to leave for a brief errand, something inside him snapped.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Rody growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Vincent froze, his heart pounding in his chest. “I was just—just going to get some air. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“You’re lying,” Rody spat, storming toward him. “You’re leaving me, aren’t you? You’re going to run off with someone else.”

“No, Rody, I’m not!” Vincent insisted, backing away slowly. “I would never leave you.”

But Rody wasn’t listening. His face twisted with rage, his eyes wild and frantic as he grabbed Vincent by the throat, slamming him against the wall with brutal force.

“You’re not leaving me,” Rody snarled, his hands tightening around Vincent’s throat. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”

Vincent’s hands clawed at Rody’s, desperate for air, his vision growing dark as his body struggled against the crushing grip. He tried to speak, to beg, but no words came—just a strangled gasp as his lungs screamed for oxygen.

Rody’s face was twisted with fury, but there was something else there, too—something broken, desperate. Tears streamed down Rody’s face as he tightened his grip, his voice shaking with emotion.

“I love you,” Rody sobbed, his voice a raw whisper. “You can’t leave me. You’re not allowed to leave me.”

Vincent’s vision began to blur, the edges darkening as his strength drained away. His body went limp in Rody’s hands, his mind screaming in terror as the last breaths were forced from his lungs.

And then… nothing.

—

When Rody finally let go, Vincent’s body slumped to the floor, lifeless. Rody stared down at him, his chest heaving, his heart pounding in his ears. For a long moment, he didn’t move, his mind struggling to process what he had just done.

He knelt down beside Vincent, gently touching his shoulder, shaking him softly as if he could wake him from a bad dream. But Vincent didn’t move. His face, once so full of life, was now pale and still, his eyes closed forever.

Rody’s breath hitched in his throat as the reality of it crashed down on him. Vincent was gone. He had killed him.

“No… no, no, no,” Rody whispered, his voice trembling as he pulled Vincent’s body into his arms, clutching him tightly. “Please, Vincent. Please wake up. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please wake up.”

But Vincent was gone.

Rody cradled Vincent’s lifeless body, his tears soaking through Vincent’s clothes as he rocked back and forth on the cold floor. His mind refused to accept what had just happened. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. He didn’t mean to hurt him like this—it was just another argument, just like all the others. Vincent would get up and forgive him. He always forgave him.

But Vincent didn’t move.

The apartment was eerily silent, except for Rody’s choked sobs. His trembling fingers brushed through Vincent’s black hair, now matted and damp from the tears falling from his eyes. His face—a face Rody had come to know so well—was still, one half unmarred and the other a twisted mask of melted skin, a permanent reminder of Rody’s violence.

“I’m so sorry,” Rody whispered over and over, his voice cracking, barely recognizable. He pressed his forehead against Vincent’s, shaking uncontrollably. “I didn’t mean to do this. I swear, Vincent, I love you. I love you so much.”

But love hadn’t been enough, had it? Not for Vincent, not for either of them. Rody’s jealousy, his possessiveness—everything that had made him cling to Vincent—had only pushed him deeper into the abyss. He couldn’t control it. He didn’t know how to stop.

Rody’s mind flashed back to their early days. The cafe. The quiet conversations. Vincent’s shy smile, the way his eyes had lit up the first time Rody had agreed to go out with him. It had been so simple back then. Rody thought he could be happy. But somewhere along the way, he had lost control. His love had become a prison, a cage he had built around Vincent, trapping him inside until there was no escape.

And now… he was alone.

For a long time, Rody sat there, holding Vincent’s body, rocking gently as the sky outside grew darker. His mind was numb, shattered by the weight of what he had done. He didn’t know how long he sat there—hours, maybe longer. The world outside the apartment ceased to exist, reduced to the quiet, suffocating space where Vincent’s lifeless form lay cradled in his arms.

Finally, Rody laid Vincent down on the floor, his movements slow and delicate, as if Vincent might still be hurt if he wasn’t gentle enough. He stood up, his legs shaky, feeling as though the ground might collapse beneath him. His eyes were empty, drained of all emotion. The tears had stopped, but the guilt gnawed at him, hollowing him out from the inside.

Rody stumbled into the bathroom, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. His face was pale, his eyes red and swollen from crying. He barely recognized himself. The man looking back at him wasn’t the same Rody who had fallen for Vincent at that little café all those years ago.

No, this man was a monster.

Rody’s mind buzzed with static, his thoughts racing but going nowhere. He felt disconnected from reality, as if his body was moving on its own. He turned away from the mirror, walking back to the living room, where Vincent still lay. His breath caught in his throat as he knelt down beside him once more.

For the first time, the thought struck him—what was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t just leave Vincent there. He couldn’t pretend this never happened. The weight of the reality crushed him, suffocating him with each second that passed. His chest tightened as panic began to claw at him.

“I can fix this,” Rody whispered, his voice trembling. “I can make it right.”

But deep down, he knew there was no fixing this. Vincent was dead. Nothing could change that. And no matter how many times Rody told himself that he hadn’t meant to hurt him, it didn’t matter. He had. And Vincent had paid the ultimate price.

His eyes wandered to the kitchen. To the knife drawer. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if that was the way out—if following Vincent into whatever came next would be his only form of penance. Maybe, just maybe, he could be with him again.

But as his gaze lingered on the drawer, another thought crept into his mind. A darker, colder thought.

Vincent had forgiven him. Every time.

He would have forgiven him for this, too, wouldn’t he?

Rody’s fingers twitched at his sides. He stood up slowly, his eyes locking onto Vincent’s still form. The guilt twisted in his gut, but beneath it, something else stirred—something possessive, something sick.

“You’re mine,” Rody whispered, his voice barely audible, his eyes glassy as he stared down at Vincent. “Even in death, you belong to me.”

He knelt beside Vincent’s body again, gently brushing his fingers along the burnt side of his face, ignoring the jagged texture of the scarred flesh. “You’ll always be mine.”

—

Rody didn’t call the police. He didn’t tell anyone what had happened. Instead, he kept Vincent. He cleaned the apartment meticulously, wiped away all traces of the struggle, and locked the door to their home. No one came looking for Vincent. No one asked questions. It was like the world had forgotten him.

But Rody never forgot.

Every day, he sat beside Vincent’s body, now preserved in the corner of the living room, like some grotesque shrine. He talked to him. Told him how much he loved him. Apologized again and again.

He kept the curtains closed, sealing them away from the outside world. Inside the apartment, it was always quiet, always still. Rody would make breakfast in the mornings, setting a plate for Vincent as though nothing had changed. He would read to him in the evenings, sitting beside him, whispering sweet nothings as if they were still together.

And every night, he would lay down beside Vincent’s cold, lifeless body, whispering the same words he had whispered the night he killed him:

“You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”

Because in Rody’s mind, that was the only truth that mattered.