Dead Plate Oneshots Hard To Swallow

Rody sighed, letting his head fall back onto the couch as he looked into the kitchen, where Vincent was intensely focused on something simmering on the stove. Even from here, Rody could catch hints of lemon and herbs, along with a touch of something earthy and rich that clung to the air like a warm hug. Watching Vincent cook was like seeing an artist at work—every movement deliberate, graceful, and layered with an attention to detail that Rody adored.

Vincent’s dark hair fell in soft waves over his forehead, just a bit too long, and every few minutes, he’d pause to swipe it out of his eyes. His eyebrows scrunched, and his lips formed that familiar little pout whenever he was intensely concentrating, making Rody’s heart thud. It was that same expression Vincent made when he’d put together something special, only to look up at Rody, searching for a reaction, a spark of appreciation in his eyes.

To everyone else, Vincent’s food was a masterpiece. People who’d been lucky enough to sit down to one of his dishes would rave about the intricacy, the unexpected flavors that came together like poetry on the plate. And Rody… Rody loved everything about his boyfriend, but his food was just… too perfect. Too well-plated, too measured, like the food was almost untouchable. There was no soul in the perfection, no warmth in the meticulously arranged patterns. He wanted to love it, if only to see the look of contentment that Vincent had when he received praise. But there was something clinical, almost hollow, in every bite.

Rody sighed, watching Vincent drizzle sauce with the precision of a surgeon. No matter how much he wanted to tell Vincent how he really felt about the food, he knew he couldn’t. Vincent’s cooking wasn’t just a hobby or a craft; it was his way of expressing love, of showing Rody just how deeply he cared. Every meal he prepared for Rody was a carefully crafted love letter, and Rody could feel the weight of that every time he picked up his fork. There was no way he could shatter that look of quiet hope on Vincent’s face, no way he could disappoint him.

Tonight, though, was a little more complicated. Their friend Richard was coming over, and Rody had spent the last hour regretting ever extending the invitation. Richard was a good friend, sure, but when it came to Vincent’s food, he could be… a little much. Richard was head over heels for every morsel Vincent cooked, lavishing compliments that had Rody’s jealousy simmering like the pot on the stove.

When the doorbell rang, Vincent’s eyes lit up. “Can you let him in?” he asked, glancing over at Rody with a soft smile, one that sent a flutter through his chest.

“Yeah, sure,” Rody grumbled, pushing himself up from the couch and heading to the door.

Richard burst in with his usual enthusiasm, pulling Rody into a quick hug before sniffing the air. “Oh, it smells amazing in here! What are you two making me?” he said, shooting a teasing grin at Rody.

“Vincent’s the chef tonight, as always,” Rody replied, trying to keep his tone light, even as a small pang of irritation tugged at him.

Vincent, modest as ever, gave a small shrug. “It’s just a lemon and herb risotto with some sautéed mushrooms. Nothing too fancy,” he said, though Rody could tell by the way he rubbed his thumb along the handle of the pan that he was eager for Richard’s opinion.

Richard’s eyes widened as he glanced into the pan. “Are you kidding? That sounds incredible,” he said, leaning over to catch a better look. “The color on those mushrooms! And I bet the risotto is cooked to perfection, isn’t it? You’re amazing, Vincent.”

Rody felt his jaw clench a bit, but he forced himself to smile. Richard wasn’t wrong—Vincent *was* amazing. But it grated at him, hearing Richard pour out these compliments, seeing Vincent’s cheeks flush with that faint pink that Rody couldn’t ever seem to coax out with his own words.

Vincent gave a small, bashful laugh, looking at Rody as if he needed reassurance that Richard’s praise was warranted. Rody swallowed, forcing his gaze to soften, giving Vincent a little nod. “You’re going to love it, Rich,” he managed. “Vincent’s food is always… something special.”

Once they sat down at the table, Vincent set the plates in front of them, meticulously garnished with thinly sliced lemon and sprigs of fresh herbs. It looked stunning, a picture-perfect meal that could’ve been ripped straight from a glossy magazine. Rody watched as Vincent’s gaze darted between him and Richard, searching for that telltale spark of appreciation.

Richard took the first bite, his eyes widening as he let out an appreciative hum. “Oh my god, this is incredible,” he said, looking up at Vincent in awe. “The flavor balance is perfect—the brightness from the lemon, the earthiness of the mushrooms… How do you do this, man?”

Vincent’s cheeks colored a deeper shade of pink, his lips curling into a small smile. “I’m glad you like it,” he murmured, glancing at Rody with a glimmer of hope.

Rody forced himself to take a bite, feeling the familiar cascade of perfectly balanced flavors wash over his tongue. It was just like he remembered—each component placed meticulously, each flavor carefully curated. But it was all… just so flawless, so untouchable. It lacked the warmth, the soul he craved in comfort food, something that felt a bit messier, more human.

“It’s great, babe,” he managed, offering Vincent a warm smile. And he meant it—it *was* great, objectively. But he couldn’t bring himself to match Richard’s enthusiasm, and he could see the faint flicker of disappointment in Vincent’s eyes.

Richard, oblivious to the tension simmering beneath the surface, continued to gush over every bite, going into detail about the textures, the nuances, each flavor. Rody’s chest tightened as he watched Vincent’s expression soften under the flood of compliments, his blush deepening, his shoulders relaxing. It was everything Rody wanted to give him but couldn’t. How could he, when every bite felt like a performance rather than a conversation?

After dinner, Vincent started clearing the plates, but Richard stopped him, grinning. “No, no, you cooked—you shouldn’t be doing the dishes. Rody, help him out, yeah?”

Rody forced a smile and got up, giving Vincent’s arm a gentle squeeze as he helped him carry the dishes to the sink. Once they were alone in the kitchen, he took a deep breath, stealing a glance at Vincent’s face.

“Rich really liked it, didn’t he?” Vincent asked softly, his voice almost hesitant.

“Yeah,” Rody replied, his voice just as soft. “You did amazing. He couldn’t stop talking about it.”

Vincent bit his lip, a small, uncertain smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “And… you?”

Rody’s chest tightened, the truth clawing at his throat. He wanted to say that he loved it, that it was everything he’d ever wanted. But he couldn’t lie, not outright. So he placed a hand on Vincent’s shoulder, his thumb brushing gentle circles against his boyfriend’s collarbone. “I love how much you put into it, Vin. You’re… incredible.”

Vincent’s face softened, a small sigh escaping him as he leaned into Rody’s touch. “Thank you, Rody,” he murmured. But there was something missing in his eyes, a flicker of doubt that hadn’t been there before.

As they washed the dishes together, Rody couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing something precious, a piece of Vincent’s heart that was slowly slipping through his fingers. And he hated it—hated that he couldn’t give Vincent the validation he so clearly craved, the unbridled admiration he deserved.

But as they finished up, Vincent turned to him, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. And for that brief moment, Rody allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the love he couldn’t say with words could still be felt in the quiet moments they shared, in the warmth of Vincent’s hand in his, in the gentle weight of his head resting on Rody’s shoulder as they sat together in the aftermath of another perfect, untouchable meal.

Maybe it wasn’t everything Vincent needed, but it was all Rody had to give. And for now, he hoped it was enough.