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Rody woke up with a groan, rolling over in bed and dragging a pillow over his face. His hair stuck up at odd angles, his eyes half-shut. Another day, another shift. Maybe five more minutes...
But then his gaze—bleary and unfocused—slid toward his alarm clock. He blinked once. Twice. And then—
Wait.
Did that say—
No. No, no, no—
SHIT!
The plouc had about five minutes to get to the bistro. Five minutes. It took him at least ten to bike there if he pedaled like his life depended on it—(which it kind of did).
Hurriedly, he practically leaped out of his couch, tangling himself in his sheets on the way down. He cursed, kicked them aside, and shoved his messy auburn hair back, applying hair gel in haste. Damn it, he needed a new alarm clock—this one was as good as broken.
He tugged at his uniform—it was clearly not made for his muscular build—too tight around his arms, collar tugging uncomfortably against his neck—but he didn’t have time to care. His heart hammered, his hands shaking just enough to fumble at the hem.
Shoes. Shoes, shoes—! He shoved his feet into them, nearly tripping as he kicked the backs into place. “Don’t fall, don’t fall,” he muttered, stumbling toward the door. He almost tripped on nothing, but whatever. No time.
Keys! Where—? There. He snatched them off the counter, nearly dropping them as he spun. He grabbed his bike. The door was in sight, and after putting on a little bit of cologne, he practically collided with it as he flung it open.
The morning air slapped him in the face—fresh, cold, damp from overnight rain. He shuddered but kept moving. Hopping onto his bike, he almost toppled sideways, but caught himself at the last second, teeth gritted.
“Come on, come on!” he muttered to himself, pedaling so fast his legs burned. The streets blurred past, horns honking, a dog barking, and him zigzagging slightly to avoid a puddle.
Vincent. Please don’t let him notice yet. Please don’t be pissed. Please don’t—
But that was exactly the sort of thing Vincent would do, wasn’t it? Elegant, punctual, scary Vincent, with his sharp eyes and sharp tongue. If anyone was going to scold him within an inch of his life, it’d be him.
No—Rody couldn’t think about that. Not now. Not when his job—his job could be on the line!
…But Vince wouldn’t actually fire him. Right?
…Right..?..
****
The bell above the bistro door chimed as Rody stumbled inside, panting like a dog. He was braced for it—for the glare, the sharp French curse, the inevitable lecture.
But—
Wait.
Where was Vince?
Weird. Unsettlingly weird. The man was practically perfect. Elegant. Charming. Irritatingly pretty—..Nevermind that. And punctual. Always punctual. He’d never been late. Not once.
So where was he?
Fifteen minutes earlier...
Vincent had woken with a cough.
He ignored it, of course. It was nothing. Just the smoking catching up to him. Then came the cold—or was it heat? His skin burned, yet a chill gnawed at him, crawling beneath his ribs. He shivered under the weight of both. Perhaps it was exhaustion. Sleep had been a rare luxury lately—scattered paperwork, endless prep, meetings, menus, decisions. He lived in a cycle of ink stains and headaches. So of course he felt off. That was all it was.
Or so he told himself.
Dragging himself out of bed, he winced at the dull burn in his chest. Each movement felt like wading through fog, heavy and suffocating. He smoothed down his black hair, tugging at the stiff collar of his chef’s coat, trying to make it sit right. As if appearance alone could make him feel better.
He coughed again, pressing a hand to his mouth. The sound was rough, deeper than he’d admit. His head throbbed. A hammer beating against his temple. His fingers rose instinctively, rubbing, pressing, trying to ease it away. Pointless.
Great. Just great.
He leaned against the counter for a moment, willing the dizziness to pass. ‘Maybe I can survive one day like this,’ he thought grimly. Just one. But already, a fever was stirring in him, creeping like a shadow he couldn’t shake.
Not now. Not today.
Because Rody would be here soon. And the last thing Vincent wanted was for him to see him like this.
After checking the clock, he forced himself downstairs, each step deliberate, measured. But slow. Too slow.
The cooks were already there. Of course. And of course, Rody wasn’t. Late as usual. With anyone else—Vincent would have fired them immediately.
But this was different.
This was Rody.
A hint of pink powdered Vincent’s pale cheeks. He scoffed at himself. Enough of that. Where the hell was that mess of a man? Another glance at the clock. Five minutes late. Knowing Rody, it’d be ten.
Vincent sighed, annoyed at the tremor in his fingers. The scratch in his throat had sharpened, raw and impossible to swallow down.
Another glance at the clock. Six minutes late now. His head throbbed in time with the ticking second hand. Tick. Tick. Tick. Every beat like a drum against his temple. He rubbed at it, but the pain only worsened.
“Merde...” The word rasped—hoarse, ragged, and that irritated him more than the pain itself.
The air felt thick. Stifling. Too warm. Yet he couldn’t stop shivering. His hands rubbed together, chasing warmth that wasn’t there, ignoring the fever-heat radiating from his own skin. His knees wobbled beneath him, threatening to give. The room tilted slightly. Dizzy. Too dizzy.
A small, half-hearted sneeze forced its way out, barely audible, but enough to make him grimace. He turned quickly, shoulders stiff. Hopefully the cooks hadn’t noticed. Disgraceful.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, biting back a groan. Definitely too warm. His vision blurred for a moment, forcing him to grip the counter for balance.
Enough. Just five minutes. Just to breathe. No one needed to know. He moved toward his office, steps elegant, as always—but heavier. So much heavier.
By the time he reached the door, he was panting softly, chest rising too fast. He slipped inside, shut it with a click, and finally let his shoulders sag. The chair was right there. He sank into it, face buried in his hands.
Just five minutes. Then back to work. No one has to know.
He sighed at the paperwork. Sleep clawed at him. He shouldn’t. He couldn’t. But… maybe if he rested his eyes. Just a minute. Maybe…
His eyes slid shut. Head tilting back. Arms folded.
Just a few... minutes...
Back to Rody’s POV!
“Chef came downstairs, but then went straight to his office,” one of the cooks said, olive-skinned with dark curls. Another chimed in, smirking. “But you’re the Chef’s favorite anyway, aren’t you? Why don’t you check up on him?”
Rody blinked. Wait. What? Favorite??
“H-Hey—why me?!” he stammered. “I-I’m not even—Vince doesn’t have a favorite—!”
The second cook snorted. “Exactly! ‘Vince.’ You get to use his name. Hell, a nickname. Anyone else tried that? Dead meat. But you? You walk in and suddenly he’s calm. It’s creepy, man.”
...Rody had no response to that. Huffing, he muttered, “...Fine. I’ll check on him.”
“Good luck,” the cook grinned, thumbs-up and all.
Rody approached the office door.
Knock knock.
....
Nothing. Okay. He tried. He turned to leave—but guilt gnawed at him. Vince was his boss. His friend. Or at least… he hoped he was.
Knock knock.
....
Still nothing. That was enough. Slowly, he turned the knob. The room inside was dim. Dreary, even. Papers scattered, the air heavy. He stepped inside.
Breathing. Soft. Uneven.
He crept closer to the desk. Papers. A typewriter. An ashtray. And—
Vincent.
Shivering. Flushed. Feverish.
But still Vincent.
Rody’s chest squeezed. Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up... The thought looped as he bent down and carefully scooped the lanky man into his arms. Vincent stayed limp, curling instinctively against him, shuddering.
Step by step, Rody carried him upstairs. He checked him constantly, glancing at his sweat-damp temples, his pink cheeks. He pressed a hand to his forehead and winced. Burning up. Way too hot.
Halfway up, Vincent stirred. Eyelids heavy. “...R... Rody...?” The word was barely a breath. Rody’s heart stopped. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Just... stay still, alright?”
Vincent gave in almost instantly, going limp again.
By the time they reached Vince’s apartment, Rody cringed at the sight. He’d seen it before, but that didn’t make it easier to stomach. Empty. Cold. It looked uninhabited, despite Vincent living there. At least the man had a decent bed. Carefully, Rody laid him down, tucking him in, watching him sink into the cushions. His eyes had already slipped closed again, face still fever-rosy.
“I’ll... be downstairs. Doing my job,” Rody whispered. Vincent only grunted softly in reply. Rody cracked his back with a groan on the way out. God, carrying tall people was hell.
But before he left—the noiret raised a trembling hand. Keys. Right. Rody had almost forgot. For locking up, probably. Running back to Vince, Rody took them gently. He gave Vince a quick wink and thumbs-up, and rushed downstairs. He couldn’t risk the customers leaving. Hopefully one of the cooks had covered for him.
Hours later, as his shift ended and the last of the customers and cooks drifted out, Rody exhaled, shoulders slumping. So exhausting... Thank god someone had covered for him earlier, or the bistro would’ve been chaos.
Lock up. Right. Then upstairs.
Vincent.
Still asleep. Relief eased through him.
Then the auburn wandered into the kitchen. He knew he probably shouldn’t snoop around here—but here he was. He couldn’t exactly cook (boiling water was already a hazard with him), so... what could he even give Vince?
His eyes landed on a lemon.
This was stupid. Really stupid. Waking Vince up just to hand him... a lemon? But—he wanted to give him something. So he grabbed it anyway and went back to the bedroom, lemon in hand, and gently nudged Vince awake. The noiret stirred instantly, groggy. “...Morning already...?” he croaked, trying to get up. Rody pressed him back down. “No—Vince- calm down! Work just ended. Not morning.”
Vince blinked slowly, then gave a faint nod, mumbling something Rody couldn’t catch. Rubbing the back of his neck, the auburn cleared his throat nervously. “...So, uh... I... got you something.”
He sheepishly held out the lemon, his face burning red with embarrassment.
Vince blinked. Then laughed. Quietly at first, then harder, until tears welled in his eyes. Rody chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
When Vince finally calmed down, he wiped the tears from his eyes and snatched the lemon. “God, Rody... you’re actually funny.”
Okay. He was definitely out of it. Fever-drunk or something. Laughing? Calling him funny?! “Uh... thanks?” Rody muttered, baffled, as Vince casually started eating the lemon. Skin and all.
“...You’re insane,” Rody whispered, but sat next to him anyway. Silence stretched as Vince finished, then sank back against the pillows. His voice, low and tired, asked: “You locked up?”
“Yeah. Got it handled. Just... relax, okay?”
Vince hummed faintly in agreement, eyelids already drooping. Within seconds, he was out cold again.
Rody let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Watching him for a moment longer, he finally turned to leave the room, steps slow, careful.
…Until—
“...Stay.”
The word was soft. Quiet. Vince had never sounded so fragile. Rody froze. Had he imagined it? He glanced back. Vince lay there, flushed, lips parted. Maybe asleep. Maybe half-awake. But the word lingered in the air.
He hadn’t imagined it.
“...Seriously?” Rody muttered, hand dragging down his face. “You’re making this harder for me, Vince.”
Because now he couldn’t leave. No way. Maybe... maybe just one night. Just to make sure he was okay. That was all.
His eyes flicked around the dim apartment. There wasn’t exactly another bed lying around. Sofa? Way too hard and ugly. Chair? His back would hate him forever. Floor? No chance.
With no choice left, Rody hesitated only a moment before slipping carefully into the bed. He stretched himself as far away from Vincent as possible, practically clinging to the edge of the mattress, though he still tugged the blanket up to cover them both. Just so Vince wouldn’t get cold again. That was all.
But he couldn’t ignore the warmth radiating beside him. Couldn’t ignore the soft rise and fall of Vincent’s chest. His own body ached. His eyelids drooped. Slowly—inevitably—he drifted off.
****
Vincent stirred hours later, blinking awake. Everything felt... wrong. Too hot. His skin burned, his body heavy and restless. For once—it wasn’t the cold gnawing at him, but the suffocating heat.
With a faint groan, he practically ripped the blanket off his body, desperate for relief. But he froze halfway through.
Something—no, someone—was holding him in place. Hands curled firmly around his waist. A steady presence at his side. He went still, his breath catching, and the scent hit him next. Sharp, cheap, familiar, unmistakable.
...Lemon cologne.
His mind reeled, sluggish with fever, but his stomach dropped all the same. He didn’t need clear vision to know who it was. He didn’t need to look.
Fuck.
Rody?!