Lol had a panic attack while writing this
Rody sat on the steps of his apartment complex, staring down at the cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily into the air, drifting off into the night. He didn’t really like smoking, but it was something to do while he waited for Vincent to come home. It was late, as usual. The lights in the hallway flickered—cheap electrical work they never bothered to fix—but that was the least of anyone's problems here. The authorities had their eyes everywhere, cracking down on anyone who stepped out of line, and in a place like this, they never ran out of people to watch.
But Vincent… Vincent was different.
Rody had known him for almost a year now, their lives intersecting by chance when Vincent moved into the apartment next door. At first, Rody had kept his distance. Being in the Special Police meant he couldn’t afford to get close to people, not in the way most could. But Vincent had this magnetic pull. Rody didn’t know if it was his sharp wit or the way he spoke his mind without fear, but it drew Rody in. Vincent wasn’t quiet about his disdain for the way things were, calling out the system for what it was—controlling, oppressive, suffocating. He talked about freedom like it was something they had forgotten, something they'd traded for the illusion of safety.
Rody knew better than to join in. His job depended on loyalty, silence, and keeping the peace—peace in the sense of keeping people too afraid to question things. But when he was with Vincent, it was easy to forget all that. Vincent would lean against the counter in his kitchen, casually talking about everything wrong with the world, his eyes bright and animated, and Rody would find himself listening, just listening.
It didn’t hurt that Vincent was beautiful. He wasn’t traditionally handsome, not in the way people on the street would double-take, but there was something arresting about him. His pale skin, black hair, and the sharpness of his gaze. There was a calm intensity about him, a quiet strength. And then, there were the nights when they got closer. The times Rody let himself be pulled into Vincent’s orbit. The quiet, stolen kisses in the darkened hallways, the way Vincent’s hands felt in his hair, the softness in his touch that Rody didn’t think a man like Vincent would have.
It was more than attraction. Rody knew that. He knew he was falling for Vincent in a way that made things complicated.
Vincent came around the corner, his footsteps quiet, but Rody noticed. He always noticed when Vincent was near. There was an electricity in the air whenever Vincent entered the room.
“Smoking again?” Vincent asked as he walked up, his lips tugging into a half-smile.
“Trying to quit,” Rody said, stubbing it out on the step beside him. He glanced up at Vincent, standing there with his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jacket. Rody had seen him like this before—disheveled but confident, like he couldn’t care less how the world saw him.
“You always say that,” Vincent murmured. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
Rody followed him into his apartment, the door clicking shut behind them. Vincent’s place was small, barely more than a couple of rooms, but it felt… lived in. There were books stacked on the coffee table, papers scattered everywhere, and an ashtray by the window, though Vincent had quit smoking years ago. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, always fresh, as if Vincent never quite managed to finish a cup before starting another one.
“Busy night?” Vincent asked, throwing his jacket onto the back of the chair. He looked at Rody with those eyes, the ones that always seemed to know too much.
Rody shrugged, trying to shake off the tension coiling in his chest. He stepped closer, catching Vincent by the wrist, pulling him towards him. “I don’t want to talk about work.”
