I think I should confess that sometimes when I use French names for places or establishments I give them the most ridiculous names I can think of. I don't do it everytime tho
Rody wasn’t a guy who made enemies. In fact, he generally avoided confrontation so thoroughly that most people in his life probably couldn't imagine him in an argument.
The problem was, his boyfriend Vincent had enough fiery temper for the both of them—and a strong belief that if Rody wasn’t going to stand up for himself, well, *he’d* have to do it for him.
“Rody,” Vincent said, his sharp French accent slicing through the air as he squinted at the waiter, “I’m certain you ordered *chocolate* sprinkles. Not rainbow. You asked specifically.”
Rody tried not to groan. Here they were again.
“It’s fine, babe,” Rody murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t even like sprinkles that much, really…”
Vincent turned to him with a look of absolute scandal, his eyes flashing as he jabbed a finger toward the unfortunate waiter. “You heard him, he doesn’t like sprinkles! You can’t just go handing people *random* sprinkles, like some kind of sprinkle anarchist!”
Rody was already making apologetic gestures to the waiter, trying to smile through Vincent’s tirade. “Sorry, sorry! Really, he’s just passionate…”
But Vincent was on a roll, and no amount of Rody’s awkward grinning was going to stop him now. He placed his hands on his hips, throwing his head back dramatically. “In this establishment, there is such a thing as *respect,* is there not?” he said, his voice getting louder by the second. “If a man orders chocolate sprinkles, he gets *chocolate sprinkles.* Anything less is a crime against humanity.”
“Sir, it’s just sprinkles…” the waiter stammered.
“*Just* sprinkles?” Vincent’s voice went up a whole octave. “Ah, but if he had asked for just ‘anything,’ we wouldn’t be here, would we?”
“Vin,” Rody interjected, trying to tug him back to the table. “Vin, babe, it’s—no one cares about the sprinkles, and that’s okay. See, I’ve already finished half of it…”
But Vincent huffed, throwing his arms up as if the waiter had personally insulted his family lineage. “Rody, it’s the principle! I’m not going to sit here and let someone *deny* you your sprinkle preferences!” He looked back at the waiter with renewed fire. “Do you understand?”
“Vin, please,” Rody murmured, stepping in front of Vincent and gently grabbing his shoulders. “Why don’t we just… take a walk and let the sprinkle thing go?”
Vincent squirmed, still muttering angrily, but Rody knew he’d won when Vincent’s face softened, just slightly, into a pout. He lifted Vincent right off his feet—easily, as though he weighed nothing—and practically carried him out the door, nodding apologetically to the waiter all the while.
Once they were outside, Rody set Vincent back on his feet, giving him an affectionate pat on the head. “You know, if you keep starting fights over sprinkles, there won’t be any cafés left in Paris for us to go to.”
Vincent sniffed, looking pointedly away with his arms crossed. “I just hate when people treat you badly. You’re too nice to stand up for yourself.”
Rody laughed and slung an arm around Vincent’s shoulders, steering him down the sidewalk. “Trust me, *chocolate* sprinkles aren’t a threat to my honor. I’ll survive.”
But it didn’t end there. With Vincent, it never ended there.
Two days later, they were at the bakery around the corner, and Rody—having learned his lesson—was perfectly content to order his coffee without any extras. Simple. Easy.
