Warning: Drink spiking, Manipulation, Toxic relationship, Isolation
Vincent liked to imagine he’d always been Rody’s favorite person. Five years together was long enough to call them a family; it was long enough to say, “you’re all I have,” and mean it. Because it was true: without Rody, he’d be all alone in this world. No family, no friends who mattered, just an empty house. All he’d have would be the bitter, hollow aftertaste of what he once had. Vincent loved him enough to do anything for him, kill for him, die for him. And all he wanted in return was for Rody to feel that same kind of devotion.
The relationship wasn’t perfect. Rody didn’t seem to understand how much he really meant to Vincent. Every time he’d go out with friends, it grated on Vincent’s patience. Rody didn’t need anyone else; didn’t he see that? They had each other, and that should be enough. Vincent made it enough, did everything to be the man Rody needed and the only person he’d ever want. But that stubborn streak Rody had—always needing his own space, his own friends—it made Vincent feel as though Rody was slipping through his fingers.
Tonight, Rody was out again with his friends, and the anger had simmered in Vincent all day, creeping into his thoughts like an itch he couldn’t scratch. But anger was something Vincent knew how to hold close, to cultivate into something useful. That night, he dressed carefully and made his way to the bar Rody frequented with his friends. He’d spotted him across the dim, crowded room, laughing at something someone said, looking too comfortable, too free. His gaze followed him all night, dark and unblinking, watching every casual touch, every laugh Rody shared with people who didn’t deserve it.
When Rody wasn’t looking, Vincent had approached the bar, ordered a drink, and carefully emptied a small vial into Rody’s glass. He knew exactly how much would be enough to cloud Rody’s memories of the night, leave him groggy and confused come morning. Nothing he couldn’t handle.
He watched from the shadows as Rody downed his drink, oblivious. Watched as Rody started to sway, laugh a little too loud, lean on the bar for support. And then he saw a woman approach him, blond, her hand resting on his shoulder as she leaned in to say something. Rody gave a lazy grin, his head tilting back as he laughed again, and Vincent’s jaw clenched. He could already see what would happen next.
Rody left the bar with her, Vincent trailing close enough to watch, but not close enough to be seen. He waited outside Rody’s apartment, dark and silent, until he was certain Rody and the woman were inside. Then he turned and walked back home, the satisfaction thrumming in his chest.
———
Vincent returned to Rody’s apartment early the next morning. The door was unlocked, the faint smell of stale alcohol hanging in the air. He found Rody in his bedroom, sprawled under the sheets, his arm draped over the woman lying beside him. She stirred as Vincent walked in, her eyes fluttering open, and she looked up in sleepy surprise as he stood over the bed.
“What—who are you?” she asked groggily, pushing herself up on her elbows. Rody’s eyes opened too, and as he turned, confusion gave way to dawning horror as he saw Vincent standing there.
“Vincent,” Rody said, his voice rough and low. “I—what… what are you doing here?”
Vincent’s expression was carefully controlled, a mix of hurt and disappointment as he looked between Rody and the woman. He exhaled, slow and trembling, letting the silence build the tension he needed.
“I didn’t think… I didn’t think you’d ever do this,” Vincent whispered, his voice thick with heartbreak. He cast his eyes downward, letting the silence fill the room. “How could you?”
Rody’s face paled, the confusion in his eyes deepening as he scrambled to sit up. “I—Vincent, I don’t… I don’t know how this happened. I swear, I don’t even remember her…” He looked around, searching the room as if he could find some explanation hidden in the shadows.
The woman looked between them, her discomfort evident as she gathered her things and left, muttering an apology before she hurried out of the apartment. Rody didn’t even glance at her. His wide-eyed gaze was fixed on Vincent, desperation and guilt bleeding into his expression.
“I don’t know what happened,” Rody repeated, his voice cracking. “I don’t… I don’t remember anything. I swear, Vincent, I would never—”
Vincent shook his head, looking away as if he couldn’t bear to see Rody’s face. “I trusted you,” he said softly. “For five years, I thought… I thought you loved me.”
“I do!” Rody insisted, reaching out, his hand hovering inches from Vincent’s arm. “I love you, Vincent, I swear. I don’t know how this happened. Please, please believe me.”
Vincent let the silence hang again, watching Rody’s face twist with guilt and self-loathing, his hands clenched tightly in the sheets. “How am I supposed to believe you?” he whispered. “I trusted you with everything. And now…”
He turned his back to Rody, his shoulders tense, as though he were fighting to keep himself together. “Do you know what this feels like? Do you have any idea how much this hurts?”
Rody choked on a breath, his hands burying into his hair. “I’ll make it up to you, Vincent. I swear, I’ll do anything. Just… please, don’t leave. Don’t leave me.”
Vincent turned slowly, studying Rody’s face, the desperation there. The self-loathing. Perfect.
“Anything?” he asked softly, letting his voice harden just enough. Rody nodded immediately, his eyes pleading.
“Anything. I’ll do whatever you want. Just… let me make it up to you. Please.”
Vincent let a small, sad smile curve his lips. “Then prove it,” he said. “If you really love me, prove it.”
————
From that morning on, Rody went out of his way to be the perfect partner. It was almost pathetic, how eager he was to please, to apologize, to make amends for something he didn’t even understand. He’d cook Vincent’s favorite meals, clean without being asked, shower him with affection at every opportunity, as though his very life depended on Vincent’s forgiveness.
Vincent reveled in it. Every gesture, every desperate attempt to make things right, was a reminder of just how deeply he’d taken root in Rody’s mind. He’d cultivated that guilt, nurtured it, and now it bloomed in every look Rody gave him, every whispered apology, every touch meant to reassure.
Rody cut back on time with his friends, as if he couldn’t bear the idea of giving Vincent any reason to doubt him. And when he did see them, he always looked over his shoulder, nervous, as though he could feel Vincent’s gaze on him, watching, waiting for any slip-up. Vincent encouraged it, just enough to keep him on edge, to keep him afraid of disappointing him.
And every night, when Rody crawled into bed beside him, whispering promises, pressing kisses to his cheek, Vincent would let him believe that maybe, just maybe, he was earning back his trust. He let Rody believe he was on the path to forgiveness, kept him chasing that ever-distant goal.
It was beautiful, really, the way Rody had given himself over so completely, so willingly. He was Vincent’s entirely, now, bound by guilt and desperation, the perfect lover Vincent had always wanted him to be.
