Are You Satisfied?

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/53827333.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Categories: F/M, Gen, M/M
Fandom: Dead Plate (RachelDrawsThis Video Game)
Relationships: Vincent "Vince" Charbonneau/Rody Lamoree, Vincent "Vince"
Charbonneau & Marianne "Manon" Vacher
Characters: Vincent "Vince" Charbonneau, Vince | Vincent Charbonneau's Parents,
Vincent "Vince" Charbonneau's Mother, Rody Lamoree, Marianne
"Manon" Vacher, Maryse, Louis, Beau, Richard (Dead Plate)
Additional Tags: Nightmares, Vincent as a child, Character Study, Smoking, Underage
Smoking, Neglectful Parents, vince is an emo rich boy, biography, I'll
add more tags later, Vincent IS a cannibal, Underage Kissing, Asexuality
Spectrum, Eventual cannibalism, College, Sex, Implied Sexual Content,
Canon Compliant
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-02-16 Updated: 2024-02-17 Words: 9,355 Chapters: 3/?
 Are You Satisfied?
by CoralCandy (Fasminejerry)

Summary

"The children in Vince’s neighborhood never let him play with him. They whispered about
him to each other whenever they thought he wasn’t around, but Vincent always found out
what they were saying, one way or another. They said it was something the eyes. Something
erratic or desperate in them warded them off, though whenever Vince looked in the mirror, all
he saw were two dark pupils, slightly shadowed with purple bags, but he didn’t think they
were that noticeable, were they? His hair was always polished and groomed, too, so it
couldn’t have been that.

Perhaps it was just him. Perhaps he was just unlovable."

How did Vincent Charbonneau become Vincent Charbonneau? What led him to the drastic
lengths he goes to in the name of love? What led him to cannibalistic murder? In this essay I
will...

Notes

"They say I'm a control freak

Driven by a greed to succeed
Nobody can stop me
'Cause it's my problem if I want to pack up and run away
It's my business if I feel the need to smoke and drink and sway
It's my problem, it's my problem if I feel the need to hide
And it's my problem if I have no friends and feel I want to die"
- Are You Satisfied? by MARINA

This is an in-depth interpretation of Vincent's character and his story, as it has not left my
brain since I heard of him. He's so tragic and I love him a completely normal and healthy
amount. This is my first fic, and I want to get it as close to canon as possible, as this is just
my assumptions and thoughts about what Vincent is/was like off-screen, so if anything seems
out of character, please let me know!

See the end of the work for more notes

 In Dreadful Youth

June 24, 1950

Vincent Charbonneau was a boy once, though it seemed so long ago. He once lived under the
roof of two faceless parents, both wolfish in their grins and vacant in their love. Both for each
other, and for Vince. Looking back on those short, youthful days filled Vincent’s mouth with
a strange, tingly feeling.

It’s probably the closest he’s ever gotten to tasting something else.

His tastebuds had always been weak, his will to eat even weaker because of it. When he was
9, on a hot summer’s day, while the gardens were buzzing with cicadas, and his mother stared
down at the newspaper, comfortable in the shade of the umbrella on the table, Vincent
wandered farther into the backyard. He wandered until he reached a single lemon tree in the
corner of the estate, strong and burly enough to shield him from the burning sun. The lemon
tree sat on a bumpy knoll, allowing him to see over the bushed fence that wrapped around his
fifteen-something-thousand square foot house. His father was a lawyer, and his mother was a
renowned chef. They were both top contenders in their fields, and it made for rich pockets.
Sometimes, however, it felt as though they cared more about the weight of their pockets than
the love of their son.

He never cared, though. It was how it had always been.

He plopped himself down in the lemon tree’s embracing shadow, wiping the sweat away from
his brow as he stared out past the gates of his house. Children his age squealed and played in
the streets, laughing in a jovial, carefree tone. He watched them race down the road in a game
of tag, then race each other back up the street, their breaths huffy and staggered when they
reached the end.

One of the girls of the group caught his eye, and she froze in place. Vince tried waving a hand
at her, but as soon as he did, she whispered something to her friends, and they ran back down
the street again.

They did not come back.

With an annoyed and slightly hurt frown, Vincent rose to his feet and started toward his
house again, stealing a lemon to bite into on the way over. The tartness made his mouth
tingle, and he winced at the sourness, but it was one of pleasure. He’d always enjoyed sour
foods; they’d always let him feel something.

The children in Vince’s neighborhood never let him play with them. They whispered about
him to each other whenever they thought he wasn’t around, but Vincent always found out
what they were saying, one way or another. They said it was something the eyes. Something
erratic or desperate in them warded them off, though whenever Vince looked in the mirror, all
he saw were two dark pupils, slightly shadowed with purple bags, but he didn’t think they
were that noticeable, were they? His hair was always polished and groomed, too, so it
couldn’t have been that.

Perhaps it was just him. Perhaps he was just unlovable.

He tossed the half-eaten lemon onto the ground as he sat in the metal chair adjacent to his
mother, her nose still buried deep in her newspaper. He adjusted the chair so half of him sat in
the sunlight, while the rest cooled off in the shadows. Smoke billowed out from behind the
newspaper, and Vincent tilted his head curiously at his mother. “What are you reading?” he
asked.

“Mm?” she hummed, then she finally lowered the paper, revealing the half-gone cigarette in
her hand, her silky black hair pulled into a bun as sharp shadows cut her face like it was made
of glass. She let out another huff of smoke, and Vince’s nose twitched at the invasive scent,
but he ignored it. “Oh,” his mother continued, “Just some reviews of my restaurant.”

She straightened in her seat, as though she were trying to find a way to crawl out of her skin.

“Are they good?”

She scoffed. “Good?” she echoed. “Never. ‘Good’ is not enough. ‘Good’ is never enough.
Always strive for more. My restaurant is as close to perfect as God will let it.”

Vincent nodded slowly, trying to wrap his mind around the concept. He glanced at the
cigarette in her hand, watched her inhale deeply as the butt burned off, then exhale another
breath of smoke through her nostrils. It reminded him of a dragon he’d read in a storybook
once.

“Can I try?” he asked.

His mother lifted a contoured brow at him, then an amused smirk lined her face. “I suppose,”
she answered, then she handed him the cigarette.

He took it between his middle and index finger, scrunching his face in confusion as he stared
at it. He opened his mouth and moved it until it was halfway in.

His mother yanked his hand back with a snort and said, “Well, don’t eat it. Place it between
your teeth— not too much, just—there you go. Then inhale deeply.”

Vincent did as he was told, and smoke engulfed his throat, made it scratchy and irritated. He
spat the cigarette out and coughed viciously, and one of the servants quickly offered him a
glass of water. His mother frowned at the cigarette on the floor, a disdainful look in her eyes.

“Well, now you’ve gone and ruined my cigarette,” she mumbled under her breath. She folded
up her newspaper and stood, stomping on the cigarette as she walked back inside the house,
all the while Vincent threw a coughing fit in his seat.

His hands shook as he gulped his water down, droplets drizzling on his chin as he drank.
That was the first time Vincent ever smoked, but it was far from his last.

December 6, 1950

Vincent didn’t have nightmares that often, but when he did, they never left his mind. In this
one, he was starving in the middle of an empty kitchen, though he knew it was not his
kitchen. (At least, not yet, anyway). A rat’s corpse lay on a plate in front of him, its guts
spilling out in chunks of red and pink. Slivers of white shone through: tiny glimpses of its
ribs. A fork and knife lay on either side of the plate, which was decorated with lettuce and
garnish to make a beautiful dish. He ignored the utensils, instead devouring the rat whole
with his bare hands.

When he was finished, his face was covered in blood, but he was still hungry. Always.
Hungry.

Vince’s eyes snapped open with a sharp intake of air, and he stared around his room as sweat
drizzled down his neck. The moonlight draped into his room from the window to his right,
but the shadows still played tricks on him, as they always did. He’d always been told he had
an overactive imagination, though that never meant anything to him. After all, wasn’t the
whole point of having an imagination for it to act? To think? To create?

He got up from his bed, his tiny footsteps shuffling throughout the house as he wandered
down the colossal halls. They towered over him, and to keep away the loneliness, he often
imagined a friend or two to play with, running and squealing down the halls just as the kids
outside always did. He finally found his parents’ room, and it creaked ever so slightly as he
peered inside.

His mother was sitting on the bed, smoking one last cigarette for the night, her eyes more
sunken than he’d ever seen them before. His father was pacing somewhere to the right, if his
heavy footsteps were any indication.

“Is it not strange to have no friends at his age?” his father whispered as he paced.

“Perhaps he has not had the chance to meet anyone yet.”

“He stays cooped up in this house all day—When I was his age, I was down by the creek,
playing tag with friends—something! How do you think others will look at us when they see
our son is a-a moron?”

Vincent grimaced at the words, but he stayed utterly silent.

“Who cares if he has friends or not?” his mother argued. “Friendship and love have only ever
brought people down, the way I see it. It makes them weak.”

“He talks to himself all day, he barely eats anything besides lemons,” he refuted with an
undignified scoff. “He’s not right in the head!”
His mother closed her eyes and rubbed her temple with her free hand, then she huffed a
breath of smoke. “What do you want to do then?” she asked. “Take him to a doctor because
he likes lemons?”

“You are not listening to me, Camille. God, you never—” He groaned, and his footsteps
suddenly stopped. “Children his age don’t spend their days trailing their fingers through the
dirt or reading cookbooks for fun. It’s not normal. He’s not normal. He’s never once said
anything about any of his classmates—not even the girls.”

“So long as he leads a successful life, I don’t care who he’s interested or not interested in,”
she stated.

After a long bout of silence, his father finally huffed and muttered, “You know what? Forget
it. I don’t know why I bother.”

Vincent listened as the bathroom door opened and shut, and he glanced at his mother as she
dabbed the cigarette in the ashtray with a heavy sigh. A part of him wanted to run back into
his room, but the nightmares would just chase him into his sleep again. So, he creaked the
door open, and Vincent stared at his mother in anticipation.

“Maman?” he murmured. “I-I had a nightmare.”

She shut her eyes in exhaustion, then huffed and patted the spot on the bed next to her.
“About what, chér?”

Vincent crawled on the soft, cushioned bed beside her and frowned. “It’s…hard to explain.”

He glanced up, and he could have sworn he saw her roll her eyes, but he might’ve been
seeing things.

“There was a rat…” he said, “and I ate it.”

His mother’s face twisted in horror and confusion as she stared down at her son. “You what?”

“I was hungry, and it was the only thing in the kitchen, so I ate the rat.”

She sputtered a sigh and patted his back. “It was just a bad dream, chéri, go back to sleep.”

He nodded, and though he didn’t feel the least bit comforted (perhaps even more
uncomfortable than before), he headed to his room with no complaints.

And he was right. The nightmares chased him into his sleep, and they never stopped.

October 16, 1955

It was Vincent’s 14th birthday today. Not like his parents said anything other than “Oh right,
there’s some money on the counter. Buy what you want,” but he didn’t care. He never did.
Why should he? It’s not like he saw his classmates walking home from school with their
parents, gleeful smiles on their faces as they gushed about how their day was. It’s not like he
heard Marielle say her mother bought her an entire art studio because she knew her daughter
liked to paint.

It's not like he felt a sting in his heart every time someone talked about all the nice things
their parents got for them because they simply could.

He sat in his corner of the classroom, keeping to himself as he glanced out the window, when
someone tapped his shoulder. He turned to see Marielle standing sheepishly above him, her
face bright red as she smiled. He glanced down and noticed the gift bag in her hand, and he
lifted a furrowed brow.

“I–I heard it was your birthday today,” she said, then she handed him the bag. “I got this for
you. I hope you like it.”

He silently took the bag from her and peeked inside, ignoring the snickers from a group of
boys in the corner of the classroom, and the muffled squeals from Marielle’s friends in
another.

Vincent pulled out a painting of himself, sitting in his corner of the classroom, staring out the
window wistfully. It was hauntingly accurate, even down to the bags under his eyes, which
had only gotten deeper since he first noticed them. To some, it might have been romantic, but
to Vincent, all he thought was:

Weird.

He placed it back in the bag, securing it with the crumpled paper as he glanced back up at
her, his face unchanged. “Thank you,” he said.

“Do you—Do you like it?” she stammered.

“Mhm,” he lied with a nod. “You’re really good at painting.”

The blush on her face only deepened, and she grinned nervously with a giggle. “Oh! Th-
Thank you! Say, um, some of my friends and I were going to hang out by the Carrière des
Amoureux (Lover’s Quarry) tonight. You want to come?”

He glanced around the room, only to find that all eyes had drifted onto him, and though some
tried to be discreet about it, he knew everyone was listening to them. “Sure,” he mumbled, as
he didn’t know what else to say.

“Make sure you wear your birthday suit!” one of her friends called from across the
classroom, causing an eruption of laughter to emerge, and Marielle to squeak in
embarrassment.
“Don’t listen to them,” she chuckled nervously. “You can wear whatever you want.” She
cleared her throat. “Well, I’ll see you then!”

“See you,” he muttered as she walked away, though Vincent couldn’t help but groan silently
to himself at the thought of hanging out with Marielle and her friends. It wasn’t like he hated
them or anything; he just…strongly disliked talking to them. And listening to them. And
being in the general vicinity of them.

Oh well, it’s not like he had much else to do today, did he? He might as well go, and when
nothing of interest happened, he could use it as an excuse to never talk to them again.

Or so he thought.
 Unyielding Dreams
Chapter Summary

Vincent goes through high school and deals with typical teenage drama before
graduating and going to university.

Chapter Notes

These first chapters are really just buildup and setup for what I have in mind for later.
Hope you enjoy! Sidenote--I will be a bit busy this weekend, so I tried to get a chapter
done tonight, but hopefully I'll be able to keep writing again on Monday.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

October 16, 1955

Vincent wasn’t quite sure what to make of Carrière des Amoureux. It was a quaint watering
hole shining in the blazing sun, surrounded by a forest of trees with leaves of red, yellow, and
orange. Vincent wore a black turtleneck and slacks, though his sleeves were rolled up to let
the autumn wind cool his arms.

Everyone else, however, wore clothing fit for bathing and swimming. He paid no attention to
the revealing bathing suits some of the other girls wore. Instead, his eyes drifted over to
Matteo, Marielle’s older brother, whose eyes danced between the rest of the girls hungrily, as
though he were staring at a menu.

The idea disgusted him.

“Vincent!” Marielle called as she approached him, her outfit considerably more moderate
than her friends’, with her black hair curling down her back, her sky-blue one piece hugging
her curves. Vincent stared at her, and though she was incredibly beautiful, it was the kind of
beauty one thought of when looking at a painting. She was admirable, to be sure, perhaps
even desirable to some, but not to Vincent. “You came,” she greeted, then she studied the rest
of his outfit. “Oh—I…I’m sorry, I probably should have told you to bring a swimsuit.”

“It’s alright,” he answered. It was obvious he should have, though, as the only thing to do at
this quarry was swim, make out, or eat lunch. Allegedly, two boys had been caught kissing at
the lake last year when they thought they were alone. Vincent never knew what happened to
them. “I don’t like swimming that much, anyway.”

She frowned sympathetically, then said, “Well, it’s your birthday; we should do something
you’d like to do today.”

Either she was woefully oblivious to the side-eye her friends gave her, or she didn’t care.
Vincent couldn’t decide which would be worse for him.

Now, Vincent was not oblivious to Marielle’s feelings for him. His father had been berating
him nonstop about when he would show interest in someone, but none had piqued his
interest. He knew what he felt was different than what others described, but there wasn’t
much he could do about it, he supposed. He might as well indulge himself, just to try it.

“I’m fine with just watching, it’s alright,” he assured, and though Marielle seemed
discontented at that, she nodded her head, nonetheless.

“You can watch our stuff then, if you’d like.”

And that was exactly what he did. While everyone else squealed and splashed one another,
Vincent looked from afar, just as he had when he was a younger boy. Not much had changed,
even after five years and some growth spurts.

Once everyone else decided they were done swimming for the day, Marielle’s best friend,
Annie, pulled out a box of cigarettes with a smirk. She pulled one out, then glanced at
Vincent. “I believe the birthday boy should get the honor of the first light.”

Vincent furrowed his brows together, but he said nothing more as he took the cigarette from
her hands. Annie flicked the lighter beneath the end, and it burned an amber glow. He placed
it between his lips, and though it still tingled his throat, this time around, he managed to
successfully huff out a breath of smoke. He passed it on to Marielle beside him.

One by one, they smoked and passed the cigarette around, and Vincent felt a wave of calm
wash over him. He wasn’t used to this feeling, especially not around a group of people as
large as this, but the self-doubt and desperation constantly clawing at the back of his mind
seemed to quiet, if only for a moment. It made the word sluggish and ill-focused, and
something about that made his nerves go numb.

At some point, they had started playing truth or dare.

“Vincent,” Annie began, “I dare you to kiss Marielle. With tongue.”

The other members of the group giggled and gasped in shock, and Vincent had to force
himself not to roll his eyes. He turned to Marielle, who was the brightest shade of pink, and
in some way, it was rather cute. Cute how a kitten or puppy is cute, not in the way a partner
would call their lover cute.

Marielle smiled sheepishly at him, and though he’d never kissed someone before, he figured
it must have been easy enough, if so many people did it and enjoyed it. He could force
himself to enjoy this, even if a pit gouged at his stomach as he held her cheek and leaned in.

Her lips were warm. The movements were mechanical, and though some part of him flurried
at the thought of doing this, of proving that he could form bonds if he truly, truly wanted to,
was it wrong to say another part of him didn’t want this? Didn’t want to smash his lips against
hers as though it was a brawl?

She tasted like the sweet tang of lemons. It was the only reason he kept kissing her.

Finally, someone whistled, and Vincent pulled away, his cheeks flushed despite himself, his
breathing a little shaky. The girls around them giggled as Matteo rolled his eyes and looked
away. Vincent scoffed in satisfaction.

Marielle cleared her throat nervously with a jittery smile as she pressed her fingers to her lips,
as though they still tingled from his kiss. His own lips savored the taste of her lemon
chapstick, but only because of the flavor.

“Well, well,” Annie mused, “it seems he has balls after all.”

This time, Vincent allowed himself an eye roll.

***

On the way back to town, Marielle and Vincent walked a few paces behind everyone, sharing
a cigarette between the two of them.

She cleared her throat, then said, “Um, so, Vincent…”

“Mm.”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you—Well, more like tell you? But…also ask
you, I guess.” She shook her head. “Look, I know we don’t know each other very well, but I
have…feelings for you. Of-Of the romantic kind, and you don’t need to say anything back, I
just was wondering if you would, you know, be potentially interested in—”

Vincent placed the cigarette in her mouth and kissed her cheek. “Please stop talking.”

Marielle blushed enough for the base of her neck to turn red as she took the cigarette in her
hands. “So, what do you say?” she asked nervously.

In truth, he had only done that just to get her to shut up, but as he considered the option, he
realized the benefits it might have. Although he couldn’t care less about the people Marielle
surrounded herself with, Marielle herself was tolerable. Besides, it would get his parents off
his back about not having even a crush or friend over at the house, which was oh so ever
lonely without people to fill it.

“Sure,” he answered, though he didn’t quite grasp the rudeness of phrasing it this way. “I’ll
go out with you.”
Marielle brightened like a strike of lightning, her smile a little bit contagious. “Really? I-I
wasn’t expecting this to go this way, honestly,” she snorted. “Um, would you like to get some
dinner some time then?”

“Sure,” he replied.

And that was the start of Vincent’s first relationship.

November 13, 1955

It barely lasted a month. Marielle nagged him constantly about wanting to do things, go out,
be a—(he nearly shivered at the thought)—couple. It exhausted him, the constant need for
love and attention, something he could barely even give to himself, much less another person.
What was wrong with him? He knew other boys his age got away with so much in their
relationships, but he knew they were at least interested in their girlfriends, for a time. But
Vincent? Every time she’d call, every time she’d ask to go driving somewhere, his stomach
flipped (and not in the good way like he’d heard so many girls talk about before) at the
thought of spending time with her.

So, he kept it brief, and he told her exactly what he was feeling when the school bell rang,
and they stood before one another on the sidewalk. “We should break up,” he said flatly.

Marielle widened her eyes, then she frowned and looked away.

“I don’t think I ever really loved you in the way you loved me, and I’m sorry I can’t give you
what you need, but you’ll be happier without me.”

She blinked in surprise, then slowly nodded her head. “Right,” she murmured, and though
she tried to keep her composure, a tear rolled down her cheek, nonetheless. She exhaled
shakily and pulled out a cigarette, and Vincent offered to light it for her, but she declined.
“Well, I guess I have noticed you acting a little cold lately. I’ll…I’ll see you around, Vince.”

“See you,” he said, and he walked away, feeling a little less weight on his shoulders.

His parents liked her, and he had to admit, she was kind, even after their fallout. But that did
not stop the truth he buried deep inside, the truth that he could not bear the thought of
growing up to marry a lovely wife, food he could smell but never taste awaiting him, children
running around the house. He’d always hated children anyway. Too loud. Too obnoxious. Too
stupid to hold a conversation with. Though maybe that was a bit harsh.

That night, he ate dinner with his parents, his father chewing inconsiderably loud, his mother
buried in her reviews again. Vincent wondered what he was to do with his life, since he knew
he did not want the stereotypical family, which seemed to be the only option he had. He
stared at his parents, and though they were successful in monetary terms, they barely even
spoke to one another. Their marriage was far from successful (Vincent knew this from an
early age) but who was he to declare what happiness was? He was only fourteen for Christ’s
sake; he knew nothing of the world.
Friendship and love have only ever brought people down, the way I see it. It makes them
weak, he remembered his mother saying all those years ago. Perhaps she was right. What
purpose did love serve but to get in the way of one’s career, one’s mark on the world? What
was love if not the destroyer of the self?

“I think I want to be a chef when I grow up,” Vincent announced, though he hadn’t given it
much thought up until now. His father scoffed and rolled his eyes as his mother perked her
head up in intrigue.

“How can one be a chef when you can’t even taste?” his father mocked.

“That’s part of the challenge, I imagine,” he insisted.

His father scoffed again. “You cannot be a chef. Your food will be subpar at best.”

“Andre,” his mother hissed. “Let the boy dream.”

“I will not let him be delusional,” he refuted. “This is a pipe dream, and you will choose a
different path.”

Something in Vincent’s heart soared at the thought of proving his father wrong out of sheer
spite. His father knew nothing of the culinary world, meanwhile Vincent could at least cook
basic foods without burning the house down. His mother had taught him some things over the
years, but never anything serious.

“No,” his father repeated. “I will not allow it.”

The more his father refused, the more he knew this was his path in life. He would create the
most perfect dish, the most delectable delights, even if he himself could not taste them. But
he could feel them, perhaps. He could find a way to taste again, whether it be directly or
indirectly.

He chewed his steak, and though the textures were tolerable, the taste was the same
emptiness that grew in his stomach every time he was forced to eat. Such unbearable, gritty,
sloppy nothing. It made him want to vomit. It had only gotten worse since he’d picked up
smoking, but smoking was the only relief he got in his day, when the weight of expectations
and rules were not crashing down on him in a way that made him want to drown himself in
his own blood just to feel something.

It was the only thing that brought him joy.

He finished his plate and stood, and though he knew his father would not budge, he also
knew his mother would be proud to continue her legacy as one of the most successful chefs
of her time through her son. But Vincent knew he did not want to simply repeat; he wanted to
create. He wanted to invent a dish no one could criticize him for, something that the critics
and reviewers would salivate over at just a bite.

All he needed to do was find the right ingredients.

September 8, 1958

Vincent graduated high school early at the age of 16, one of the youngest to ever do so in his
district. It was easy enough, so long as he studied dubiously, ignored any kind of romantic
relationships after Marielle, and kept his head down. He immediately enrolled himself in one
of the top culinary schools, and though he could have gotten in by skill alone, the renowned
name of “Charbonneau” was sure to help.

While he tried to keep to himself, he knew that he would not get far, even with his name, if
he did not have connections. If he did not have…friends. So, on his first day of university, he
sat beside a dark-skinned girl with shoulder-length chocolate hair. She nodded at him, and he
merely nodded back.

“Maryse,” she greeted.

“Vincent.”

As the lecture began, Vincent thought back to his father’s last words to him, when he had told
him he was leaving for culinary school, something he was actually serious about, and it
wasn’t just a phase.

You are setting yourself up for failure! he’d yelled at him. Don’t expect me to pick you up
when this all comes crashing down on you. You’re on your own for this one.

Vincent had spewed a fitful of hateful words back, none of which meant anything now. None
of which he cared to remember.

The professor explained the first project they’d be doing required them to form pairs, and
since Vincent was already seated beside Maryse, he turned to her expectantly. They shared a
silent look between one another, and Maryse pulled her hair into a ponytail.

“Alright,” she sighed. “Let’s get to work.”

September 15, 1958

“Some friends and I are having a hangout later this evening,” Maryse offered one day. “You
should come meet them. Might help you get a foothold in the industry.”

Vincent lifted a brow at her as he copied down the instructions in the cookbook. “And who
are these friends?” he asked.

“A few classmates of mine, and some longtime friends. I think you’d like them.”

“Alright,” he agreed, for the only other thing he’d be doing tonight was taking notes.

Class ended, and Vincent followed Maryse out the class, just as a man with brown, shaggy
hair strolled by, walking in stride with a tall and grinning redheaded man. He didn’t know
why, but Vincent’s eyes found themselves glancing back at the redhead, at his abrasive
 movements that forced others to move out of his way as he walked down the hall. Vincent
rolled his eyes and turned around.

Obnoxious and oblivious, that man was, to the fact that no one around him seemed to care
about what he was talking about.

Vincent turned a corner down the hall, and he did not look back. At least he would probably
never see that man again.

Chapter End Notes

Ty for reaching the end again! I have a little headcanon that Rody and Vincent went to
the same university before Rody flunked out, so I figured I'd give him a tiny cameo to be
a little silly. I have no idea what any of Vince's friends' names are at the dinner party
besides Richard, (idek if they do have names) so I just gave them random ones based of
what I know so far. I feel like they have a lot of untapped potential, and I really want to
explore some of the dynamics between them in upcoming chapters. Ty again for all the
support so far!

Another sidenote--I think of Vincent as aro/ace, more specifically gray-romantic/sexual

or demisexual, but he is also canonically gay. I feel like he just wouldn't realize it
because he barely ever forms those kinds of connections, so I tried to add a little bit of
that into the story as well
 Hollow Hearts
Chapter Notes

I was supposed to be studying for a humanities quiz, but here I am

See the end of the chapter for more notes

September 15, 1958, 5:00 p.m.

Vincent was having trouble deciding what to wear. Of course, he could just wear a simple
black V-neck as he usually did, or he could get a little adventurous and wear the collared shirt
with black and grey stripes on it. He didn’t usually have this much trouble with his looks;
he’d never needed nor wanted to impress anybody before.

But first impressions were everything in the culinary world—or so his mother said. If a
customer’s first experience with your restaurant was terrible, the likelihood of them coming
back would also be terrible.

He finally said to himself, “Fuck it,” and dawned the collared shirt with black and grey
stripes, tucking it in to his jeans and rolling up the sleeves. Adventurous indeed.

Vincent ran a hand through his hair as he sucked deeply on a cigarette, needing some sense of
relief to combat the anxiety in his mind. He checked his watch. 5:00 p.m.

5:00 p.m.?! Maryse had told him six o’clock was fine, but his mother had always told him
that early meant you were on time, and on time meant you were late. He settled for pushing
back his hair again, inhaling and exhaling one last breath of smoke, then he walked out into
his living room and started to pace.

He should bring something, right? But he was already running on time (so in other words, he
was running late). Where would he go? What would he bring? A pizza? Cookies? These
people were all chefs, culinary geniuses—he couldn’t possibly bring something that basic to
a meeting like this. (What Vincent failed to realize was that this was not a meeting, but an
informal hangout).

Vincent rushed to his kitchen and checked the fridge. His parents gave him a weekly
allowance in exchange for him leaving them the hell alone by staying on campus, and though
he was only 16, he was independent enough to function as an adult. He had, however,
forgotten to restock his fridge, which he was supposed to do the other day. However, there
were just enough ingredients to make a batch of croque monsieur.

He checked the time again. 5:01 p.m.

Thirty minutes was cutting it close, but he could do it.

***

Thirty minutes passed, and Vincent stood before his plate of a dozen croque monsieurs.
Surely, it would be enough, right? He glanced down at his watch again. 5:30 p.m.

It would take him 25 minutes to walk there, granted nothing and nobody got in the way. He
placed a cover over the hors d’Ouevres and locked the apartment door behind him, then he
walked down the hall at a considerably fast pace.

By the time he arrived at Maryse’s apartment, it was 5:59 p.m.

This feels like walking into a mouse trap, he thought to himself, even as he rang the doorbell.
Maybe I should just ditch and tell her I got into an accident or something the next morning—

His heart scattered in his chest when the door opened to Maryse’s expressionless face, but
when she saw Vince, a small smile crossed her lips. “Oh, good, you made it,” she greeted.
“Right on time, too.”

On time, he scolded himself. How rude of me.

“Come in,” she said, opening the door wider for him to step through. “Richard’s my
roommate; he’s in the living room. We’re just waiting for Louis and Beau.”

Vincent stepped inside, and he blinked in surprise at the lavishness of Maryse’s apartment. It
was bigger than Vince’s, though not by much. The foyer was a narrow hallway, and at the
end, Vincent could see Richard—the same shaggy-haired man he’d seen walking through the
halls earlier—fiddling with a record player on the coffee table. The apartment smelled of
incense and various delectable foods, and it dampened Vince’s heart at the fact that this was
as close to tasting them as he would get. They entered the kitchen on their right, which had an
open quarter of the wall for a breakfast bar, which looked out into the living room.

“You can just place your dish on the counter,” Maryse said, gesturing to the empty spot
beside the sink. He placed it down gently, his mind racing when he felt how sweaty his hands
had gotten on the way over here. He met Richard’s dark-eyed gaze across the apartment, and
Richard gave a small wave. Vincent blanked at the other man’s gesture, but somehow, he
managed to successfully wave back.

The doorbell rang, causing Vincent to jump, and Richard snorted at the motion. Maryse left
the kitchen and opened the door, and he could distantly hear her say, “Well, well, well, look
who decided to show up.”

“Darling, who would I be if I did not show up fashionably late?” an elegant voice cooed, and
footsteps strutted down the hall until they reached the kitchen entrance, where Vincent still
stood, frozen in place.

The man before him wore extravagant clothing, his platinum blond hair swept to the side in a
dangerously beautiful way. He wore dark, circular glasses, and he lifted them to his forehead
at the sight of Vincent. “Why, how peculiar,” he murmured, then a crocodile smirk flashed
across his face. “Mary, you didn’t tell me you’d invited such a handsome man to the party.”

Vincent blushed in confusion at the words, and he widened his eyes as the man kissed both
his cheeks in a way of greeting. Two sets of footsteps walked down the hall, and another
man, this one’s hair of a dirty blond pushed back to show off his brown eyes, wearing a
simple tank top, nodded at Vincent in greeting. He then walked past the kitchen and into the
living room, joining Richard on the couch.

Maryse grabbed a plate of escargots as she said, “You can help me put them on the table in
the living room if you want.”

Vincent, unsure of what to do, merely nodded his head and grabbed his plate of croque
monsieur, then he followed Maryse out into the living room. The man wearing sunglasses on
his head eyed Vincent curiously, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was being judged in
some way.

Maryse placed the escargots on the coffee table, stealing one for herself as Vincent placed his
own tray down just beside it. Richard curiously opened the cover, revealing the dish Vincent
had hastily put together, but Richard’s eyes twinkled in delight as he grabbed one of the
sandwiches.

“Oh, I love these!” he grinned, then he chomped into it.

Vincent watched him intensely. He noticed the way Richard tried to stop his face from
scrunching in confusion at the taste, then he shrugged to himself as he dug in again, finishing
the sandwich in two whole bites.

“That’s Beau,” Maryse explained to Vincent as she pointed at the last man that had walked in,
“and that’s Louis.”

The man with glasses—Louis—twirled his fingers in a wave at him. Vincent pressed his lips
together in a tight smile. “So, mystery man,” Louis drawled, “What’s your name then?”

“Vincent Charbonneau,” he announced.

Louis’s brows rose ever so slightly at the name, and Richard nearly choked on his third
sandwich.

“Charbonneau?” Richard echoed. “As in, Camille Charbonneau?”

He nodded curtly. “She’s my mother.”

Richard whistled. “Following in her footsteps, I see.”

“She’s…an expert at what she does,” he said, though his stomach churned at the topic of his
mother. Although he had gratitude for the things she’d taught him, there was still a wall built
between them. She had been the one to hastily shove him out of the house in the first place.

To experience the real world, she’d said. To be a man.

He wanted to roll his eyes at the thought, but he stopped himself before he could.

Maryse brought out the other dishes—a cheese platter and a plate of deviled eggs—then she
took a seat beside Beau. Vincent quickly realized he was the only one left standing, so he
hesitantly sat beside Louis, who had pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Louis’s gaze slide over to
Vincent, and a youthful and cunning smile played on his lips. Louis silently offered him the
cigarette, and Vincent narrowed his eyes at the man, then he took it in between his fingers.

A familiar wave of relief washed over him, and Vincent sighed at the feeling, a cloud of
smoke escaping his mouth before he handed it back to Louis.

“Louis,” Maryse said, “Vincent told me he wants to open his own restaurant someday.”

Louis’s cat-like grin only widened as he turned to face Vincent, one leg crossed over the
other. “How interesting,” he mused, blowing a breath of smoke in his face. Vincent blinked,
but he did not flinch. “You know, I’m working on becoming a food critic myself. Perhaps I
could put in a good word for your restaurant.”

“That would be appreciated,” was all he replied.

Louis stared at the half-gone croque monsieur, the only evidence of their disappearance being
Richard’s crumb-stained face, then he picked one up and examined it closely. “Hm,” he
hummed to himself, and Vincent watched his every movement—every twitch in his green
eyes, every flare of his nostrils, every gesture in his brows. Vincent knew this dish would get
a passing grade at best if he were to turn it in, considering how hastily he had put it together.
The cheese was melting a little too much as it dripped off the side of the sandwich, and the
bread had a few lumps in it.

Vincent’s heart pounded as Louis took a reasonable bite out of the sandwich, his ears ringing
while he waited in anticipation.

“Mm,” Louis hummed again, and Vincent couldn’t dictate whether the sound was a good or
bad thing. He watched Louis’s Adam’s apple roll down his throat as he swallowed, and
Vincent stared up at him in desperation. “I must admit, the mouthfeel is astonishing,” he
confessed, and Vincent’s heart skipped a beat at the compliment. “But the taste is…I’m not
entirely sure. It’s acceptable, don’t get me wrong, but it’s missing something. Less salt, more
pepper, perhaps?”

Acceptable? Acceptable? Vincent’s eye twitched at the insult, and he bit his tongue hard
enough for it to bleed, though he could not taste the coppery sting of blood in his mouth.

Acceptable. He might as well have said it had come out of the dumpster and used rat feces as
a seasoning. Of course the texture was perfect; it was the only thing he knew of food. But
how the hell was he meant to improve on its taste when he couldn’t fucking taste it?

You cannot be a chef. Your food will be subpar at best, he remembered his father scolding
him.
No. He couldn’t give up so easily. He could keep trying, keeping improving—after all, what
was the bright light of success if its shadow did not cast any failures?

He gathered up what was left of his wits to flash a smile at Louis, and he watched as he took
another bite of the sandwich. Louis gasped dramatically as he stared at the plates on the table,
then said, “Maryse, you cooked deviled eggs just for me? Did I ever tell you how much I love
you?”

Maryse chuckled softly at Louis, then she turned to Richard, who was still trying to get the
record player working. “You still trying to fix that thing?” she asked.

Richard slapped the record player to try and get it to work, and Vincent cringed internally at
the sight. “I don’t know why it never works for me,” he mumbled. “I swear, this thing is out
to get me.”

Vincent quietly stood and made his way over to the record player, inspecting it carefully.
Richard lifted a brow at him.

“You know how record players work?” he questioned.

“We had a collection of them when I was younger,” he answered as he removed the record
from its holder, then he removed the rubber cover of the player to reveal the mechanical
workings of the machine. Vincent’s slim hands undid a twist in the belt that wrapped around
the motor, then he placed the cover and record back on the player. When he reset the needle,
a melodic jazz tune sang in the air.

Richard scoffed and crossed his arms. “Oh, come on.”

“The belt was twisted,” Vincent said plainly as he moved to back to his spot on the couch.

“Hmph,” Richard grunted as he furrowed his brows.

At some point in the night, once the clock struck 7:10 p.m., Vincent found himself sitting at
the breakfast bar beside Beau.

“What are you majoring in?” Vincent asked curiously.

“Hm?” Beau hummed, leaning a muscled elbow on the bar. “Oh, food science. I want to find
healthier and safer methods of food production in the industry. What about you? I mean,
Maryse said you wanted to start your own restaurant, but…why? Wouldn’t it be easier to
work at your mom’s restaurant?”

Vincent curled his lips at the thought. “Easier, yes,” he answered. “Better? Absolutely not. I
don’t need to live in someone else’s shadow my entire life.”

Beau hummed at thought, studying Vincent curiously. “You know, I have an apartment listed
in my name just above a vacant restaurant. I wouldn’t normally offer people this so freely, but
maybe once you graduate, I could pull some strings for you.”

“You’re offering a stranger your apartment?” he wondered.

He snorted at that. “No, I’m not. I said when you graduate. Maybe by then we’ll be friends.
Just to help you get started, is all.”

“Thanks,” Vincent murmured. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Beau glanced back at the coffee table to find that only one of Vicent’s croque monsieurs
remained. He walked over to it and picked it up before Richard could eat it, then he sat next
to Vincent again. “Ignore Louis, by the way,” he warned. “He’s always trying to get under
people’s skin or in their pants.”

Vincent lifted his brows at the statement, then he glanced over to where Louis was sprawled
out along the couch, his head resting on Richard’s shoulder as a leg draped over the couch.
Richard merely rolled his eyes at him.

Vincent turned back to Beau as he bit into his food, and Vincent stared at him intensely as he
watched. Beau nodded as he swallowed, then he said, “It’s good. But Louis is, surprisingly,
right this time. It tastes…empty.”

“Empty?”

“I mean, yeah, you’ve got the cheese, and the ham, and the bread, and whatnot, but cooking
isn’t just about ‘making food.’ It’s an art form. It’s about expressing yourself through the
things you cook, how you want others to feel. How do you want others to feel, Vince?”

Vincent straightened at the nickname, but he ignored the feeling. “I…want them to like my
food?” he guessed.

Beau scoffed with a smile. “There’s more to it than that,” he replied. “Do you want others to
feel loved by you? Do you want them to crave more of you? Or do you want them to hope
you’ll burn, and then you’ll stomp on their ashes in the fire?”

Vincent stayed quiet for a long time. He’d never thought about cooking being an art form
before, much less putting any real meaning behind it. He ate because he had to, and that’s
what his food expressed. But could there be more? Could he let himself show more of his
desires in his cooking?

That was stupid, of course. Food was just a combination of nutrients and ingredients cooked
and boiled together to give the body what it needed to keep going. There was no
sentimentality to it. No love in it. At least, not that he knew of.

Vincent couldn’t answer Beau’s question, no matter how hard he tried.

When the party was over, and Maryse walked him to the door, he said, “Thank you for
inviting me.”

She nodded. “Come by any time.”

Vincent walked through the streets of Paris, and everywhere he looked, he found something
he didn’t have. He supposed they didn’t call this “The City of Love” for nothing. Couples
walked down the streets holding hands, sharing innocent smiles with one another. Friends
laughed together as they drunkenly stumbled down the walkway, and Vincent frowned.

What did others see when they saw Vincent Charbonneau walking down the street? Did they
see a tired boy who thought he was grown, lonely and desperate for something he’d never
had?

He reached the darkness of his tiny apartment, pacing into the early hours of dawn trying to
find an answer to this burning question.

Why couldn’t he just fall in love with someone? Why couldn’t he just scan his classroom and
lock eyes with someone and think You’re the one? It would have made things so much
simpler. He didn’t particularly “crave” the touch of a woman, as Beau had put it, but did
people crave him?

His mind finally became sluggish enough for him to fall onto his mattress with a weary sigh,
and as he stared out the window of his room, out into the quiet city below, he wondered, Why
even bother?

October 16, 1958

Vincent was 17 today. Not a fact he particularly cared for, but he was one step closer to
becoming an official adult.

Maryse and the others invited him to a bar to celebrate in, and though Vincent couldn’t care
less about the presents and the cake, he figured it couldn’t be the worst thing in the world,
could it?

They sat in a booth in the corner of the bar, which bustled with patrons and drunkards
cheering in delight. Vincent watched his wine shiver with the movement of the table as he sat
next to Louis.

“I heard you weren’t even that good, anyway,” Louis was saying to Richard. “She had to fake
it just to get you to leave.”

Richard snorted at the comment. “You sure about that?” he asked.

“Well, she told me herself. You truly don’t know how to please a woman, do you, Dick?”

Richard rolled his eyes. “You know I hate that name. And besides, you think you could do
any better?”

“How about we switch the subject?” Beau interjected with a queasy smile. “Vincent, how are
you enjoying your birthday so far?”

“It’s fine,” he answered honestly.

“I’ve noticed that woman over there keeps staring at you,” Louis said, pointing to a redhead
by the bar, who quickly averted her eyes when Vincent following Louis’s gaze. “Perhaps it’s
your lucky day. Or night, shall we say?”

“Gross,” Maryse commented.

“What?” Louis whined. “Only if he’s interested.”

Vincent continued to stare at the girl, and though he could only see the back of her head, he
had to admit that the glimpse he did catch of her was quite pretty. But again, pretty how a
portrait was pretty. Maybe he’d changed in the three years that had passed, though. Maybe he
had just been scared, and now that he was more grown, he could find enjoyment in whatever
the night entailed.

Finally coming to a conclusion, Vincent stood up and pulled out his wallet. “You all up for
another round?”

Louis lifted a suspicious brow at him, then he grinned and said, “Why, of course. You’re so
generous, dear Vincent.”

Vincent nodded curtly as he strode toward the bar, then he stood just beside the redheaded
woman, who was only perhaps a year or two older than him. He flagged down the bartender
and ordered another round of drinks for his table.

As he waited, the woman spoke to him. “Hello,” she greeted. “I hear it’s your birthday?”

Vincent slid his gaze her way, catching sight of her grey eyes and nervous grin. “It is,” he
answered stiffly.

“My cousin’s birthday was yesterday,” she added with a chuckle. “We couldn’t celebrate it
yesterday because she was busy, so here we are now.”

He didn’t remember asking her about this subject, but the whole reason he’d come up here
was to talk to her, wasn’t it? “Happy birthday to your cousin, then.”

“Happy birthday to you,” she offered instead, her smile lighting up the room around her.

Vincent noticed the way the woman’s eyes drifted up and down his stature, and some part of
him flushed in embarrassment as to what she might be thinking.

The bartender placed the plate of drinks on the table, and Vincent moved to pull out his
money, but the woman placed a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s on me,” she said, placing a few
euros on the table.

She did not move her hand away.

A part of him wanted to slap her hand away for touching him so openly and carelessly, but
another part of him was…curious? What were her intentions with him, he wondered. “I’m
Rosalie, by the way, but you can just call me Rose.”
“Vincent,” he replied. “But…you can just call me Vince.”

She smiled softly at that, continuing to study his face curiously, though for what, Vincent
could never be sure. She tightened her lips and finally stepped away from him as she said,
“Well, I’ll…I’ll let you get back to your friends now, I suppose.”

Just then, Louis strolled up to them and grabbed the plate of drinks, smirking at Vince and
winking at Rose. “You can steal him from us; we don’t mind, dear,” he cooed, then he turned
around and walked back toward the booth.

Vincent scowled at the back of Louis’s head.

“Oh,” Rose murmured, unsure of what else to say. “Um, well, if you want to stay and chat it’s
fine, but—”

Vincent scoffed. “They’re losers anyway,” he chided. “It’s fine.”

“Hey, I heard that!” Richard called from the booth. Vincent offered him his middle finger,
and Louis gasped.

“How scandalous!” he cried.

Vincent rolled his eyes with a smirk and turned back to Rose.

They talked of the weather, their childhoods, their dreams and desires. He even confessed his
dreams of being a chef, despite the fact that he had no sense of taste.

“You can’t taste things?” she asked. “What’s that like?”

“Everything tastes the same, I suppose,” he answered. “This beer, for instance, just tastes like
water, though it’s thicker and fizzier than water usually is. And food…” He gritted his teeth at
the thought of eating the same boring foods his entire life. “It tastes like nothing.”

“Well, it must taste like something,” she replied. “It’s just they all taste the same.”

“It’s...empty, I suppose,” he said, echoing Beau’s words from a month ago. “It tastes plain
and boring, no matter how much seasoning I put on it.”

“That must be lonely,” she murmured.

“Lonely?”

“Yeah, lonely. I mean, how could you enjoy a dinner date with your partner if it tastes the
same as some crappy fast-food place? Why put in the effort when it’s just going to result in
the same thing?”

Vincent narrowed his eyes at her. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I don’t know.”

Vincent didn’t know when the night had trudged on, when one sluggish minute had churned
into the next. The alcohol buzzed through his system, and he couldn’t recall when they’d left
the bar together. He couldn’t remember when they’d walked up the stairs to his apartment
just down the street, or when they’d entered his home.

He didn’t remember anything from that night except for the sickness he had felt the day after.
Her lips were too plump when he kissed them, her body too slim when he touched her.

Would this make him a man? Would this make him loved, if he touched someone else like
this? Every movement felt detached from his mind, and every sigh and moan between them
was out of a bodily reaction.

But she was beautiful. She was fair and kind and charming, but as much as he tried to give
his heart to her, he couldn’t. She elicited a physical reaction from him, but she’d never know
that he had felt nothing in his heart during the entire exchange. He felt no lust for her, no
desire to do this again with her.

When it was finally over, he sighed and rolled onto his back, sweat drizzling across his skin
and hair. He leaned over and grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand, and he sat up
as he placed one between his teeth.

He sighed in relief as a wave of calm rushed over him, and he let the smoke fill the room.
Rose sniffed and grimaced at the smell, then she sat up, pulling up the blankets to cover
herself up.

He offered one to her, but she shook her head.

“Have you always been a smoker?” she asked.

He closed his eyes and sighed. She still wanted to talk? Christ, he just needed a few minutes
alone right now. “Since I was fourteen, I guess,” he answered as he stood, grabbing his
clothes and putting them on.

He bundled up Rose’s clothes on the floor, then he tossed them onto the bed. She scoffed in
disbelief as he opened his room door and stood beside it.

“You’re—wh…I—” She stammered, unable to articulate her thoughts.

“Thank you for tonight,” he stated plainly. “Now you can leave.”

She hastily put on her clothes, her face scrunching in confusion that he could be this upfront
about what he wanted. “Wow,” she muttered as she grabbed her things. “Just wow.”

Rose rushed out the door, muttering incoherent curses to herself as the front door slammed
shut behind her.

He tried sex, just as he would try a new food item on the menu, and while it provided release,
he didn’t find anything all that special in having it. It was there if he needed it, but now that
he was satisfied, he didn’t particularly want it anymore.

Then again, if he were truly satisfied, he doubted he would feel so hollow inside. Why wasn’t
this working?
Chapter End Notes

I'm actually in love with Vincent's college days, idk if you could tell. Ty for all the
support this has gotten so far! <3 Also, I won't be able to write tomorrow (Sunday) but
hopefully on Monday I can pick it back up again! I'm going to go study for my test now
that this is out of the way
End Notes

Ty for making it to the end! This is mostly a test run to kind of get a feel for this kind of
writing, but I'm definitely going to try and write more pretty soon, so stay tuned! :D

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!