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The Lumiose social season was the boss's least favorite part of the year. It swarmed with persnickety elites, with their champagne and chandeliers and constant revolving door of fashion. It was all grossly wasteful, in Philippe's opinion. Tacky in their opulence. Nothing like his boss's subtler tastes.
The only good part of the Lumiose social season—personally, in his opinion—was the part where Corbeau had to get new clothes. It was always worthwhile to show the upper crust of the city that Corbeau could dress just as well as the rest.
Philippe stood in the center of the boutique, arms crossed over his broad chest. Behind him, outside the store, a couple grunts stood guard and glared any passerby away from the entrance. Shuffling around fussing with hangers on racks was an employee doing her best to seem invisible to him.
They were the only ones inside the establishment.
That included the boss, of course.
The changing room door blocked any possible view of Corbeau. It made his bodyguard instincts extra alert that he couldn't see who he was meant to protect, but he'd checked the space beforehand and deemed it safe. It was large enough to comfortably fit multiple grown men, but his job was to secure the store itself. If anybody made it past the grunts outside, they'd have to deal with Philippe before they could dare disturb a vulnerable Corbeau.
Philippe cracked his neck. The store employee dropped a loose hanger. He only spared her clumsiness a glance before focusing back on the pristine white door that housed his boss. His sharp ears could detect subtle rustling from within.
This was quite the upscale establishment, with actual changing rooms whose square footage would fetch a competitive price in the Lumiose rent market. As a heftier man himself, the only retail spaces Philippe could comfortably change clothes in were inside shops like these, where every shelf glimmered and not a single item had an actual price tag.
He didn't come to these places often. He already had a reliable rotation of suits and ties. They were serviceable, and stylish to Corbeau's preferences.
Hell, he remembered the very first time he'd set foot in one of these glossy boutiques. It was years and years ago, back when he was a much more... straightforward man. Every fiber of him had been reluctant to cross such a polished threshold, but he was dragged inside by the arm nonetheless.
"If you're going to be my follower from now on, you'd better look the part."
The boss was fastidiously fashionable back then, too. Already shining, dressed to the nines. A sharp outfit had always been important to that smarmy little entrepreneur, even when he could barely afford it. Something about how respectability always began with a good first impression.
It hadn't taken long at all for that ideology to be enforced throughout the whole organization, custom suits and all. Corbeau had drafted the design personally; Philippe remembered the sketches and the late nights and getting asked for his opinion over and over.
(At the time, Philippe had thought it to be an enormous waste of time and money. Didn't take long for him to eat his words. Once complete, the unified look was tremendously effective. The Rust Syndicate saw improved morale, quicker teamwork, more pride. The deepened loyalty of the grunts followed just like that, no displays of strength or ruthlessness required. Just another reason he knew he'd made the right choice turning leadership over to the boss. He never would have predicted the impact a simple uniform could make.)
Personally, it had taken Philippe ages to get used to wearing clothes this structured and stiff. Now, he was so used to his clean-pressed suit that he always felt under-dressed without it.
A door handle clicked. Philippe's attention snapped to the sound.
The changing room door eased open, and out of it stepped, as casually as one would exit a white limousine onto a red carpet, Corbeau. Boss swept his hair into place with a gloved hand, adjusted his sleeve cuff. Embroidered lapels, a soft silhouette—soft in the way that fabric covering steel made it 'soft'—glints of royal purple at the buttons and collar. A kind of outfit you really had to get up close to to appreciate properly.
Philippe could only swallow. That was a winner, right there. The socialites didn't stand a chance.
He wasn't sure he stood much of one, either.
Philippe strode forward without a thought.
The store employee was busy ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the clothes on Corbeau, frantically chattering about its construction—how fine it was, how thoughtfully designed, see how it laid across the chest? Only the best for Mr. Corbeau.
This young miss was a kiss-ass like the rest—not that Philippe minded seeing others pay the boss the admiration he deserved.
"Hm?" Corbeau turned upon his approach. A brightness entered his boss's eyes that hadn't existed during the anxious sales pitch. "Ah, Philippe. What do you think?"
What did he think?
Philippe gave a simple, professional nod of approval. He thought the highest of the boss out of anybody, but he was no trip-over fawner. He had a reputation to uphold.
Corbeau's smile made him cautious.
"No need to hide it. You're thinking that I look amazing in this." Corbeau's smile took on a knowing glint, and he adjusted the fit of his leather glove. "Thank you, Philippe. So glad you think so."
The employee glanced between them for a moment, confused.
There was no way to respond to that that wouldn't give a bashful impression, and Corbeau knew it. So he didn't respond at all.
Of course he thought Corbeau looked amazing. How the hell someone could look as if they were born to drip with luxury was beyond his comprehension. The upper-crust of Lumiose could sneer over their good breeding all they wanted—here was living proof that you didn't need to trace your lineage to long-dead royalty to look drop-dead gorgeous in designer duds.
Philippe turned away without a word and raised his watch. One more second of exposure to the boss looking that delectable would be unwise. There was a witness, after all. They could easily keep her mouth shut, but it was simpler to practice restraint. They didn't need the rumors. Too risky.
"We have places to be, boss," he said, lowering his watch. Corbeau's waist slanted enticingly in his peripherals. "I'll pay for those while you get changed back."
"Very well. You there." The employee flinched. "You have my measurements from last year. Get these better fitted for me. I'll send someone to pick them up next week."
"Y-Yes, Mister Corbeau!" Her ponytail swung as she lowered her head. "We appreciate your generous patronage, sir—Mister Corbeau. It's always a pleasure to serve you."
"Tip her while I'm in there, Philippe. She did a good job."
"Of course, sir."
Corbeau turned on a polished heel and disappeared back into the changing room. Philippe released his tension only in an invisible way. Tip the witness—the employee. Could do.
Don't think about Corbeau slipping out of that outfit. Bare shoulders, strong back, inked muscles revealed with the fall of that lovely black shirt. He wouldn't be a functional right-hand man if he let himself get that distracted.
He didn't flinch at the cost of the clothes and the tailoring fee. With how high Corbeau had elevated the Rust Syndicate, big numbers like these hardly made him blink anymore.
"For the record," Philippe said, once they were alone, enclosed in the shiny black car once more, "it's not a good habit to try and read others' minds."
"For those others, maybe. For you?" Corbeau caught his gaze in the rearview mirror. Philippe averted his attention to the pedestrians on the road. "Who else will?"
He only flicked the turn signal on, and slowly pulled away from the curb.
"I'm not an easy man to read," Philippe stated as fact.
Corbeau chuckled from the backseat.
"You may have a terrifying resting face, Philippe, but I can tell whenever you're thinking nice things about me. ...Not now," Corbeau said with an audible smirk. "Right now you're privately grumbling at me just to see if I can tell the difference."
...Damn him.
"You've teased me enough today, boss."
"Have I? I don't think putting on nice clothes and standing there counts as teasing."
"For others, maybe," he Chatotted back, tapping a finger on the steering wheel. "But for you..."
Corbeau's scoff was fond. "Then you be the one to pick up my clothes next week. I have to make sure they fit right before that charity gala on the fifteenth. I could use your keen eye to ensure they did a proper job."
His grip on the wheel tightened. "I doubt they'd dare mess up your order."
"Mistakes happen. Honest or not."
"...Fine," he sighed, as if the errand would be a large burden to him. It technically was—picking up dry cleaning and the like was grunt work—but Corbeau had hit the nail on the head that Philippe would vastly prefer handling such an enticing package personally. Or, rather, the wrapping for the true enticing package that lounged in the back seat of the car. "As you order."
He could feel it in the air that Corbeau was inferring his thoughts again. The little crinkle of golden eyes in the rear-view mirror said it all, aimed out the window as they were—Corbeau knew that Philippe was looking forward to seeing him all dolled up again.
Philippe was also looking forward to the fact that there would be no witnesses next time.
Most importantly of all, there'd be no more reason for his boss to get changed all by his lonesome. No door between them. No public to be wary of. Exactly the way they both liked it.