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Hardly anybody came up to the rooftop at this hour. It was well understood that Philippe had a tendency to drift up here from time to time, so any wise grunt not wishing to be alone with him kept far and away from the spot once the sun sank past the city skyline.
It was a peaceful place. Good for meditation. The garden the Syndicate cultivated was a refreshing geometry of green amidst the bristling sea of storefronts and facades. Every plant, carefully selected, carefully placed. Some were rare specimens chosen by the boss himself—look, don't touch. Much like how one should treat the master of this place.
This high up, when the wind made weft through the warp of bamboo and wind chime, one could close their eyes and pretend they were on a mountain.
Philippe sat grounded near the edge of the roof, arms stiff behind him. There was little point in looking up; light pollution had smothered most of the stars away. The recent holo-tech hadn't helped—Philippe swore there were fewer stars today than there were when he was a younger man.
Overhead, his Skarmory circled in lazy arcs, silver underbelly lit up by the perpetual glow of the city. Off in the distance, the red boundaries of a battle zone encroached upon the sky. Below, the streets still held the occasional trickle of trainers hurrying their way there before dawn cut their potential earnings short.
Four years. It felt like nothing at his age, but it sure was enough time for this city to rise from its own ashes in spectacular fashion.
The Rust Syndicate sure had their work cut out for them back then. Lots of honest folk needing help, direction, a sense of purpose—and at the forefront, the biggest need-fulfiller of all: money.
Desperate people, desperate times.
Philippe had no doubt in his mind that their gang would have been consumed by the chaos just like the rest had it not been for Corbeau's leadership.
The Syndicate's largest swell of numbers had been back then. People recognized Corbeau's ability and willingness to subjugate and came running for the stability they thought only he could provide. Thank Arceus for it, too. If not for the extra manpower attracted by the boss's charisma alone, they never would have had the bodies necessary to accomplish what they had.
Under Corbeau's command, they'd busted their asses looking out for those who'd lacked the means to simply migrate to more convenient pastures. Those with no choice but to stay and deal with the mess.
The Rust Syndicate was willing to get its hands dirty to clean up what nobody else would—that was the creed their leader had stood by when everything had turned to shit.
And look at Lumiose now. Gleaming brighter than ever.
A big shiny corporation had become the public spearhead against the city's 'problems.' Under the mayor's definition of 'problem,' of course. Their gaze was aimed high, whereas the Rust Syndicate's concern—under its new boss's orders—was making sure nobody slipped through the cracks down below.
Honestly. Who else could have steered the ship so expertly?
Who else could have earned his endless admiration.
Philippe's ears perked at a familiar cadence. He'd know that stride anywhere. Self-assured, long despite the shortness of the legs defining it.
(It was funny. Back when they'd established the pecking order between them, Philippe had expected to have to walk real slow so as not to invade the boss's personal space. In actuality, it was Corbeau who strode on ahead as if everyone else would merely slow him down. Little fucker could really walk.)
The footsteps stopped right next to him. The wind caught the flapping of a tailored coat, and without much ceremony, the boss himself plopped right down to join him.
The whole side of Philippe's body prickled with awareness. The way a guitar string or tuning fork would sing in proximity with the right vibration, Philippe's body was attuned to the mere presence of Corbeau. He only sat still as a statue, waiting.
"You're not cold?" Corbeau asked, nonchalantly.
Philippe grunted that he wasn't. Almost as if anticipating the future, the side of his body prickled louder, and his arm lifted all on its own right as Corbeau scooted closer and fit against his side.
Heart skipping a modest beat, Philippe wrapped his arm around his boss's slender middle. There was a delicate clack of glasses folding, and a head tipped against his shoulder. The buzzing in his body settled with the contact, smoothing into a pure, candlelight warmth instead.
Now that the boss mentioned it, it was a little nippy tonight. Much better with someone to sit with.
He didn't notice the unspoken question hanging between them until it was almost too late. Corbeau graciously let his slowness on the uptake slide once he finally fessed up what was on his mind.
"Was thinking about how things used to be." He glanced down. "How much has changed since then."
Corbeau hummed, low and tired. Those striking eyes were closed, lashes dark as Corviknight feathers. "How far back are we talking?"
"About four years."
That said it all.
They sat in comfortable silence, broken by a short amused hum at Philippe's side, and Corbeau peeling himself up.
"To many more," Corbeau declared with a mock toast, poised hand imposing itself against their view of the city. Philippe cracked a grin and mirrored the act, and they 'clinked' their nonexistent vessels—one invisible glass stem and one rounder can—against the backdrop of high-rises and distant holo-tech. "Couldn't have done it without you."
"We should be saying that to you, boss." He rubbed over Corbeau's ribs—it never got old, never, that he could touch like this and it meant something now. "We're just following your orders."
A small set of knuckles pressed chidingly into the spot above his kneecap. "And those orders need people to follow them to be worth a damn in the first place. Give yourself more credit."
Hard to argue against that. Hard to argue against the boss over anything.
"Credit received," he smoothly said. "Such a big line of it I just might get a new car."
"What, the one you already have not shiny enough of an escort machine for you? Get yourself a new bike instead. How old is that thing by now, anyways?"
Philippe rose a brow. "I've told you before, boss. Trading in a fine machine who's had your back for years for a younger model is something only shitheads do. I could never get bored of my current baby. Know her inside and out."
Corbeau scoffed and tucked himself better against Philippe's side. "You sound a little too dedicated to something that isn't even alive."
"Alive or not, I consider that bike to be the first lady I'd ever loved." Philippe's hand slid an inch lower around Corbeau's waist. "Of course I have to give her special treatment."
"If I have to walk you down the aisle to give you up to that god-damned motorcycle, I'll give you one solid reason to start looking for a replacement now."
(—Shit, there was the thought. One day, someday, if he could walk Corbeau down the aisle to hand him off to whomever he decided to marry, he would consider his life one well spent. Ideally, he'd like to be the one waiting on the other end—but there were some things one just couldn't think about.)
Philippe's eyes crinkled in mirth. "Fuck, boss, wouldn't even give us your blessing?"
"I wouldn't even approve the PTO for your honeymoon."
He couldn't take it—he had to laugh. By his side, he knew Corbeau was delighted without having to look.
Corbeau seemed to be in a rare playful mood tonight. It was contagious—all his moods had a way of becoming the very atmosphere itself, but to Philippe, it was when the boss lit up and laughed that he was at his most intoxicating.
Not many people knew the boss had a side like this. One that craved fun, and freedom. Even fewer people were capable of drawing the rare glimmers of it out. Philippe would hazard that he was one of the only men around who had truly seen that sparkle.
Philippe wished the younger man would meet more people who got to see what Philippe could see in him. People who could challenge him, comfort him, inspire and embrace him. He was too good to let go to waste—there had to be far better options to invest time and intimacy into than someone well over a decade his senior, whose résumé consisted mostly of coercion and violence.
There had to be somebody out there he could walk Corbeau down the aisle to.
...He just didn't have it in him to encourage the boss to seek new connections just yet. It was hypocritical of him, but he wasn't about to feel too guilty about it, because for the first time in his life, he truly had someone all to himself. Why end that exclusivity when he could savor their connection a little longer instead? Corbeau seemed happy with his devotion.
As long as the boss was happy, he was happy.
Philippe turned, and began to pull Corbeau into his lap just as the smaller man sat up to make it easy for him, as if anticipating it.
Corbeau slid into place with ease, narrow back to Philippe's broad chest. Philippe revelled in how easily Corbeau relaxed once locked within his arms like this. Like he knew nothing in the world could touch him so long as he was cradled in his bodyguard's embrace.
It was true, and he'd promised it years ago—Philippe would give his life if it meant protecting this one from harm. The Syndicate could change, the city could change—even they could change (and change they had)—the fact of his protection would never, ever sway from its core.
This close, Philippe could smell expensive hair product and the distinctive tinge of Scolipede venom. Boss must have been training just before this. Always working hard, no matter what.
Not that he'd be racking up more points in the Royale after reaching the latest cap.
Nobody else was brave enough to broach the topic, so it fell to him to see what was on the boss's mind.
"When are you going to take on that promotion match?" he prompted, once he decided he'd rather hear Corbeau's voice (no matter if the question was a landmine or not) than the rustling leaves. "You're more than capable of hitting the next rank."
Corbeau grimaced in his arms, which was just about the only reaction he expected.
"Not if it means having to walk into that hotel and ask for her royal highness's sacred attention." His derision was fanged and instantaneous. "You know she'd string me along just to have fun at my expense."
"You think she'd bother?" Philippe stroked along Corbeau's ribs, slow and familiar, hoping to keep his boss grounded. "It's in her best interests to get it over with too, I'd say."
"If she wants to rank up so badly, she can bring her prissy self right to me."
"You know Jacinthe wouldn't be caught dead setting foot in our territory, boss."
Corbeau snorted lightly. "That's the point. I won't give her the satisfaction of entering hers either. It's a stalemate as far as I'm concerned."
"You'd have me with you," he reminded. "If you did want to challenge her at the Richissime. No need to face her alone."
"Heh. Much as I'd prefer that, she'd only use your presence to look down on me again." Corbeau scoffed and nestled back harder into Philippe's chest. "I'm not bothering, and that's that. She can go whine to Quasartico for a new promotion match partner if it bothers her so much. Fucking morons, pairing us up like this..." he muttered. "They should know exactly what our relationship is."
One of brimstone and cold iron, that was for sure.
Corbeau didn't get along with elites unless they happened to be a sucker of a client with deep pockets to drain, but Jacinthe was, unfortunately for them, the furthest thing from a sucker. If Corbeau was a Seviper, Jacinthe was his Zangoose. One with well-hidden claws and a willingness to play dirty that rivaled Corbeau's—her methods just reached in different directions than the Rust Syndicate's did. Their rivalry was almost impressive.
Philippe recalled the indignant shout that rattled the building to its foundations when the Royale notification had come through.
Philippe let the subject drop. As much as he'd love for Corbeau's strength to be more widely recognized throughout Lumiose, one's Royale rank wasn't the be-all-end-all measure of skill—merely the mark of how well one performed under Quasartico's insomnia-favoring system. The fact that Corbeau, who never played games he couldn't control in some way, had willingly entered the Royale at all had been a surprise. His motive was a noble one.
The slow fume in his lap eventually deflated back into peace. The night breeze tousled the bamboo of the garden, and sent the lone wind chime sighing as prettily as the stars.
A light hand rested over the cuff of his wrist. "Philippe."
He gave a squeeze to show he was listening.
"The city... you think she'll be fine even if I don't earn that wish, right?"
Philippe's mouth twitched into not exactly a smile, and he gathered his young friend into a much more guarded bundle for his sake.
"'Course she'll be fine," he rumbled. "If that incident a while back couldn't topple her, nothing will."
It had been a real close thing, but Lumiose had bounced back. Was still bouncing back. The Rust Syndicate had done everything in its power to support the frantic and the lost. A real trial by fire for the younger Corbeau, who'd barely been in charge when Team Flare had brought disaster upon everything.
"Wish or no wish," Philippe declared, "if anything tries to mess with her again, we'll stop it with our own power. That's a promise."
A low chuckle, bitter like coffee. "Making it sound like we're a bunch of heroes."
"Who's to say we can't be?" He smirked at the skyline, resting his chin on top of Corbeau's head. "If people need saving, it's up to the ones with power to reach their hands out and help."
"Wow. Who told you that one?"
"Some bratty little upstart. It was a long time ago. If it was me who came up with it, there'd be a part in there about charging a good price for one's services."
Corbeau groaned within his arms—he was smiling, Philippe could tell, and so was he.
"You're asking for it," boss uttered, shifting within his grasp. "I should really teach you how to control that mouth of yours."
"And what is it you can do in your position, huh?" Boldly, Philippe locked his arms tighter. Not too tight. Just enough to feel like he was really embracing the one he'd fallen for. "I've got you right where I want you, boss."
He waited for a sarcastic parry that never came.
As the silence dragged on, his ballsy hug loosened, and his mind raced to detect what might be wrong. Did he say something tasteless? He was just being playful. He thought he was doing well at reassuring the boss. If he crossed a line, he wished Corbeau would just say so—
"Do you?" It was spoken softly, slipped into the air so finely that it nearly passed him by.
What a strange question.
Philippe's mouth hung open, and instead of thinking hard about it, like he probably should, he said whatever was willing to bumble out of his mouth first.
"Of course."
He no longer had any reason to mask his fondness for the younger man. Corbeau knew, and chose to be embraced by him anyways. There wasn't much more he could ask for. All other thoughts were just... fun little fantasies. Sugar on top. Not anything he needed to be happy.
Corbeau twisted in place. Not shy at all about bracing against Philippe's chest for leverage, he swung a leg over until he was practically straddling the larger man's lap, and rose to his knees, and steadied himself with light hands upon Philippe's shoulders.
He was taller like this.
"Do you, really?" Corbeau repeated from on high, voice a stroke of velvet in the night.
The city was fully obstructed from Philippe's line of sight. In its place was a white tie, a purple shirt that blended into the dark and the haze of the night. If he glanced up, a pale throat met him. His gaze held on the little bump of Adam's apple for far longer than was necessary. It was just—the boss was so beautiful.
"I..." He licked his lips. Unstuck his gaze, threw it higher. "Yes," he breathlessly finished. "I do."
"Hm."
From above, Corbeau's eyes were low slits, echoing the yellow of the crescent moon beyond.
...Philippe didn't know what it meant to be looked at like that. He didn't know how to feel about it, either. It was tough to know what the boss was thinking when he wouldn't speak his mind, and that lack of knowledge unsettled him.
Think. The hands at his upper back. The curve of Corbeau's body, a fine arch that gently thrust his chest close to Philippe's face. Boss's legs were spread to kneel around his lap—hips a tempting splay. Philippe's hands closed tight against the ground before he could be tempted to touch.
The hands at his shoulders slid together and closed around the back of his neck. Cold fingers. Intimate. Any attempt at functional thought was rendered pointless with that alone.
"What are..."
"Shhh," Corbeau coaxed.
He shut himself up like his life was on the line.
A single finger brushed over the crease at his nape, feather-light, as if tracing a bubble it didn't want to pop. When that fingertip made it to the non-shaved base of his mohawk, Philippe's breath shuddered, and he twitched forward before the tickle could melt his brain, and—
Their lips met.
Philippe melted as if his whole long day was a hastily scrawled prologue to this. Corbeau's lips were sweet as the petals of some of the deadliest plants in this garden.
A small, weak sound left him. His hands, emboldened, slid to Corbeau's hips and held him fast. As if rewarding his enthusiasm, Corbeau's lips parted, and the soft twin tips of the boss's tongue slipped into Philippe's waiting mouth like an Ekans coming home to its den. It took all of his strength to not bruise those hips—he would never dare hurt his boss, but the temptation grew stronger day by day to control himself just a little less each time. To see if the boss would scold him or not.
It was Corbeau who parted them. He didn't go far, but Philippe ached for the loss regardless. He was being observed again—what for, he wasn't sure. There was nothing he needed to hide.
"Still sure you have me where you want me?" Corbeau questioned, holding his face now, lips brushing over his forehead, his eyelids. "Think on it."
Philippe's lips parted in reaction to his cheek getting kissed, right above his beard. It was such a soft, sweet gesture that his breath caught. Corbeau wasn't finished—those pretty lips traced light as a feather across Philippe's face, and caught his slack mouth for another wet kiss. The slither of tongue and pampering of his mouth drove his poor heart to the stars.
Corbeau's hipbones were rigid under his thumbs; he used that single hard texture amidst the silk and slip to keep himself sane.
To the implication of Corbeau's question: of course he wanted more. He always wanted more, always, but would only take what the boss would allocate to him. And what the boss gave him—as evidenced by the tug in his mohawk and the teeth gently biting his lower lip—was honestly plenty. Desire beyond one's means didn't suit Philippe as well as it suited Corbeau. He could leave those games to the big players and their bigger dreams.
And, if... and this was a big if, but if Corbeau was testing him somehow by asking all this, it was Philippe's duty as bodyguard and friend to put whatever fears the boss had to rest.
He knew his place. He wouldn't make anything complicated for the boss. This could be as easy as they wanted to make it. He would never complain, for there was nothing to complain about.
Every touch, a gift. Every kiss, he would savor like their first (their real first), as each had a chance of being the last. He wasn't so disillusioned as to think he could possibly become Corbeau's forever-and-always.
Philippe broke the kiss next—it took all his self-control to separate—soothing an apology into Corbeau's hips while he waited for the boss to be able to listen.
"Without a doubt," he swore, and spared a hand to indulge himself, grazing his knuckles along the side of Corbeau's neck. That Corbeau leaned into it—that was a gift. "I'm happy, boss. No need to worry about me."
Corbeau went quiet. There was a difference between Corbeau not saying anything and Corbeau being quiet—this was the latter by far.
"I see..." Corbeau finally said with a tiny smile, and touched their foreheads together before Philippe could worry. "I'm glad."
Philippe's smile was mirrored, and they shared one more peck that felt like he was the one being reassured.
Corbeau lowered himself and sat neatly upon Philippe's lap, legs spread wide to fit himself close, and made a small curious sound at something he felt. Philippe fought back his own horror—he hadn't noticed at all. And after all his claims about being content, too, damn it.
"Sorry, boss," he said as professionally as he could, face warming. "Might have gotten a little carried away there after all."
Contrary to his expectations, Corbeau's eyes crinkled, and the man looked warmer than he had all night. "Nonsense. It doesn't bother me at all."
If the boss said it so easily, it must be true.
Still, Philippe was embarrassed his body had responded so obviously in a position where Corbeau was all but guaranteed to notice. But if it truly didn't bother him...
Shit, again: What more could he possibly ask for than this?
There they remained near the edge of the roof, Corbeau leaning into Philippe's embrace with a generous lack of care for anything pressed between them.
He didn't track the time passing. As far as he was concerned, every second spent with Corbeau was worth it, and as such, there was no need or reason to measure them.
Sharp feathers cut the air in a dramatic flap. Skarmory lit down upon the roof in a clatter of talons, body catching the reflections of the city, and strutted closer.
Much to Corbeau's dismay, Philippe chuckled and reached out, stroking Skarmory's hard beak when it clacked into his palm for attention. All the fresh air put the silvery bird into a good mood. He could relate to the feeling.
"Suppose we should head back inside. You need your beauty sleep, boss."
Corbeau acceded with a hum, not making any effort at all to stand up on his own.
Alright, alright.
With a rather dramatic heave that sent Skarmory fluttering back, Philippe swept to his feet with Corbeau along with him, supporting the small man beneath his thighs and being very, very careful to ignore the way Corbeau's hips rubbed him for a moment.
He carefully set the boss down, and habit had him checking for bits of dust or hair on Corbeau's clothes.
He was in the middle of tightening Corbeau's tie for him when he realized he was being stared at quite intently. His fingers paused right at the base of the younger man's throat.
"Yes?"
"You do realize I'm taking all this off soon, right?"
Ah. Philippe straightened, and rubbed the side of his neck. Corbeau smiled mysteriously, then hooked a finger into his hard work and teased the knot loose one hypnotizing tug at a time.
"Here, then. Carry it down for me if you're so fond of it."
He accepted the limp tie in rather confused palms. "Uh, yes boss."
"Careful so it doesn't bite you."
His lip quirked, and he wrapped the thing around his hand as if to protect his bones from a street bout. "Got it under control, boss."
"As you always do." Corbeau gestured in a familiar fashion, and Philippe dutifully followed him through the paved aisle of the garden towards the stairwell door to the Syndicate. He'd have to bark at a grunt to sweep it tomorrow; there were petals strewn about the tile. It wouldn't do if one stuck to the bottom of the boss's shoe and went unnoticed during a client meeting.
"Actually, Philippe... hang onto it for me, will you?"
"Pardon, boss?"
"I have more, and I don't feel like having you follow me into my quarters tonight. Return it to me clean in the morning."
He didn't question it. Only smoothed over the white silk and tucked it safely into his suit jacket.
Corbeau gave him a flicker of a once-over, down and back up, the turnaround point being the front of his slacks. Philippe's hand froze before it withdrew from his jacket. Wait, wait, surely the boss didn't think he would—
The door to the rooftop was already swinging shut. Philippe was left alone on the roof with his Skarmory nibbling at his fingers.
Corbeau, that little...
"...You really know how to screw me over," he said, to nobody who was here to listen anymore.
(Permission? Challenge? Reminder of where the line was drawn? At the very least, Corbeau had implied that he wouldn't ask any questions no matter how he chose to interpret such a... gift, tease, cruelty.)
Slowly, Philippe pulled the tie back out. It fluttered loose from its spiral and flashed its subtle weave in the light.
Since he had gotten very good at being a moron lately, he might as well prove the boss's theory while he wasn't around to be smug about it.
Philippe raised the silk to his lips, and closed his eyes to the texture. Smooth as a fine wine. Much like the skin he'd like to savor the same way if he could. Clinging to the fabric, past the faint acrid fume of Scolipede poison, was the barely-there scent of the boss. Corbeau tended to shy away from colognes or perfumes, preferring to keep his astute sense of smell unhindered for his deadlier hobbies, but there was still a trace of the life of the man himself. Subtle, nearly scentless, but there.
Philippe was glad it wasn't stronger or he'd have gotten drunk on it.
He shook his head at his own foolishness and pocketed the tie again, swapping it for Skarmory's ball and welcoming his companion inside for a well-earned rest.
Return it clean, the boss had said.
He'd keep that well in mind.