Work Text:
The occasional day off had its merits. Corbeau's borderline masochistic work ethic wasn't something he wished for any subordinate to share, for the health of the Syndicate itself. Happy employees made hard workers, and it so pleased him to see smiles on the faces of those who pledged their loyalty to him.
Thus, it was built into the Syndicate's own policy that every grunt had their rotation of days off. They all worked so hard to make the city beautiful; why not encourage them to kick back and enjoy the fruits of their labor, so they could better appreciate just how important their work really was?
As the boss, Corbeau did his best to embody what he wished for others (a consequence of being so respected; if he was caught working too hard for too long, everyone else would start feeling pressure to do the same), so he, too, indulged in taking a visible break every once in a while. Only when it didn't interfere in their plans, of course. Times of relative peace were to be enjoyed by all.
As it so happened, today was also one of Philippe's days off. They usually staggered their breaks for practical reasons; Philippe would step up and run things in Corbeau's absence while he caught up on sleep and spent valuable time with his pokémon, and Corbeau would steer the ship as he always did while Philippe... did whatever he chose to do that day.
For such a strict personality worn on the clock, Philippe sure had a wide spread of hobbies he got up to in his free time.
Corbeau had an itch to go find him. See what his right-hand man was up to. It would be as simple as texting him to end the search within seconds, but where was the fun in that? He had time to spare, and the weather was nice. He might as well put the footwork in.
Corbeau began his search.
The rooftop, with Skarmory? No.
The training grounds near their building? No—he could see from on high that it was occupied by a bunch of kids playing with a ball.
The Rust communal kitchens. Also no, which was a small surprise—Philippe enjoyed whipping up monstrous portions of whatever struck his fancy to cook next, much to the delight of any grunt within the radius to hear about it and come running for a bowl.
That left one place in the Syndicate headquarters that Philippe was likely to be.
Corbeau's least favorite.
The garage.
Built partially underground, the garage offered parking for employees who had to drive, the entryway being a large ramp within the gated back of the building, connecting the street level to a smoothly poured, well-lit space. It was where the car Philippe used to escort him around the city was parked, and was also where Philippe had chosen to station his darling labor of love.
Corbeau was referring to, of course, Philippe's motorcycle.
It was nearly as old as he was. He'd done the math, pieced the timeline together based on old stories from older grunts and anecdotes that Philippe would share sometimes.
The vehicle's presence in the garage—his property, if he wanted to be particular, as the building and the land it was built on were in Corbeau's name as owner—would be more tolerable if Philippe weren't so damn enamored with that thing.
See, Philippe showed love with labor. Effort. Corbeau was belovedly familiar with this trait of his, and had become something of an expert at gauging just how much Philippe adored someone based purely on how much he was willing to do for them.
Or for it.
Case in point: that motorcycle. It had been taken apart and put back together multiple times. There was always some maintenance to be performed, some part to be replaced or twiddled with or a scratch that needed buffing out. Whenever Philippe received a package for some niche part he'd ordered, he always opened the box like it was Christmas.
(Corbeau had forbidden him from opening personal packages in the office a long time ago. The rustling was too distracting, he'd declared, and Philippe hadn't suspected a thing.)
That bike was Philippe's baby, and therefore received a level of attention and care that any decent parent or lover or however you cared to interpret baby would provide (Corbeau hoped that was accurate, at least; he didn't exactly have his own point of reference on the former, nor the latter proper).
And to rub salt in the wound, this was Philippe's care. Not just any random schmuck with a wrench. Philippe.
That machine didn't know how lucky it was to be owned by who it was owned by. Because it was just an object.
Corbeau wasn't jealous. Of course not.
It simply rubbed him the wrong way that Philippe's attention could be drawn so adoringly to something so... unappreciative of his service.
Corbeau stepped from the elevator into the sterile lighting of the garage. His footsteps echoed on his way to the particular corner Philippe had staked out for his more personal labors of love. Work benches, shelves, storage boxes, repair manuals. Fixed to the wall was a large, hand-drawn wiring diagram whose edges were yellow with age, innards marked with notes of familiar handwriting.
Corbeau swore it was a sentimental art piece at this point. Philippe didn't need to refer to any notes or diagram to know his darling's every bolt and wire.
Of course, there was the bike. Kneeling dutifully next to it was the one he actually cared about here.
"There you are."
Given that it was a day off, Philippe didn't spring to attention as if matters were pressing. Instead, he remained crouched on a flattened piece of cardboard, inspecting some god-knows-what inside the frame of his precious, and merely returned a friendly greeting without stopping his work. A toolbox lay open nearby, and several stained rags.
Naturally, Philippe had abandoned his suit in favor of something more practical. Denim jeans, old steel-toeds, and a heavy black leather jacket that Philippe always wore when intending to go for a ride. Corbeau couldn't see beyond, as Philippe's back was to him, but he knew there'd be a plain t-shirt under there that was somehow just as flattering as the suit could be.
(Corbeau wouldn't admit this aloud, but Philippe's casual looks made his throat more than a little dry. The suit and tie he'd mandated for Syndicate work had gained a twofold benefit: yes, yes, public image and professionalism and all, but the clean-cut clothes also served to protect Corbeau from getting too damn distracted by his subordinate's swelling muscles and the softness of his large belly. And the way those jeans clung to Philippe's ass while he crouched—)
"Here to watch me work, boss?"
Corbeau snapped back to casual. "You could say that. For once, I have nothing else to do that the grunts can't handle on their own. I'm free for the day."
So I sought you out.
Philippe didn't respond, but his back straightened just a bit while he worked. This appeased Corbeau just enough that he let slide how Philippe was still paying more attention to that hunk of metal than to his boss. They might be off-the-clock right now, but honestly...
Corbeau's gaze drifted to the motorcycle itself. He'd adopted Philippe's language for it over time—baby, my girl, sweet thing—but with a decidedly different tone in the privacy of his mind. Diminutive endearments. As if that machine were petite.
It was anything but.
Philippe was a goliath to begin with. Any steed that could carry his bulk around the city and beyond had to exceed that power.
The motorcycle was a monster of chrome and shiny black paint. Its handlebars were as proud as a Scolipede's horns, carving back to be grasped by the only person worthy enough to drive it. The massive eye of its headlight glittering like the lens of a lighthouse. The parallel bars that connected the front wheel to the frame sank at an indulgently low angle, giving the whole machine a low, prowling look.
It wasn't like any bike Corbeau had ever seen. Either from its age, preserved beyond what most would bother to maintain, or because Philippe had customized so much that it was practically its own unique creation. Corbeau wasn't sure how many original parts still remained, or if it had been transformed slowly over time into something new while retaining its original soul thanks to Philippe's meticulous love and care.
Corbeau would begrudgingly admit that it did look pretty damn cool. Philippe's handiwork was, as always, immaculate.
"Are you about to head out?" Corbeau asked.
"I was planning on it. It's been too long since I've taken the old girl for a ride." At last, Philippe paused his tinkering and looked over his shoulder. "Why, did you need me for something, boss?"
Corbeau shook his head, and with it shook away the clingy little temptation to say that yes, he actually did need Philippe for something, so why not leave that old thing behind and come spend the day off with him, instead?
Philippe's smile was the angel on Corbeau's shoulder. His dirty little urges didn't stand a chance.
"Weather's magnificent today. I can't leave my baby cooped up in here any longer or she'll start to go stir-crazy."
Okay, that was another thing—Philippe talked about his bike like it was alive. And had preferences and needs to be catered to with equal mindfulness as he gave to Corbeau's.
"Arceus forbid," he politely said.
Philippe placed something back in the nearby toolbox, seemingly satisfied with whatever it was he was adjusting. Corbeau couldn't help but wander a few curious steps closer. Philippe's back was a great view by itself, but he wanted to see more of his face. Specifically, he wanted to see if Philippe might light up a little more once he was in line of sight again, in a way that it wouldn't when just staring at that machine—
"You know, boss..."
He halted. Adjusted his glasses. "Yes?"
"I'd hate for you to feel cooped up in here too." Finally, a little consideration. "You could... ride with me, if you wanted."
Corbeau blinked. This was an offer he'd heard before. Not rare, but not too often, either. He would always say no, and there would always be a lengthy cooldown before Philippe would try again. Always casual, never a plea.
Philippe found a spotless spot on the gas tank to polish. "You probably have other plans lined up, but... "
Corbeau didn't know what made him say it. Maybe it was the oddly bashful way Philippe was attacking nonexistent dust, or the way Corbeau was suddenly sick of staring at his back, that had his mouth opening and something unexpected falling out of it.
"You know what? Sure."
Philippe's whole torso twisted around. His mouth was agape, and Corbeau felt his face warm at just how shocking his answer must have been. It wasn't that surprising, was it?
This could be a good chance to finally learn what was so great about that thing.
Corbeau ticked his chin up. "Are you waiting for me to repeat myself?"
"N-No boss!" Philippe sprang to his feet with an agility that startled him, and paced straight to a stack of storage boxes in the corner. He made a beeline for one in particular, heaving the topmost container from the stack so he could open the top of the next. He rummaged around with a rustling of paper and plastic packaging, and withdrew something bulky from within. "Here. I've got something for you."
With a pep in his step, Philippe delivered the object straight to where Corbeau stood in cautious silence.
Round, reflective, and a brilliant chrome purple, the motorcycle helmet presented Corbeau's stunned reflection right back to him. It was a heavy thing. Holding it reminded Corbeau of holding a Venipede.
"Picked it up a long time ago," Philippe straightforwardly confessed, scratching a line beneath his cheek. "Been holding onto it ever since. In case you ever wanted to ride with me someday."
Corbeau's disbelieving fingers tightened around the helmet. He had no idea. This thing was clearly top quality, and as new as the day Philippe bought it. There were no fingerprints marking its metallic shine aside from the ones Philippe applied carrying it over, and the ones that would be left when Corbeau decided to change his grip.
Philippe... This big, adorable fool, buying something like this with no guarantee Corbeau would ever use it. How surprisingly impractical of him.
How utterly endearing.
Damn it, how could he not?
With a toss of his hair, Corbeau hefted the helmet to his hip. "You're always prepared for anything, aren't you."
Philippe went a little bashful. "I try to be, for you, boss."
"How does this work, then?"
"Oh! Nothing to it, there's room for you, easy. Usually I have people hang on from behind. It's more thrilling for them that way."
Corbeau raised a brow. He certainly wasn't doing this for the thrill, but the prospect of hugging Philippe from behind, for however long the ride was...
It had a certain appeal.
"That works," he said, like his arms weren't already itching to wrap around that large, warm middle—for purely practical reasons, of course.
"As for your clothes..." Philippe looked him over with a stern eye and a hand to his chin. "It's finally warm out, but the wind can be a lot if you're not used to it. And you'll need something more protective. Here."
Philippe shrugged off his jacket. It held its shape remarkably well even without Philippe's large frame supporting it, speaking of high quality leather, thick and durable.
Corbeau stared when it was offered straight to him.
Nonsense. He was not putting that on.
(Nevermind the fact that some tiny part of him rejoiced over the idea of wearing something of Philippe's. That jacket was personal. Old, well-loved, practically a part of Philippe in a way that was far less annoying than the motorcycle's sharing of those exact same traits.)
It was also far too big. Corbeau liked his tastefully large suit jacket, but there was a clear demarcation between clothes strategically sized to enhance his silhouette, and clothes so large that they swallowed him entirely.
"Don't be ridiculous. That won't fit me, I'll look stupid."
"It's not for looks. It'll protect you in case something goes wrong."
"Are you implying that something might?"
Philippe shook his head and prompted the article closer. "I'd rather have the peace of mind, boss. Please put it on. For me."
Corbeau would prefer if his enemies never found out how weak he was to Philippe saying please. It wasn't a word wielded liberally; the times it was spoken, it mattered, and Corbeau tried to be a wise enough leader to heed its weight. Philippe was only looking out for him.
He really didn't have to add 'for me.' That was just overkill—Philippe had better learn the art of minimizing one's persuasive efforts, to retain as many effective cards to your chest as possible. A 'for me' should have been saved for something Corbeau was truly loath to do.
Corbeau accepted the jacket with a reluctant nod, and traded it for the helmet.
The bulky thing weighed about a million pounds. Corbeau hid his strain as best he could, and Philippe very wisely did not offer to help. It settled around his shoulders like a cape of cast iron. His arms felt lost in the cavernous sleeves, and the first thing he did was excavate them with determined shoves of said sleeves until his hands popped out the other ends.
Of course, the wrist cuffs were so loose that the sleeves wanted nothing more than to collapse right back down and leave him looking like a kid in a stolen winter coat again. Ridiculous.
For Philippe's peace of mind, he told himself.
The only upside, he found, was that the hulking thing relinquished a pleasant, familiar scent around the collar. Okay, and it was warm. Philippe's body heat seeped into him from all sides. But he still looked ridiculous.
Philippe stared. Tsk. Philippe could try to hide it all he wanted, but Corbeau's sharp eye and familiarity with the man could tell that a not-small part of him was pleased to see his boss half-floundering in his favorite jacket.
Corbeau resisted the urge to glare. Its effect would be functionally nullified so long as he wore this willingly. It saved him more pride to not bother.
"I'll help you with the helmet, boss. Hold still."
Corbeau took his glasses entirely off in preparation.
He had to press upwards hard on his heels to not get squashed straight downwards like a thumbtack. The cushy protection of the helmet was just shy of too snug—Philippe had picked the right size to the micrometer.
"Looks good on you."
"You're only complimenting yourself," he fired back, clumsily pushing the visor open so he could see, and put his glasses back on sans their pocketed loop. "You're the one who picked it out."
"Since when have you had a problem with me feeling good about my choices?" Philippe gave the helmet a light knock with his knuckles. "You're one of them."
Heat crawled up Corbeau's neck and he blamed it entirely on the new layers he was sporting. He clicked his tongue, turned to the bike leaning on its kickstand.
"Where's your helmet, then?"
Philippe only turned on a heel and grasped at his darling's handlebars. Corbeau narrowed his eyes and decided not to give him shit for being a hypocrite.
With a low grunt that distracted Corbeau immediately, Philippe pushed the machine upright and flicked the metal kickstand with the hard toe of his boot. The thing was heavy. Corbeau wasn't sure he had the strength to budge it like that, but Philippe obviously did.
Those bare forearms flexed in the colorless light of the garage, tattoos shifting over muscle. The fabric of his t-shirt clung to his arms, fully filled out, and the tuck of it into Philippe's jeans accentuated the curve of his belly. There were a few grease marks near the bottom, Corbeau noticed, and instead of bothering him like a stain usually would, they somehow seemed right at home.
Corbeau didn't notice Philippe had already straddled the bike, and cursed himself for not paying better attention. He didn't want to seem like he was mindlessly staring or anything.
"Climb on, boss. I've seen how you can scramble, this should be nothing for you."
Corbeau was happy to prove him right. The added leather bulk around his arms didn't stop him from vaulting up behind Philippe with ease. The tilt of the seat guided him flush against Philippe's broad back, and since he was never one to betray hesitation, he snuck his arms around his subordinate's middle as if they'd done this a million times before.
It felt... surprisingly nice. His arms couldn't reach all the way around Philippe's bulk, but this large man was easy to grab onto regardless, solid and warm and teeming with strength.
He was suddenly grateful for the helmet. It wouldn't let any random citizens notice how warm he was in the face while his mind wandered to places it shouldn't.
In fact, he might not get recognized at all—people tended not to once certain features of his were obscured. Philippe was sociable enough within the Syndicate that he'd given grunts rides home on his bike before. Hidden as Corbeau was under the huge jacket, the people of Lumiose might assume he was just another Syndicate lackey.
Or, if he really wanted to be delusional, people might see him on the back of Philippe's bike, in a flashy helmet and wearing Philippe's jacket, and assume he was somebody special.
There was something particularly thrilling about that.
Alright. Maybe this thing had a merit or two.
He snapped the visor down and leaned back in just as Philippe turned the keys.
The machine awoke as a living creature did, purring noisily and sending strange vibrations all through Corbeau's legs and hips. This could not be comfortable long-term.
The engine revved like the underground rumble of a Steelix. The bike began to roll forward—so far, so good, but the moment the front tire hit the ramp out of the garage, Corbeau's arms reflexively jerked tighter.
A warm arm folded over where his hands pressed, securing them closer to Philippe's stomach.
"I'd never let you fall, boss. I've got you."
That shouldn't have made his stomach flutter the way it did.
Philippe took them down Estival Avenue at a respectful pace for any pedestrians, and arced north when the wall of apartment buildings marking the edge of the city loomed tall. The gate near the Saison Canal was Philippe's aim. In no time at all, they were rolling right through it, and for the first time in... how long, again? Months, the better part of a whole year even—Corbeau crossed the threshold of Lumiose City and into the lands beyond.
He could not see around Philippe. He was stuck looking to the immediate left and immediate right.
Distant mountains. Smaller buildings. Surprisingly few cars for this time of day—perhaps it was too nice outside to drive, for everyone who didn't own a vehicle that exposed them to the sky and the invigorating air of springtime.
"Alright back there, boss?" Philippe called over the engine. "I'll open her up here in a second. Hang on tight!"
It'd be pointless to shout through the helmet, so he answered by doing just that: holding on tight.
The engine snarled, once, twice, and inertia tugged Corbeau backwards as they accelerated farther away from home.
Arceus, it was loud! For something so old, this thing could really roar. Thank Philippe for thinking of the helmet—its dense padding and hard shell protected his ears from the riot of combustion rupturing the peaceful air.
Philippe's large back and borrowed leather blocked out most of the wind, but that was just for him. Philippe had no such protection. Did he enjoy the hurricane? He must. The evidence was all right here; within the cage of Corbeau's arms was a body bridled with exhilaration.
With another rev, Philippe kicked them to a new speed. They shot past a car in another lane with such velocity that Corbeau's jaw dropped the inch it could within the helmet.
This couldn't be legal—but since when did he care about that? He started to grin to himself.
The edges of the city fell away to fields of grass and wildflowers. Their speed smeared all but the most distant details together, rendering the optimistic blooms of spring into one long impressionistic blur. The idyllic view felt unreal against the roaring backdrop of a motorcycle engine, joyously industrial, tearing up the road without mercy.
Corbeau couldn't remember the last time he'd gone this fast. It was well known to those close to him that he lacked any fear of heights or falling; he loved being high off the ground, and vertigo was as foreign a concept to him as Philippe ever choosing to leave his side.
He was only a foot above the asphalt, but he still felt like he was flying. It was a funny feeling, to soar on something as heavy as a machine while simultaneously grounded to someone so stable. Was Philippe having just as much fun? Did it feel like flying to him, too?
The body he clung to shifted. Philippe had taken a hand off a handlebar—he reached to his belt under one of Corbeau's arms, and soon a flash of light burst overhead as Skarmory was released from her ball, wings spread, already soaring. She screeched with delight, the sun flashing off her wings. It'd have been blinding if not for the visor.
Skarmory kept pace with her trainer's bike with ease—she was used to this, Corbeau realized, soaring next to Philippe on the road without a single care in the world.
Corbeau loosened an arm and dared to stretch it out from behind the safety of his companion's back.
The wind grabbed his wrist and tried to haul him straight off the bike, but he wasn't afraid. He wouldn't be allowed to fall. He reached for the flash of sun on feather, and to his delight, Skarmory veered just close enough that his fingertips could brush her wing on her next careful flap.
She rocketed ahead and lifted higher, her shadow a companion to theirs upon the searing road.
He could tell. These two had been doing this for far longer than Corbeau had known either of them.
He wanted to laugh at himself, and did. A burst of self-depreciation muffled into his shiny new helmet, guaranteed to go unfelt. After indulging just once in how silly he'd been, he threw that feeling behind him to scatter to pieces in their wake.
He had a ride to enjoy.
Philippe took them far from Lumiose. Corbeau reveled in every kilometer devoured by the insatiable wheels underneath them.
Honestly, how long had it been since he'd traveled this far away from home? Lumiose was big, but the world was bigger. He'd have to thank Philippe later for reminding him of that.
Corbeau felt with his whole body when the bike began to slow, tugged back to reason by friction and the drag of air. The roar of the wind lessened, then calmed, then hushed away entirely.
The bump of the wheels didn't startle him this time. Philippe guided the purring bike off the empty road onto flat, hard-packed earth, towards a gnarled old tree that stood sentinel at the boundary of nature and the man-made. Skarmory lit down upon one of the taller branches angled perfectly for a perch, eyes closed, gleaming in the sun.
They rolled farther away from the road, grit crunching beneath the wheels and giving way to scraggly grass. The tree loomed tall overhead. It too had been overtaken by the advances of the season, branches dotted with new green.
The engine cut, but its thrumming remained in every single one of Corbeau's bones. His whole body tingled like he might start floating away the second he let go of Philippe.
The world was startlingly quiet without the forefront rumble of that engine.
"This is where I always stop to turn around. Nice, isn't it?"
Corbeau flipped the visor up and squinted through the sunny scenery. Whatever skyline might have been visible of Lumiose was blocked by some distant hills. There were no cars on the road behind them, either. No buildings, no street lamps, no trash bins or rushing pedestrians. Just distant mountains, the buzz of unseen insects, and the loyal machine that had taken them here.
"Yeah..." he agreed, quieter than intended.
Philippe's sides tensed like he wanted to twist around. "Feeling okay back there?"
"What? Of course. Just... taking in the view."
Philippe's body relaxed in his embrace.
"Let's take a break before we head back. Helps to shake your legs out every once in a while."
The bike tipped to one side, and Corbeau consciously fought to trust her and not act like she'd buck him off the first chance she got. Philippe dismounted with ease, and offered a hand that was gratefully taken.
Corbeau slid off the saddle. He expected an easy transition, but the moment his leg tried to take his weight it nearly buckled. He stumbled into Philippe, helmet bumping his chest, and pushed himself upright on wobbly Deerling legs before he had to be caught. Thank Arceus no one else was around. He easily forgave Philippe for chuckling at his small plight.
He fumbled with the chin strap of the helmet, blindly releasing it and tearing the thing off so he could finally see unobstructed. Shit—his glasses.
"Arceus, that thing is a beast." Free at last, he tossed Philippe the helmet so he could ditch the weight of the leather jacket next, folding it over the seat. Ugh, his neck and shoulders, he really needed to stretch.
"That's exactly why I like her." Philippe sounded amused. "I think she was pretty nice to you, all things considered."
"You call wrecking my legs nice?"
"Spend the whole ride gripping her too hard, and that'll happen to anyone. Relax a little on the way back. She'll treat you nice if you give her the chance."
"Just like someone else I know," Corbeau grumbled, and twisted his back, unraveling a heavenly chorus of pops and cracks all the way up his spine.
He was in the middle of stretching his hamstrings out when Philippe spoke up thoughtfully. His tone would be disarming were Corbeau's guard not already down.
"Corbeau?"
"Hm?"
"Mind if we spend a little time here?" Philippe's hand flashed with a set of pokéballs. "Gotta give the fellas a chance to enjoy the air, too."
Corbeau's mouth twitched into a smile, and he cracked his neck in approval. "Like I would deny your pokémon anything they wanted."
"And that's why I don't let you watch them for too long. You'd undo all their discipline if I gave you the chance."
Corbeau snorted without retort and reached for his own team right as Philippe released his, wisely keeping his gaze away from where the steel-types would surely blind him if the sun caught them just right.
"Alright, you lot. Stay away from the road!" Corbeau ordered, tossing his team out towards the field. They burst free in excitement, clearly anticipating their turn to enjoy the change of scenery.
Scolipede immediately galloped to a patch of overgrown—no, out here it was just grown—grass to flop in, and began to roll around, stubby legs kicking at the air. Roserade spotted some wild Cutiefly amidst the wildflowers and decided to let them investigate his blooms, while Gyarados took to soaring high, climbing the air like an azure ribbon stolen by the wind—soon joined by the flashing wings of Skarmory, a distant needle darting through thread of blue.
Arbok, watchful and calm as always, decided that a sunny patch of dirt was enough for him to sprawl out on, scaled face radiating contentment. Philippe's Scizor raced around the open field with Steelix giving chase, flattening the grass in their wake. And Aggron—big, burly Aggron, sweetest thing on Philippe's team—sat with a low boom right next to Arbok, who didn't even twitch.
They all looked so happy out there.
Guilt nibbled at Corbeau's mind as a trainer. He should make the effort to bring them outside the city more often. Space to fly, space to run, without running the risk of noise complaints or property damage. This was where pokémon were always meant to thrive.
Scolipede in particular was hatched inside the city. Common pests, Venipede were, with their own self-sustaining population inside Lumiose. Opportunities to enjoy nature like this were rare for her. He'd need to do better for her sake; she looked so happy, rolling around the grass over there.
Corbeau tipped his head back and closed his eyes to the cloudless sky and the lacework of green budding branches.
Wind through the wildflowers. Swablu song. The scent of dry grass, and the waft of Roserade's bouquets carried on the breeze. The warmth of the sun on his face.
It was nothing like the bustle and hubbub of Lumiose that'd become a baseline to Corbeau's daily life.
Philippe was really onto something, escaping her walls every once in a while.
Why had he rejected the offer to go for a ride so many times, again? Childish fussiness over an innocent bike? Corbeau could laugh at himself all over again.
Arceus. They could've been sharing these moments for years by now...
Lungs full of clean air and words he had yet to say, Corbeau opened his eyes again and searched for Philippe. The man was quietly enjoying nature just the same, hands folded behind his back in the same pose he adopted at his boss's side.
He looked younger out here. Somehow.
The warm breeze nudged him towards Philippe, and he let himself be guided closer. He stopped just shy of bumping into the larger man. Ever comfortable with whatever proximity Corbeau chose to provide, Philippe didn't move away.
Corbeau's hand fell from his pocket and dangled between them. They watched their pokémon frolic, fly, and nap together, and for the first time in a long time, all the problems waiting for them in Lumiose felt far away, and small for it.
Philippe's stance shifted. His arms relaxed, and fell loose at his side as well. The meager distance between them prickled like a tangible thing. Like they were still straddling that bike together, and needed to stay close for safety's sake.
"We should bring lunch with us next time," Corbeau said. He kept his expression schooled neutral when he sensed the surprise at his side, along with the growing kernel of excitement over what he'd just implied. "Time and weather permitting, of course. Whenever we're not too busy."
He could hear Philippe's grin. "Anytime you want, Mister Corbeau. I'll make sure to have something tasty prepared just for you."
"Ah-ah," he chided. "If it's for both of us, it's only natural that I help with preparations." He bumped his elbow into Philippe's arm. "You'd only pack what I like if I let you get away with it."
Philippe's chuckle was warmly self-conscious. "Heh. Far be it from me to keep you out of the kitchen. Your knifework's gotten better than mine."
Corbeau could picture it all too easily. Them, together in the communal kitchens, or the fancier one in his apartment, or the more cramped one in Philippe's, whipping together a picnic to be shared. It'd have to fit into the saddlebags on either side of the motorcycle, and she'd have no problems carrying it along with the both of them.
Next time. That was the most important thing he had to say. That there would be a next time.
Speaking of lunch, though... Corbeau rubbed his fingers together. Cleared his throat a bit.
"After this—"
"Would you want to—"
They both shut up, momentarily thrown by how rare it was for them to trip over each other like that.
Corbeau fixed the perch of his glasses, heart skipping for no reason. "You first, Philippe."
"R-Right. I was just trying to ask if... See, for me at least, a long ride always works up an appetite. If you have the time, we could grab a bite to eat once we get back." Together? "Only if your plans permit, of course. I'm sure you have a lot lined up for later today."
Corbeau's heart made a neat little escape attempt, trying to leap out of his chest like that.
They ate together often, mostly out of convenience or necessity, or to simply treat themselves for working so hard.
This felt different. They were off-the-clock, breaking routine, and in Corbeau's case, trying something entirely new. Getting asked to eat together now of all times—in the city, no less, at a restaurant that they'd presumably ride the bike right up to— felt significant in a way he rabidly hoped he wasn't just imagining.
"...I suppose I can squeeze in lunch with you." As if he hadn't spent all morning tracking Philippe down manually, just for the joy of eventually finding him. Actually, he should do Philippe the favor of being more honest, since Philippe went the extra mile of bringing someplace special— "And by that, I mean I'd love to. Had you not said anything, I was about to ask you for the same."
Straightforward honesty wasn't a habit he was born with, but he was making the effort to get better at it for Philippe's sake. Still, the back of his neck felt warm, and he made a show of stretching an arm across his chest, then the other, deliberately avoiding looking at his companion's face.
"Let's not keep your appetite waiting then. I'm feeling that Unovan barbecue place you like so much."
"Now we're talking."
Philippe turned with a grin and whistled sharply for his pokémon, who all came darting—or in Steelix's case, churning—over to be placed back into their balls. Even Gyarados heeded the whistle, careening back to the earth with Skarmory hot on his tail.
Corbeau's team were more reluctant to approach him, and this tugged mercilessly at his heartstrings; he promised with his eyes that they'd surely be back, returning them one by one to be pocketed safely for the ride.
Once again, Philippe helped him with the helmet, while Corbeau slid the oversized jacket back on like it was made for him.
A hand outstretched for him to take. He really didn't need the help getting back on... but accepted anyway. There was no reason to turn down such a chivalrous hand, and it made Philippe happy to be allowed to help.
The security of the grasp felt like gratitude in the two seconds of contact needed for him to climb back on. It could have been for anything—Thanks for coming out with me. Thank you for letting me show this to you. Thanks for giving my baby a chance to shine for you, too.
Corbeau settled behind, arms winding home and helmet-clad cheek pressing neatly between those broad shoulders. The large engine's thrum felt friendlier than it had before, and he reminded himself to not tense his legs so much just to stay on. It wasn't like she'd throw him off, or anything.
Make no mistake, this hunk of junk was still competition for Philippe's attention.
He was just starting to see the benefits of being willing to share.