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The needle slid out with ease. A pinhead's worth of blood welled forth, and Corbeau imagined Philippe leaning into his belly to lick it up.
A plaster was delicately placed over the spot instead. Overkill treatment for a disregardable amount of blood, but Philippe insisted on going the extra careful mile now that he was entrusted with this.
Philippe had been the one to ask about it first. Wanting to learn. Wanting to watch. The intimacy of the offer had momentarily floored him, and of course Corbeau said yes. Philippe rarely acknowledged his status as a self-made man (preferable, usually) so the times Philippe went and brought it up on his own were always worth paying great attention to.
And look at the big guy now. On his knees next to the bed, faithfully capping the used syringe after handling his boss's weekly dose. Sunday mornings, 7AM sharp.
A guy could really get used to this.
Could Philippe, though? He wondered.
At first glance, Philippe had already adapted to this new routine he'd volunteered for, but Corbeau had never been a first-glance-only type of person.
It wasn't like Philippe had explicit orders to bother with such a small task. He was never told to wake up earlier on a specific day of the week just to be here, in his boss's living quarters in the upper floors of the office, preparing the necessities of an injection whose recipient was long accustomed to handling alone.
Philippe had even told him he could start sleeping in a little more. "Just leave it to me, boss. I'll wake you when it's time."
Forget the extra mile—Philippe was running whole marathons for him, seemingly just-because.
Nobody could dare blame him for falling in love. It felt fucking inevitable, all things considered.
Corbeau flipped his shirt back over his shoulders, leaving the buttons open for now, and watched as Philippe carried the tray of used materials to be disposed of properly. Everything went to the hidden room where he stored his full collection of substances that could influence the human body one way or another. Wrappers to the trash, used syringe to the wall-mounted sharps container, glass vial of testosterone back to the cabinet of all his treasures, where it hid in plain sight.
Corbeau was supposed to be getting dressed by now, but something kept him seated there on the edge of his bed. A weight in his body that kept him from rising.
This caught Philippe's attention once he returned, because of course it did. This dutiful man, already impeccably suited down to the origami angles of his pocket square, paced towards him with obvious intentions of getting started on Corbeau's neglected shirt buttons.
Again, he wasn't asked to—he just did.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him.
Anybody else would be so lucky.
(If only Philippe carried the same initiative when it came to the poorly hidden obvious. All the devotion in the world, it seemed, wasn't enough to tip that man over the line to give Corbeau what he really wanted, without being ordered to do it—which would ruin the whole entire point.)
"Is this all you plan on doing, Philippe?"
The words fell out of his mouth before he'd fully grasped his own point.
Philippe halted just out of arm's reach, confusion deepening the set of his brow. "Is there something else you required of me, boss?"
He shook his head as the full concept coalesced in his brain.
"Allow me to rephrase my question. Is this," he waved around his bedroom, gesturing more at the greater Rust Syndicate structure, "how you plan on spending your time forever?"
"Did I take too long?" Philippe looked genuinely concerned. "I can find ways to prepare your shot faster, boss, if you—"
"No. No, that's not what I meant." He started on his shirt buttons. The pinprick of blood on his stomach had definitely already clotted, rendering the bandage redundant, but he'd leave it on a few more hours for Philippe's sake. "I was just reminded of..."
Great. He hadn't anticipated how awkward this topic could potentially be. No room to regret it now, though; his curiosity scorched him. He took a few more seconds to organize words he didn't have prepared.
"The long-term."
Saying it out loud gave it a weight that was almost intimidating. He refused to let himself be cowed. This could be an important conversation.
"Boss?"
Corbeau waved at the empty space next to him. Philippe sat on the edge of bed without comment.
He took immediate note of the chosen distance. Closer than any normal subordinate would dare. It'd be trivial to tip over and rest his head upon Philippe's shoulder, like he'd started doing whenever he needed a moment to rest his eyes (and pretend that they were lovers, if only for that moment).
"What I mean is... Everything that you're doing. Even the work you've taken on outside your job description. I know you love what you do, but you can't possibly intend to keep all this up forever."
Corbeau crossed his ankles where he sat, and left the bottom half of his shirt open. "The Rust Syndicate needs you," not nearly as much as I do, "but surely you must have a retirement plan? A vague idea, if nothing else?"
By his side, Philippe's hands laced loosely together between his spread knees.
"I... No, boss. I've never considered it before, now that you bring it up."
"What do you mean you've never considered your own retirement?"
Philippe's thumbs opened up, fell back down. "Never had any reason to."
For some reason, that put a twitch of annoyance under his eye. He prized this man for many reasons, and the wisdom that came with age was one of them. It was preposterous that Philippe had simply not bothered to plan for his own future. He wasn't as young as Corbeau was; weren't such considerations all the more important for him?
Philippe couldn't be that selfless.
"I'm a little disappointed."
"Boss?" Philippe startled.
"You don't think I'm some kind of slave driver, do you? The kind of man who'd shackle you down and prevent you from living your life to its fullest after all the loyal years you've given me? Please." He clicked his tongue. "I'm not that heartless."
"That's not what I meant, boss." Philippe, clearly on the backfoot, rubbed at the side of his jaw the way he did when internally squirming.
"Explain yourself, then. You of all people know the importance of being prepared for the future. How quickly things can destabilize. Whether it's the fate of a city or just one man, it's all important. Treat it as such."
"My apologies, boss. I didn't think I was being negligent."
Corbeau wavered on the edge of letting the topic go. He rubbed the edge of his thumbnail along the underside of his index finger, back and forth, like he was trying to slowly saw it open.
"You know how ridiculously demanding our work is," he continued. "You're strong, Philippe, but only as human as the rest of us. Anyone sane would want to seek calmer pastures eventually. Find some well-earned peace, settle down with someone nice..."
Start a family.
A cold little stone dropped into Corbeau's stomach, sharp as an olive pit and just as uncomfortable to swallow.
"...stop following orders," he finished without breaking much cadence. "You've long earned it, of course. The right to step away someday should all this ever start weighing you down. I would never dream of holding you back."
He wanted nothing more than to sink his claws into Philippe and never let go, but knew that he wouldn't be able to, should the time come. He loved Philippe too much to trap him at his side.
The most vital essence of their relationship—blurred and vague as their bond had become—was that Philippe was here because he wanted to be.
Should Philippe ever not want to be with him anymore...
That would be it, wouldn't it?
The end of whatever they had.
"The thought really never crossed my mind, boss," Philippe said more softly.
Corbeau listened raptly, still on guard and trying not to show it.
"I never saw myself as the settling down type, anyhow." Philippe rubbed the back of his thick neck, head bowing. "One thing that hasn't changed since I was younger is my bad habit of throwing myself headfirst into trouble whenever I see it. Hard to picture myself relaxing on a porch and being content with it. This type of life suits me far better."
Corbeau was feeling masochistic. He absolutely did not have to press the topic or ask this question, but it leapt sharply up his stomach and out his mouth—
"You sure you haven't thought about starting a family someday?" he said conversationally, wishing that he would shut up. "You love kids. That could be worth the porch. Raising some brats of your own would keep you busy for sure."
Philippe's chuckle was just barely on the bitter side—enough to put a winch around Corbeau's throat.
"Come on, boss. It's hard to imagine a lady or otherwise wanting a meathead like me for something that serious. A fling here and there, sure, but... with my history, reputation, I'm not exactly someone to bring home to the parents."
Corbeau had the brief, awful, sardonic thought—good thing I don't have any, right?—and swept it promptly away. Because what the fuck was Philippe talking about, saying he wouldn't be a great catch?
He absolutely got attention on the streets. Not just the wary kind, either, from being Rust Syndicate authority that people knew not to cross. Philippe was a strong, careful, handsome man, with good money and a sharp fashion sense (that Corbeau took full credit for cultivating). Kind, generous, devastatingly polite despite having every right to condescend on anybody weaker or meaner than him. Thoughtful and chivalrous. A beautiful smile.
"Please. I've seen the way the ladies look at you," his mouth said, mind half-disconnected from his words. "Any one of them would swoon if you kissed their hands or smiled their way."
Another chuckle. "Yeah? They don't know I wouldn't be good for them, though."
But they might be good for you. Think of what they could give you.
Corbeau crossed his legs, and his hands laced over his knee. Control. Restraint.
"I don't see why not. You've got everything a woman could want. Not just good character, but you're an amazing cook, and you're great with kids once they warm up to you. And based on the way you treat me, any lady could extrapolate the five star princess treatment in store for them should they get your attention. You're not lacking options, Philippe."
From the corner of his eye, Philippe's hands began to fidget in the space between his knees. Tugging at the ghosts of decorative rings he no longer wore. Corbeau pictured a band of gold around one finger—one that he didn't pick out himself, and nearly lost the guts to keep pushing this conversation.
"I'm still far from being good for anyone else, boss. I'm not sure I could dedicate proper time to a spouse, let alone my kids, while I'm already focused on... what I'm doing here," Philippe redirected. "To no complaint of mine, of course."
Corbeau's eye twitched at the aversion to stating the obvious: that Philippe had no time to consider anything else, because he was too busy taking care of Corbeau. That even if he wanted a family, he'd already set the idea aside as something he couldn't achieve.
Absolutely fucking not. Corbeau hated this sudden yawning feeling of being an active obstacle to a fulfilling future for the man he loved.
He stuck a professional smile on.
"Oh, that? Simple fix." He nudged his glasses unnecessarily, returned his hand to his crossed knee. "I'd naturally decrease your responsibilities as needed. Work-life balance is everything when you've got somebody waiting for you at home. You've got more freedom than you think; I'm not so heartless as to keep you from a potential wife and children."
Children Corbeau couldn't give him.
Kids he knew that Philippe would love more than life itself.
(Stop it.)
He saw the way Philippe's eyes crinkled when rambunctious toddlers passed him by. How he loved giving the kids of grunts rides on his shoulders, letting them grab onto his mohawk without complaint. He was a trusted babysitter in a pinch, scary face and reputation be damned—and that one time Corbeau saw him hold the baby of a stranger, granting the mother some reprieve to fix her dress, the look in Philippe's eyes as that uncoordinated little hand squeezed his large finger had stunned Corbeau nearly blind.
This was a man who'd make an incredible father. Who may not get the chance to become one if he insisted on putting Corbeau first in all things forever.
Even if they did—somehow, someday, if Corbeau could be so selfish—get together in a way that mattered... If what Philippe wanted was a family? He wasn't going to get one from Corbeau. Not through the 'traditional' way, that Philippe was entitled to enjoy.
The guy deserved a loving wife as sweet as he was (Corbeau wasn't that). A shot at fathering his own kids who'd be the cutest damn things in the world if they ever took after their daddy (Corbeau couldn't give that either).
He had never regretted becoming who he always knew he should be—but there was a brief, sickening intrusion of a thought that—that if he'd never gone through any changes at all, he might be more suitable to settle down with.
(Fuck. Why was he thinking about this? He hated thinking about this, hated it hated it hated it to death, but the anxiety buzzed around his head like a fly he couldn't kill and the noise was going to drive him insane.)
God, even if he still had the means to carry children, he wouldn't. Couldn't. For Philippe, maybe, but those thoughts were useless since he'd already gotten rid of his—
"Can I ask you something, boss?"
"Yeah. Fire away," he said, distantly proud of himself for sounding neutral there, rather than like he wanted to scream.
"Are you wanting me to find a woman?"
Corbeau very nearly betrayed how viscerally his gut recoiled upon hearing the words out of Philippe's own mouth.
His silence still said too much. Philippe shifted next to him, and Corbeau flinched (and hated himself for flinching) when a broad hand settled at his back.
What was going on.
"Hey."
He stiffly swallowed. "Hey what."
"I think you need to slow down." The hand at his back stroked him a little, thumb over his spine. "If this is about me, my own future, then you should listen to what I have to say. Okay? Really listen to me."
...Sure. Okay. Philippe was the important thing here, true.
Corbeau only nodded, a jerky little thing.
"Good. Now look... boss. Corbeau," Philippe corrected.
His head jerked slightly upon hearing his name. The beads hanging from his glasses swayed anew.
"I'm aware I'm a little past my prime. You're right that if I did want to settle down with someone, now would be the best time to start looking. But you should know me a little better than that by now. You've seen what brings me joy." Philippe thumbed at one of his vertebrae again. "This work we do? And getting to do it with you? Shit. You couldn't pry me away in a million years."
His stomach fluttered. Why... did it feel like he was being comforted? Why, what for?
Corbeau became extremely invested in monitoring the state of his breathing. In. Out. Normal. Fine.
"The easy path has never been the one for me. Even before I met you, Corbeau, that's always been true. If you think I'll ever have regrets about committing myself to the Syndicate for life, it'll be one of those rare times your judgement is flat-out full of shit."
He couldn't help it. He snorted a little, bowed his head even though nothing about this felt funny.
Philippe's voice became sterner.
"And that other thing. Even if I did want to partner with somebody—" There was the slightest disruption there, like another word was meant to follow, that was killed before it could be spoken, "I meant it when I said I wouldn't be good for them. Not because I'm not any of those things you described—I'm very flattered, by the way, that you think so highly of me, but... listen."
Philippe cleared his throat a little bit, and the hand at his back shifted higher, until it rested just underneath the collar of his half-done shirt. He didn't know if he should lean into it or away from it. Ideally, he would roll back time to when the needle had slipped out of his flesh, and simply thank Philippe for helping and get on with starting his day. They could be having breakfast together by now.
"I'm listening," he recited, even though he only lent half an ear, wishing that he'd never opened his mouth in the first place.
"I've already got my priority. And that's you. Wouldn't be fair to anyone else to act like they could become more important to me than you, and it'd be cruel to even let them try. That spot's proudly spoken for in my life, and I have no intention of ever letting that change."
...Oh.
Pretty funny, how something he always hoped to be true could almost knock him out when put into a voice like that.
"Now. You tell me what's eating at you."
Philippe was bent on comforting him. Arceus fuck, he had to shape up if he was getting this bad at controlling his emotions. Explaining himself was the last thing he was in the mood for when even he didn't know why he'd dragged them through this awful conversation.
Corbeau bit the inside of his lower lip. Really dug his teeth in firm, like the pain could keep him on the right track.
"No," he challenged.
The hand over his back stayed gentle.
"You know I won't let you do that, boss."
Worth a shot.
Fuck. Fine—if there was one unexpected thing he'd learned over the years, it was that best way to make these awful knots inside him go away was to grit his teeth and fucking talk about it, because Philippe was serious about not letting this drop if he didn't get it over with now. The man was relentless in all sorts of ways—it was one of the reasons Corbeau loved him so much, even if he hated what he was being cornered towards.
In a way, he did ask for this. Might as well follow through if he had any respect for himself at all.
Still hated every second of it, though. He was never any good at this.
"It just. I don't know why I brought it up, okay?" he ground out. Pulling his feelings out of his chest and into the air was as difficult as grasping teeth with the wrong pliers. "I just don't like the idea of... it being my fault." If he could stuff those words back inside him, he would. "You not being able to... O-Of being in the way if you ever decided to..."
He couldn't finish his sentences, how fucking humiliating. Philippe gave him a soft pat as if to say he understood anyways. One of his many unofficial duties was being a mind-reader, after all. Philippe was far too good to him.
"You can't be in my way if I'm not going anywhere."
Spoken with a smile.
"And besides. I've already got a family." Philippe's voice warmed, and so did the hand over his back, expressed with a pat. "I love some of those grunts like I'd love my own kids. And some of the older ones, with brats of their own—they've named me godfather already, didn't you know?"
No. He didn't. Fuck, he needed to do a better job at keeping up with the lives of their own employees if things like this were happening under his nose.
"Hard to want what I've already got, is what I'm saying," Philippe finished. "I'm already plenty happy exactly where I am, and I have you to thank for that. You'd better not doubt me on this or I'll start worrying how much you really trust me."
His throat couldn't get anything else out. Philippe slid his hand to settle over his opposite shoulder, half of a casual hug.
"Now, c'mere, boss. No offense, but you look like you need it."
Without any protest, he was pulled into Philippe's steady side, hugged in place with an all-encompassing arm wrapped around him.
Something in him still wanted to run. Or resume business as usual. Play all this off as just a silly diversion of his, the result of a bad night's sleep or something.
Said a lot that he didn't move away. Philippe was impossible to pull away from when he was the one doing the reaching for once. If only it could be like this all the time.
Philippe gave his tense body a compassionate squeeze, and sounded completely calm when he spoke again:
"You wanna know something I thought you already knew?"
"...What," he furtively croaked.
"Thought you already knew that I'm never gonna stop being your right-hand man."
Philippe reached towards his lap, and lifted his distracted fingers. Curled his larger ones around them, brought them up, and leaned right down. The kiss was lingering, yet maddeningly professional somehow, warming Corbeau's pale knuckles with just enough devotion to not be mistaken for a confession of some kind.
Corbeau was exactly the kind of suicidal idiot to read it as one anyways.
"I'm not going anywhere, no matter what happens to me or you or anyone." Philippe murmured against his knuckles. He desperately tried to imagine how it might feel against his lips. "Trust me when I say I'm already right where I wanna be. That this is everything I could want."
His heart leapt into his throat and lodged there. It wanted him to say it—I love you, I need you, if you're already mine then give your heart to me, too, I'll take care of it like you take care of me—those words would choke him if he didn't set them free.
Corbeau swallowed them back anyways, and accepted the feeling of his chest caving in.
Now was not the time. He was better than this. There was no way he could confess after showing such a weak and pathetic side of himself. There would be a better time; Arceus fucking willing, he wanted the moment he made his move to be a happy one for both of them.
Because it had to be Corbeau, didn't it? He had to be the one to cross that line first. Philippe had all but confirmed that the place he would inhabit forever if allowed was at Corbeau's side as subordinate and supporter. Philippe would never leave that box without being pushed out of it.
It really had to be him.
It just... couldn't be now.
He snatched his hand free from Philippe's grasp. His heart was trying to coil into itself again. The only reason it didn't, laughably, was because the arm wrapped around him was still so damn grounding. This asshole.
"I... I get it already," Corbeau managed to say, shakier than he was comfortable allowing anybody else to hear. "You've made your point."
"Have I?"
"Yes," he hissed.
Philippe's chuckle was a punch to the stomach. "Good. 'Cause I wouldn't have said any of it if I didn't really mean it."
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. His chest was full of claws, he had to do something—
The arm around him took itself away before he could impulsively try anything stupid.
"Come on. Let's get some food in you before you start the day." Philippe thumped him hard enough that it jolted him forward and knocked his mind clean, and rose from the bed with a stretch that popped his heavy back. "Mind if I use your kitchen?"
He didn't have to say yes, or the more sarcastic "you're the only one who does at this point," because Philippe was already on his way out of the spacious bedroom. Chipper almost, like nothing was wrong.
Hah...
So that's what he was doing. Giving his upset boss a little time and space to compose himself in private—and as the compassionate cherry on top, there'd be a hot breakfast waiting for him once he got out there. Or brought to him personally if he didn't have it in him to step out in time.
(Or was it something else entirely? That Philippe was running away because he could sense that Corbeau was on the brink of doing something dangerous?)
Either way.
Fuck getting up, after all that.
Corbeau flopped onto his back and rubbed a hand under his glasses, covering his eyes completely.
God. Damn it. Nobody on this damn planet could blame him for being in love or in pain.
How obvious was it? How much did Philippe know? Philippe had to know—just like Corbeau knew Philippe wasn't entirely innocent, either. Kissing him on the fucking hand like that and talking about forever—and having the gall to frame it as something professional. What a goddamn farce.
Something was there, and he was getting real tired of pretending there wasn't.
Corbeau patted blindly down his half-buttoned shirt, until he felt the adhesive edge of Philippe's care from earlier. His nails dug into the bandage, and he ripped it off clean with nary a flinch.
He held it over his face and took a squinting look from underneath his hand, glasses askew.
A dried up little speck of blood. Practically already healed. Covering it in the first place was nothing but a useless formality.
Corbeau let his strings be cut and slumped flat to the mattress, bandage stuck to his thumb. He sighed a sigh for the ages.
Well. He could count on one thing. Philippe wasn't going anywhere, no matter what his boss might stupidly try and do to him soon.
A muffled clatter of something metal dropping into the sink reached him from the kitchen, followed by a low curse.
Hm...? Feeling clumsy, was he? How rare.
Corbeau smiled wryly at the thought that they were equally out of sorts. Philippe always tried acting like the bigger man even though they were both guilty of the same foolish crimes—so there was something a little satisfying about Philippe being affected by this bullshit same as he was. Kinda like even now, they were enduring some new hardship side-by-side, and becoming that much closer for it.
Fuck, he was hopeless.
They'd be fine, though. Fine as they always were.
The sizzle of something hitting a hot pan roused him up at last. Corbeau did the rest of his buttons and threaded his belt through his pants on his way into the living room, finishing with the buckle once he came to a stop just outside the kitchen space. He couldn't give a shit about tucking his shirt in.
"Make yourself some, too," he said, sliding onto the bar stool adjacent to the kitchen's farthest counter, so he could watch Philippe's back as he cooked. "You know I keep enough stocked here for the both of us."
"That you do, boss."
Corbeau opened his mouth, and paused. He should have learned his lesson about asking stupid questions, but in his defense, he was still pretty off-kilter from before.
His arms folded on the countertop, and he leaned forward until the stool tipped onto two balanced legs.
"And what about at yours? Even though I'm not there as often."
Philippe stilled his swirling of the pan for a moment, the air filled with the sizzle of oil and scent of fried meat.
"You know me," said Philippe, reaching for more eggs than originally planned and giving the pan a continued jostle. "Never hurts to be prepared."
Corbeau finally found a real smile. A brief, self-chastising laugh flew out of him—he let the stool's back legs thunk back to the floor, and relished in the relaxation of Philippe's shoulders at the sound.
"Of course. I don't even know why I asked."