Archive of Our Own ^beta

Right before the holidays, everyone decorated Lumiose with lights. Corbeau walked to work today for that simple reason. Decorations hung from lamp posts, on doors, all around the buildings. People dressed their pokémon in holiday costumes. Cafes over-decorated their store fronts and windows. Nothing left untouched. Who even organized all of this? It appeared almost overnight, and somehow none of it looked cheap or thoughtless. Just festive and cheerful. Colorful and bright. Nostalgic and joyful. 

After indulging in the sights for a bit, he mentally tried to go over his meetings today. He remembered the first two clients and their objectives, and his plans for them as well. He couldn’t remember the third but refused to check his phone. It would come to him if he just thought it over without looking—

A kid bumped into him, directly into his chest, blurted out an apology, and attempted to dash off. Before he even knew what it was, he knew the kid stole something from him. He played that trick all the time back in the day. 

He turned and tried to catch the thief before he got too far, but the brat just twisted away a second too quickly. Since he nearly caught him once, he followed the kid down an alley for another attempt. This time he successfully caught the kid’s hood and pulled him back. 

“Cough it up.”

The kid hesitated but seemed to give up. 

Something in the alley rustled from the noise of their encounter. They both watched a Garbodor emerge from a pile of garbage near  a dumpster. It angrily called out, and Corbeau recognized it readied an attack as Garbodor often did to scare off other pokémon. 

He shoved the kid to the ground a second before it sprayed them with acid. He’d be fine, he got hit with plenty of poison attacks in the past, but a kid wouldn’t have been. 

After the sound of the blast stopped, he pulled the kid up and dragged him out of the alley. The kid gave him something and ran away quickly. 

He had tried to steal his phone. 

Corbeau knew from the feel of it. But after the spray, his eyes stung and refused to let light in. He rubbed at them and stumbled in the direction of a Pokémon Center. 

The sharp pain he dreaded finally hit all the nerves in his face. He shoved his tie in his mouth and rode the wave of pain, still stumbling in the direction of the Center, until he could bear it long enough to make a call. 

“Rotom, call Philippe.”

The pickup was immediate. 

“I’m at the Pokémon Center by my place. I got sprayed with acid—before you say anything listen: I need my sunglasses, and a change of clothes. It has to be you. Don’t send anyone else down here.” 

“Boss, are you okay? When did it happen—what were you doing?”

“Just get down here and I’ll tell you.” That sounded meaner than he meant. “I’m okay, Philippe. But bring the stuff.”

Once at the Center, a nurse took him to a back room and checked him despite him constantly pushing her off and snapping at whoever else in the room kept touching him. Did she have a pokémon assistant? Who else was in here? He asked so many questions, but they started ignoring him after he kept fighting with them. 

He heard the door half a dozen times already, so he hardly looked over there anymore. Why bother? Everything looked black with more or less no shape anyway. Squinting didn’t even help. 

“Boss!” 

That voice belonged to the one and only Philippe. He could picture his desperate expression upon entering the room. Just knowing Philippe finally arrived made his shoulders relax. The nurses attempted to give him something for his eyes, but he had refused their help in administering it. They weren’t telling him anything, lacking in communicating properly—the fastest way he lost trust in someone.  

“My apologies,” Philippe directed this to the nurse in the room, given the chivalrous tone, “may we have the room for a moment?”

“These are the drops for his eyes. Maybe you can convince him to take them.” 

“Thank you.”

Then a door closed. 

“What happened? Can you not see?” Philippe definitely faced him and had an edge to his voice. 

How did he already know he couldn’t see? He realized Philippe’s voice moved a little. Oh, he tested it already. How intuitive.

“I was running after a kid who tried to steal my phone. Must’ve been looking at the decorations around town too hard and looked like an easy target. When I caught him, a Garbodor tried to scare us out of the alley. The kid’s fine, but it got me.”

“Does it hurt?” Philippe sat next to him, and he nearly threw himself on his lap. But no, anyone could walk in here and see them. “Your tears are dark purple, almost black.” 

Philippe gently removed his glasses and used some soft fabric from somewhere to clean his face. Finally some decency. Corbeau held still so he could easily clean up whatever was still on his face. He was good at keeping him looking proper, his attention to detail sometimes better than his own.

“It left a mark around your face, but it’s not too bad.” Philippe quietly repeated his question, “Does it hurt?”

He tried to think of a believable alternative to saying no. Something Philippe would feel satisfied with hearing. “Not as bad as letting that kid get hurt would’ve.”

Philippe chuckled a little and probably smiled the way his voice warmed up, “Can I apply the eye drops for you? I’ve done these before.” 

Corbeau laid back on the bed and tried to hold still. 

“Use your fingers to keep one eye open, then we’ll do the other one.” 

With Philippe’s help, it flowed so much faster and smoother. He actually expected his vision to just clear up. When he sat up and blinked a dozen times, the dark figures in his vision just dipped into nothingness. He closed his eyes to briefly shake how ominous that felt. 

“Didn’t work. I can’t see.”

“I’ll talk to the nurse and keep them out. Do you want to change?” Philippe asked as he lightly padded the cloth against his face again. 

Corbeau looked at him—faced him where his voice came from—and the next few tears didn’t come from the eye drops. He cleared his throat, fixed his glasses, and shoved all emotion to the back of his mind. “Yes. Ask if they have something stronger. Where are the clothes you brought me?”

Philippe directed him to the clean clothes and told him to throw the dirty clothes on the floor. He also gave him a glasses case with his sunglasses, a tinted version of his usual glasses minus the loop holder. When he left, the room felt empty suddenly. 

He changed just fine and put on the sunglasses, but the workout required to do all of that felt excessive. If he didn’t think about it too much, he could do it. 

Someone entered after a while, and he reflexively looked that way. 

“Boss, I got more eyedrops we can try later on in the day, but for now we can go.” Philippe loudly made his presence known. 

He heard shuffling as Philippe collected the clothes and bagged it all in something. “The nurse here just needs your signature to let you go.”

He sharply looked at Philippe. 

“She said as long as you can see, we can go.” 

He didn’t want to be here, Philippe knew that, and he gave him a way out. If he wanted to stay, he could confess here. But no, he wanted to leave, badly. 

Philippe walked right up to him and loudly clicked a pen that Corbeau sensed he held out to him. Corbeau successfully grabbed it, given all his clues. When he reached out the pen as if going to sign, Philippe pointed where to sign, hitting the side of the tip of the pen so he could follow his finger. “Just right here, sir.”

His signature was pure muscle memory. Like those early mornings he’d lazily tease Philippe. He didn’t need his glasses let alone his vision to work something he’d been using for years. 

They walked out pretty confidently with Corbeau pausing at doors as if he was above opening them or even looking at people. The crazy idea came to him that he wouldn’t have to kill the whole day just because of this. “When is my first appointment?”

“Are we… not taking you home?”

“Why? I can talk. We provide the paperwork. Why waste the day? I have 3 meetings today. And we’re pretty convincing, right?”

“Right, sir.” Are we really doing this? His tone asked. 

“Take me to the Syndicate.” 

“I brought the car.” Philippe disappeared into the void until he heard the car door open. “Come right in, Boss.” His voice told him where to go. 

Corbeau slowly approached. He heard Philippe do a little tap-tap on something low to the ground and realized he was indicating a curb. How did he know that? Well, what else would Philippe be indicating here? Corbeau put a hand on the door and smiled up at where he assumed Philippe was. “Thank you for coming to get me, Philippe. Drive us to the Syndicate.”

Once inside, he took out his phone again. “Rotom, when is my first appointment?”

“8:30 AM.”

“What time is it right now?”

“8 o’clock AM.” 

Philippe entered, so he put his phone away and stared at the window, or pretended to anyway. 

“Here.” A piece of fabric gracefully landed on his lap. “You need to blot. You have drips again.”

Corbeau cleaned his eyes. Hopefully he got it all because the tears were so frequent he couldn’t always tell when they were falling. His eyes were really trying to clear this up. 

They arrived at the Rust Syndicate building, entered like nothing happened, and used the elevator like any old day. Philippe selected the floor number and everything; he could do all the seeing stuff actually. Why take the day off? This was flawless. 

Yet he heard Philippe sighing with concern the closer they got to their destination. When the door opened, they indeed made it to his office. He burned incense here yesterday, and the scent lingered in the air, so he knew where they were. 

“Look, this is how this is gonna go.” He turned and couldn’t figure out where to face. 

“Yes, Boss?”

He quickly corrected himself to face Philippe. “You’re my eyes, but I’m still me otherwise, right? I can negotiate fine, and I read everything about today’s meetings ahead of time. Technically, we have everything we need, I just need your help with the details. Anything we can do later is stuff they don’t need to bother me with—you know this. You have better judgment than everyone else in this building, Philippe. Tell me what you think.”

“Alright,” he replied reluctantly. “We can do this, Boss. But if at any point you need to walk away and get some rest, just say the word.”

“Fine. If I need it, I’ll tell you. Then you can throw whoever else is in there out the window because I’m done.” Corbeau walked to his desk with an outstretched arm. 

He knew his office, he memorized the placement of everything in the room. Of course he did; he put it there. He knew exactly where Philippe would go stand, the sound of the elevator when someone was about to get off.

This would be easy. No one would have any idea. He laughed at the thought and sat at his desk. He heard Philippe walking to his favorite little spot to stand and looked up at him. 

“My first appointment is at 8:30, so look sharp. They’re here for me after all.” He smirked up at him. 

“Should I bring you some tea before the first meeting, Boss?” Can I leave you for 5 seconds without you exploding or causing blind chaos? 

“Of course. Your pick, Philippe. I’m feeling lucky.” 

He swore he could hear an eye roll because of course it wasn’t a lucky day. It started out terribly, but luck had a way of turning around with the right attitude. 

Philippe walked off loudly, purposely making sure Corbeau knew when he’d left. Without his sight, Philippe was the greatest gift. He’d trained all his life for this: reading nonverbal commands, memorizing Corbeau’s little quirks and stress indicators, Philippe knew to bring a change of socks to the Pokèmon Center, a completely unnecessary thing but if he didn’t change his socks when he changed his wardrobe, he’d be neurotic.

This wasn’t ideal long term. But he wasn’t ready to think about all of that yet.

When Philippe came back, he had a softer step. Happy but urgent because they were on top of time now. Just as he placed the saucer and teacup, their guest arrived. Corbeau purposely looked at his phone so as to gauge their approach, and Philippe intentionally clinked the cup against the saucer. 

Corbeau reached for it without hesitation and smiled when he reached the handle without a hitch. 

“Bonjour,” a weak little voice called out to them. 

Corbeau already went for a drink so Philippe automatically answered for him.

“Good morning, Ms. Cotillard. Stand right there, no need to sit. This will be brief.”

She must have nodded but all Corbeau heard was her nervous breath that didn’t match Philippe’s behind him. He looked up at her and imagined her flinching at the eye contact. The fake eye contact that he tried to make just as searing as it usually was. It must have resonated properly because she gasped softly. 

“Ms. Cotillard, you requested an extension on the loan because you can no longer make the monthly payments?”

“Yes, I—”

“Please don’t move around while addressing Mr. Corbeau.” Philippe told her. 

His eyes weren’t naturally tracking her, so he took that opportunity to take another sip of the tea. Philippe chose a green tea, probably a gorgeous green color that he couldn’t see. It tasted like camomile and something. Peppermint? He couldn’t totally tell, but he enjoyed it, no sugar, no honey, no milk. Philippe was such a nostalgic guy. He chose this as a subtle grounding tactic for Corbeau. If this lady wasn’t standing there, he’d drag him down by his tie and kiss that man until he saw stars. 

“We don’t do extensions. The original contract was created around your income. What is the issue?” He glanced casually up, sunglasses helping block the fact that was guessing at her position. 

“Well, my income has changed…”

“Yes, I was made aware of your promotion yesterday.” Philippe handed him a paper, making sure to wobble it in the air before holding it out in front of him where he usually did. Corbeau grabbed it and pushed up his glasses before pretending to read it over. “A 50% raise? Wow, you must be here to pay off your original debt. Unless you wanted to simply increase your payments. Your accrued interest could be handled in some other manner if you’re willing to pay the original debt in full. What’s your pleasure?”

“The promotion actually wasn’t what I thought, so I can’t pay in the installments that I promised. I’m so sorry—”

He went to drink again and accidentally hit the side of the teacup. It sounded like it fell off the saucer. Great. Hopefully this wasn’t the hand-painted opal tea set with the intricate vine design he had imported straight from the Johto. 

He swatted the cup and saucer off the table in what he hoped to be a believable fit of anger.

The sound of it shattering was followed by Philippe sharply inhaling. No, don’t do that, Philippe. Don’t break his heart. He cursed in his head and got ready to yell. 

“Did you come here to insult me? To my face? The installation payments were designed for your income by you! If you lied about how much you’d be making, that’s not my problem, it’s yours! There’s something called accountability, Ms. Cotillard. So, how do you plan on fixing this?” 

He heard her breathing shudder but couldn’t gauge her thoughts the way he usually did. What did her face look like right now? Complete fear? Was she thinking? 

“I’m not sure what to do. I’m so sorry, Mr. Corbeau.” The end sounded like she faced downward. Nice, a little bow to neatly tie up the apology.

“Well, at least you came to reach out.” Corbeau pretended to be thinking about something he decided a while ago. “I can extend some mercy this one time, seeing as you came to me immediately. In exchange, however, I may need you to do me a favor someday. I’ll contact you directly. Now, for the terms of the new contract…”

Philippe moved at his right and opened his laptop, putting it in front of him. Corbeau grabbed his mouse, strategically placed by Philippe, and pretended to click and tapped on the keyboard. He spelled out random nonsense, and when he finished, he turned to Philippe. 

“Grab that off the printer, Philippe.” Philippe had apparently bent down to clean the mess, and he now walked away somewhere to do just that.

His genius subordinate got the printer to reprint the last paper so the noise would reach them. Philippe walked back and grabbed a pen that he clicked in the air. “Ms. Cotillard.” He handed her the paper, most likely.

“Read through the new conditions. Philippe can walk you through anything that needs clarification. Go sit, take your time, you don’t want to miss a thing.” He waved her away, so Philippe took her to the couches.

They spoke quietly about the new contract, and ever-loyal Philippe made sure to emphasize how this would be the last change to her contract, and reiterated how she was on-call for a favor for the Rust Syndicate until she’s paid back for insulting Corbeau and breaching her contract. He heard she got screwed on the promotion, but he could always use the extra hands. 

Philippe spoke with perfectly woven words balancing politeness and seriousness. Corbeau clicked away at his laptop and listened to Philippe’s voice carrying over gently. 

When she went to leave, she stopped by his desk. He knew because she spoke right away, “Thank you so much, Mr. Corbeau. I promise not to let you down again.”

He looked up reflexively. “You had better not, Ms. Cotillard.”

He knew she left when the elevator closed. Philippe went to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “That was good, Boss. Do you need a break?”

“Philippe, which cup was that?”

“I’ll replace it.”

He sighed. “Great. I was worried it was part of the recently ordered set. I wanted to toss the plain, white ones anyway, so if it’s one of those, just give out the rest of the set.”

Philippe leaned down. He could feel his breath on his ear before he even said a word. Before he could speak a word, Corbeau turned and kissed the edge of his mouth. Philippe hesitated but reacted in time to recapture his lips in his own. He couldn’t see his face, but he could feel reassurance coming from Philippe. A large hand went to the middle of his back, grounding him a little. 

Amazingly, Philippe pulled away first but stayed close while he murmured, “Your next appointment isn’t for another half an hour. Would you like to get some fresh air on the roof? Maybe eat something?”

“I’m fine. Help me answer some emails before the next appointment.”

Philippe shuffled around to grab something. “Need to blot your face.”

Corbeau pulled out the piece of fabric he’d been using for that and presented it to Philippe. 

“Are you sure you don’t need a break, Boss?” Philippe cleaned his face. He removed his glasses this time to get full access, wiping delicately. “I can bring you food.”

“I don’t need anything, Philippe. Relax.”

“I’m running to the men’s room. Let me bring you a fresh cup of tea at least.”

“Okay. In the cheapest teacup you can find.” Corbeau put his glasses back on. “Don’t take too long getting back.” 

Only then did Philippe remove his hand and move away. His quiet steps made their way to a side door where he disappeared. 

Again, his absence felt loud. Silence surrounded him almost uncomfortably. It consumed him; his ears rang. Thoughts he pushed away tried to resurface. 

He took in a breath and reframed his thoughts. 

He was in his office, a comfortable place. Philippe ran the next appointment since they only made it for consultation purposes. Corbeau’s presence would be a formality, and just in case he could suggest additional services. 

Hopefully Philippe came back in time for more attention. He hated breaks in the middle of the workday, but he could use a nap on top of Philippe before the next client. 

Ding!

The elevator sounded across from him. 

He felt a presence walking towards him and felt a rush go through him telling him to run. 

Corbeau immediately started clicking away at his computer and ignored whoever approached him, hoping they’d announce themselves. He couldn’t, and Philippe was maybe 5 minutes from coming back. 

They never let anyone up here without announcing them or letting Philippe know: who got past those idiots downstairs?

“Excuse me, Mr. Corbeau? I have an appointment.”

“Sit on the couch until Philippe returns. He’s bringing some tea.” He squinted at the computer as if checking the time. “You’re early.” He didn’t bother hiding the accusatory tone. 

The person sat on the couch; he heard the leather scrunch under the weight of whoever that was. Who was his second appointment?

“I hope it was okay that I brought this dish with me.”

“Sure.”

What did he bring? Where did he put it? On the desk? On the table near the couch?

His brain refused to do anything but curse and scream. Where was Philippe??? Who let this guy come up here!?

Corbeau let out another big breath and continued fake-typing while some stranger sat on their couch. He could override the need to run away, but not the feeling of intense terror at some other entity being so close to him. If they were quiet enough, they could technically come right up and stab him. 

For the life of him, he couldn’t remember who was supposed to come. Someone who liked to be early and irritate his very soul apparently.  

Philippe entered from the side door just then and walked about five steps before seeing their guest and audibly hesitating. Corbeau glared at where he heard the last steps stop. Hopefully he saw Corbeau seething and read it for what it was. “Ah, Philippe, thank you for joining us.” 

“Mr. Siebold, thank you for being punctual. Excuse me for a moment.” Philippe returned to Corbeau’s side, pace quickened. 

Philippe set a cup down in front of him in the same spot as the other one. He spoke softly but kept it careful anyway, “Sir, I apologize for leaving you like that with a guest. Let me know if you need anything at all.”

He nodded, staring at the screen instead of Philippe. Not only to seem uncaring to their client sitting within view, but also because every time he couldn’t see Philippe’s face when he turned to him, he felt it in his chest, a tight squeeze. It grew every time he looked at him. And he was already on edge because he was pissed off about the client arriving early. 

The wave of emotions probably left him looking all apathetic on the outside while he processed it all. Philippe left him without touching him because again the client was within view. It hurt though because of his lack of sight and having to rely on touch for reassurance. 

They could sort it out later. 

“We appreciate you for reaching out regarding your contract, Mr. Siebold. The Rust Syndicate prefers that you bring all questions straight to us rather than break the contract.” Philippe started in his business tone.

“The waste initiative!” Corbeau blurted out accidentally. He decided to own it since he couldn’t take back the words. “Have you started advocating for the waste initiative we pitched to you during our last meeting? Restaurants create a lot of food waste, so having a program in place to dispose of it for you while benefitting those in need works to your advantage.” 

“No need to walk over, he can hear you from here,” he heard Philippe say.

“Unfortunately, as I don’t own the restaurant, I can’t put into place the program without consulting the owner, and really he has no interest in doing anything besides disposing of waste. You understand.”

Corbeau cursed under his breath. He assumed he had more pull than that. Did he even try?

There was another direction he could go here, “Why don’t you?” Corbeau stood up and attempted to walk to the couches.

“I don’t understand,” the chef answered, helping him veer his course a little. 

Philippe started rubbing something on the couch, aiding in his walk over. He ignored how it felt like he was summoning a cat. Corbeau gently kicked the couch to figure out the distance and rounded the back of it until he lightly bumped into Philippe’s hand. He spoke enthusiastically so the chef would watch his mouth more than his path, relying on sunglasses to skew whether or not he made eye contact. “You’re the best chef in Lumiose City, shouldn’t the best chef in the greatest city in the world own his own restaurant?”

“Ah, the owner won’t sell the restaurant—”

Corbeau shook his head as he cut him off, “Philippe, what’s the number one rule when it comes to people?”

“Everyone has a price,” Philippe replied seamlessly. 

“Exactly,” he hit Philippe’s arm for emphasis. “When you go to make the offer, you say you’re buying it off him, and you state your first price. Then let him say no until you hit his price; we can provide the funds.” He gestured in the air.

Philippe hummed. “You look excited for the opportunity.”

Good, he couldn’t tell where the chef stood without knowing that, and he thought in too much silence for him to use cues from his tone of voice. Time to push a little.

“I can suggest a good starting point, and offer a great interest rate, granted, of course, you’ll be willing to install that waste program from our last discussion.” Corbeau leaned in despite that action doing nothing. When he looked eager, people often echoed that. And almost nothing convinced people more than stroking their egos before making a proposal. 

“You know what? You’re completely right! I run things for him anyway. I should own the restaurant. When was the last time he even looked at the menu? I delegate better than he ever has, and people know me more than him when talking about the restaurant. I could make the money back easily too.” Nice, this was great, he was hooked in for sure. “Alright, I’ll do it, Mister Corbeau.”

“Excellent, I’ll be right back with that.” He turned towards his desk since he already wrote it down somewhere. He just needed to bring it over…

“No need, sir.” Philippe stood up; he could actually feel his height within his proximity. He circled the couch and added, “I’ll bring you the papers.” Sit down and stop moving around where I can’t help you. He imagined Philippe meant.

Corbeau used a casual hand to help himself navigate to where he could sit, settling on Philippe’s still-warm spot. 

“Oh, I brought you this dessert from the restaurant.” Siebold insisted and probably gestured to whatever the heck he brought up here to offer him for, what? More mercy?

Corbeau nodded. “Tell me about it.” The chef liked to talk about food, so at least he had that. 

“It is a crème caramel, one of my most requested desserts. It’s ordinary, but it takes great skill to get right. I can make dozens upon request, but of course, I have much more inspired dishes. I thought you might appreciate a custard dessert with a layer of lustrous caramel since I recall one of you having a sweet tooth.”

Philippe dared to chuckle softly from wherever he was. Corbeau liked certain sweets, but he was picky. Once he found something he liked, though, he often overindulged in it. According to the chef, he may have indulged in a dessert at the restaurant recently, but he didn’t recall getting anything sweet. Did Philippe order something? 

Philippe made his way back and gracefully flapped the paper near Corbeau to signal him to grab it. He did, pretended to read it, and gave it an approving nod. “Perfect. Give it to the chef.”

Philippe took the paper and passed it. “Read it over and let me know if you need clarification.”

They waited. Corbeau felt stir-crazy because if anything happened around him, he wouldn’t know it with how quiet they were all being. But past ventures told him it was going well. Never have they reached the point of handing over a contract, and the client suddenly refused everything. Adjustments maybe, he had a few others if the chef wanted to fight him for a lower interest rate, he was willing to go much lower than the current offer, but he would take a version of it guaranteed. 

“This looks fine. Do I sign right now?”

Sucker.

“Yes, we’ll give you what you need if he decides to push higher. Let’s settle this now and you can go into this with a clear head.” Corbeau crossed his legs and leaned back when Siebold decided to sign it right away. 

“Thank you for the dessert, Mr. Siebold. I’ll return the dish to you once the Boss has finished it. He doesn’t eat while conducting business deals. It ruins the paperwork.”

“Hand it to Philippe when you’re done. He’ll make you a copy and send you on your way.”

Movement of some kind followed by the chef saying, “Thank you again for seeing me and helping to cater to my ambitions.”

Awkward pause. Why the pause? What was happening Philippe???

Philippe clasped his hands in the air and rubbed them together. Hand shake, hand shake. 

Corbeau moved to stand up and extended his hand. The chef met him halfway, or at least had the sense to close the distance, to complete the handshake. “The pleasure is ours. Just don’t forget about the initiative. Food is important to me, and waste isn’t good for the city, you know?”

“I do.” He released his hand and he listened to him and Philippe walk away. 

Corbeau dropped into the couch and sighed to himself, staring straight with his chin raised until the chef left in the elevator. 

“Arceus, Philippe, that was a close one!”

“Sorry, Boss, it won’t happen again. I’ll talk to whoever sent him up so early.” Philippe went somewhere, made a bunch of noise, and came back to him on the couch. 

“Where did he put that thing? On the table?”

Philippe sat next to him and moved the entire cushion in the process. He looked too small next to Philippe, so usually they leave space. Thankfully Philippe felt comfortable enough right now to park it right next to him. 

“Open your mouth, Corbeau.”

Really? He’s giving orders now. Only because it’s you, Philippe.

He opened his mouth and bit down on a small spoon with a tiny serving of a thick custard. Caramel and eggy, maybe vanilla? The flavor faded fast, or maybe he couldn’t focus on it because Philippe never actually fed him before and that was doing something to him. 

“That’s good. He’s right, I like it.” He opened his mouth again, requesting another bite without saying it directly. 

Philippe obliged and gave him a slightly bigger bite off the small spoon. “There you go.”

Corbeau felt a blush form on his face at his tone. He hated when Philippe spoiled him and did things for him besides his work. Hated that it made him feel so small and vulnerable when he wasn’t. 

He still opened his mouth for another bite though. 

“I don’t really like it. He must’ve been thinking of you when he made it. Remember when you got that thing with the ice cream? Was it a cake or a brownie? I don’t remember what it was but it was like floating in that one dish.” He gave him another bite. 

“The floating island dessert that’s why he thinks I like custards.” Well the chef wasn’t wrong. He was really enjoying this. 

“Is that what he was talking about? The île flottante from a year ago? How did he remember that?” Philippe clicked his tongue. “Maybe he saw your face when you tasted it. You beamed right from the first bite.”

“Really? I don’t remember.”

“A lot’s happened since then.” Philippe tried to brush it off. “While we’re in between meetings, are you okay still?”

“Yes, Philippe. Everything’s going smoothly, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, Boss.” 

Corbeau frowned. “Actually…”

“Yes?” Philippe replied attentively. 

“I can’t believe you, Philippe. I know we had a client and he may have been looking, but there’s no excuse.”

He could hear Philippe’s confusion in soft sputters as he tried to figure out what he meant. 

“You left me alone with a client, and when you came back, you didn’t greet me properly.” 

He must look so puzzled by this. Corbeau smiled despite himself. “You should make it up to me, like a good, loyal subordinate.”

Even though he couldn’t see Philippe, he didn’t flinch when he felt the hand cradle the back of his head. The hand eased him back to loosen him up, and careful lips brushed his cheek before finding his lips. Philippe kissed him so tenderly it warmed him up immediately. He really wanted to make up for his mistake, didn’t he?

When Philippe separated from him, Corbeau opened his eyes to nothing. The kiss made him forget, and he blinked and tried to clear his vision. No… he can’t see Philippe. He can’t…

He touched Philippe’s face. If he squinted, he could make out the general shape of his face. Philippe dabbed a napkin on his face while he tried hard to see him. 

But his mind was whirling now. He could tell Philippe was frowning, concerned maybe. Rightfully so because he couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling of not being able to see his lover. 

He pushed away from Philippe and muttered that he needed to go use the bathroom. Philippe almost insisted on going with him. But he didn’t need help going to the bathroom. That was ridiculous. 

As he walked to the bathroom, he held out his hand for when he hit the wall. He felt along that wall until he reached the door he knew led to the bathroom. 

After quickly getting his business done, he washed his hands, most of this just muscle memory. Everything was where it always was. He looked up at the mirror to fix his hair and glasses. 

Oh, right. 

He hit the sink with his fist. One of the key ways people experienced the world, and he lacked it. Without light entering his eyes, sight didn’t matter. Sight became a memory, a thing transporting him through time instead of solving problems. 

How long would this last? How long would he be cursed to see nothing and live with only the memory of sight? 

His neck felt stiff from the tension. 

What if he lost his subordinates over this? They lose faith in him because he can’t do what he once could. 

No. He could adjust. He could navigate this if it became permanent. The Rust Syndicate would survive this. 

But Philippe.

This would be so much more work for Philippe. Corbeau already felt like flipping a table; his temper over this inconvenience would just worsen over time, and Philippe would take the worst of it. It wasn’t fair to do that to him. How long would he last before he got sick of it? How long should he drag Philippe through this if it ends up being more permanent? 

He allowed himself a few minutes to be emotional about this. In the past, suppressing something like this just spilled over later. If he didn’t address his emotions at some point, they’d manifest somewhere else. 

He couldn’t tell Philippe about all of this until he had a plan for him, and really he selfishly wanted Philippe to stay through it all. 

If he never saw his face again… Philippe spoke freaking poetry through his face. He was so expressive when he didn’t hold back. Layers of emotion you wouldn’t expect. When he was so deep in and blissed out, he looked so perfect. His face when he laughed. His face full of concern and not holding back because no one else was around. How was he supposed to see that again, just through memories? 

He cursed to himself and let a few tears fall through his closed eyes. His hands pulled off his glasses when he remembered the tears might mark them up, but he accidentally tossed them in the sink because he thought he had the loop still on. No, Philippe removed the glasses holder when he was cleaning him up. 

The tightness in his chest intensified when he remembered the feeling of not seeing his face for the first time. Would it always feel like that? Would it get better? So far it only got worse. 

He stifled a sob and started letting out long breaths to cool down. That’s enough. Time’s up. Now to bring things back into perspective. 

Speaking of perspective, today went well so far. If he looked at things from an outside point of view, he hit all the important tasks just like any other day. If he put Philippe on some emails and met with their last client, the day could easily be a success. Maybe his Rotom could read his emails out loud to him and he could verbally draft a reply. It could read him his schedule and everything so he could even make appointments.

That calmed him a little. Things weren’t a mess right this second. If this blindness was temporary, he could function just fine until it ended. It’ll work out, it’ll be fine. He just needed to take it one day at a time. And he has help. Philippe was too good a man to ditch him over something like this. 

He looked up again and imagined himself. Glasses, he dropped them earlier, so he grabbed them out of the sink and put them on. Despite not being able to see, he fixed his hair and straightened out his clothes. Perfect. 

When he left the room, he felt Philippe’s presence nearby. Instead of asking if he was listening in, he purposely ran into him and pretended to be shocked. 

“Sorry, sir. I started to get worried.”

“No need to worry, I’ve always had bad eyes, they’re just exceptionally bad today is all.” He reached out to give him that friendly pat of reassurance and aimed lower on purpose. 

“Boss—”

“Whoa, sorry about that.” 

“You’re smirking. Can you see?”

“No,” he chuckled, “but I always seem to know where you are.”

His senses picked up Philippe easily, using him like a compass. Attuned to him as if he dictated the rest of the space around him. And he did. As they walked back to his desk, Philippe switched sides to keep him from veering away by accident. He could tell because he didn’t say anything. 

Philippe also adjusted his chair and made it loud so he’d know where to sit. He just automatically did all these things without him asking. 

“There’s coffee on your desk by your left hand. It’s in a paper cup just in case. I removed the teacup and saucer. I also turned off your laptop and pushed it away from you.”

“Good. Who’s next?”

“We actually have to go to him, Boss. Someone’s been trying to skirt their payments and you wanted to pay them a visit personally.” Philippe explained, reluctantly. Navigating the outside would be hard. Philippe obviously hated the idea because he’d have to clue him into everything or take the car to a place within walking distance. 

“Boss, let me cook for you first.” 

He could eat. 

Philippe led him through to the Syndicate’s kitchen. Technically open for any grunts to use, but they all somehow unanimously dubbed it Philippe’s space. Why? Because the man could cook. And when he was in a good mood, he cooked a lot. 

Corbeau navigated there almost independently, centering himself using the sound of Philippe’s footsteps, stopped when Philippe opened the door, walked in first like he always did. He stretched out a hand and walked until he made it to the counter. “What do you want to make?”

Philippe grabbed him, startling him for a second because he thought he’d get right to work. He sat Corbeau on top of the counter facing the stove; he knew this because he sat here before to watch him. Even though he couldn’t see anything, he would be able to hear and smell it all.

The memory of being here anchored him better than his office did. Maybe the emotions of being here just felt different. They were always themselves here, much more relaxed, even with subordinates around. Food and eating together with people he considered family made him softer. 

He paid so much attention to Philippe, even now without anyone else around, it almost shocked him. If he closed his eyes and pretended to be tired and not completely blind and panicked, he could imagine Philippe rolling up his sleeves, putting on the apron, and pulling out a bunch of stuff to chop. 

Why chop? He heard the knife sing as he took it out of the magnetic strip on the wall. Which board would he use? The bamboo one? It all depended upon what he took out. Philippe chopped away at something, and Corbeau sighed. “What are you cutting?”

“Open your mouth.” Philippe put a hand on his waist so he’d know around where Philippe stood. “I’ll let you taste it and you can tell me.”

Corbeau opened his mouth and let him feed him something. 

Heavily aromatic, distantly sweet, crunchy—“an onion.”

“A spring onion.”

“It’s sweet?”

“They can be. They run a little sweeter in the beginning of spring,” Philippe said before turning around. He could hear a difference when his back was turned, but so far Philippe tried to face him while speaking. 

He swapped vegetables, and this one sounded thicker. “Give me a piece.”

He did the same thing and touched him before giving him the bite. The feel of the bite told him what it was before the flavor. 

“A carrot?”

“Nice. They can be nice and sweet too.” He turned and poured something. 

“What’s that?”

“Just olive oil.” 

“Imported? Let me taste it.” There was a judgmental pause just then. “I once knew a man who could tell you which region and town the olive oil came from just by the taste.”

“I’ll dip some on the back of a spoon.” Philippe spoke facing away. When he went back to him, he grabbed his wrist directly to pass the spoon. 

Corbeau put the whole thing in his mouth and recognized the brand somehow. He honestly didn’t expect to. Bitter, almost grassy or herbaceous, oily. 

“The one with the green label with the mountain logo?” Corbeau pointed to where he thought Philippe was. 

Philippe chuckled. “How did you guess that?”

“I remember you using it before.” He shrugged. He recognized, too, the sound of Philippe breaking an egg and putting it in a pan. The shell breaking away and dropping the yolk made a very specific sound. He added a few more things and Corbeau lost track of it all. 

“What else did you add?”

“You’re not tasting the eggs, Boss.”

“What came after the eggs?”

“Rice. More vegetables. We had some leftover meat from yesterday.” 

The pan hissed with heat, and he heard how much Philippe worked everything in with a spatula or something. “Ah, I added peppers too. I should’ve given you a piece. Also from before, they’re diced already. They’re red, green, and orange.” 

The air smelled delicious already. He must be adding seasonings because the smell was enhanced by something. He finally, actually, felt hungry for the first time today just tasting the spices in the air. Garlic powder? Paprika? He couldn’t grasp it—he didn’t know enough about the spices to guess them based on fragrance alone. 

Philippe almost asked him to get two bowls and swallowed that right away, audibly grabbing them himself. 

“Sriracha?”

“You don’t like sriracha.”

“I won’t add it to mine.” He started serving already. 

“But then you won’t kiss me afterwards.” Corbeau pouted at the air. 

There was a pause where he couldn’t pick up a single sound. Philippe moved closer, loudly, to declare his presence, and he gently caressed his cheeks with both hands. He expected him to say something cutesy or tease him a little, but instead Philippe kissed him. Not briefly either, he got a bit worked up and tried pushing deeper into the kiss. Corbeau slowed him down and put his hands on his chest. 

“Let’s eat. I have an appointment to get to. If you keep doing this, we’ll never leave.”

Philippe lowered his hands to his shoulders and must have some kind of face because his tone dropped like a frown. “You really can’t see anything, can you?”

“I remember just fine. You still look handsome to me.”

Philippe sighed softly and touched their foreheads together, probably attempting direct eye contact. “I’m sorry.”

I’m fine. But he really liked their proximity and didn’t like asking for it all the time so he let Philippe linger there without adding anything that might take him away. 

“Well, let’s eat while it’s hot.” Philippe let him go to get him his bowl. “Can you eat without help?”

“I know where my mouth is.”

Philippe passed him a bowl and a fork. He probably watched Corbeau successfully taking the first bite and making a bratty face at him. “See? Eating isn’t hard.”

Ugh, Philippe made such a yummy bowl of food. He tried not to inhale it right in front of him, but it tasted better than usual. And he did add a bit of sriracha for him. Just a simple little dish, and somehow Philippe made it into such loving perfection. 

“You were hungry.”

“Not until you started cooking,” Corbeau looked at him. Maybe. 

“There’s more if you want it.”

Corbeau looked at the direction of the stove. If he ate more, he’d get tired and want to sleep. He’d want to go home. But he was determined to finish the day with every meeting completed. 

“Pack it for later. I’m good for now.” He finished the bowl, to his knowledge, and held it out. 

Philippe took it before he fully extended his arms. “Do you want anything else?”

“Let’s go to that last meeting, Philippe.”

Philippe helped him out of the building. Without discussing it, he gave him cues to navigate around. Little sounds meant something: throat clear meant stop, loud nose sniff meant pay attention to something or go if he stopped before, the hand clasp he did earlier meant handshake, and he kept using Philippe’s footfalls to figure out how to walk straight. 

The outside felt louder, more sounds reached him. Walking with confidence was hard since he didn’t know where he was relative to anything. Except Philippe. 

The lights must look nice still. “The grunts decorate for the Lights Festival yet?”

“They did; it looks good.”

Good. 

“Boss, wave, ten o’clock.”

Corbeau looked a bit to the left and waved briefly. He continued facing forward afterwards. 

“Just a group of grunts. They’re in good spirits today, Boss. It’s good that they don’t suspect anything wrong.”

“About that. Philippe, if this ends up being permanent, we’ll need to discuss your role.”

“I accept any hardships—”

“You didn’t sign up to be a nurse, butler, or a guide dog. I’d either have to hire someone to help me learn how to navigate like this more effectively, or take on a consulting position with you at the helm. I don’t expect this to last long, but not addressing it would be a mistake.”

Philippe put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him for a moment. “You don’t have to turn around to look at me. I’m going to pretend to be discussing something minor to anyone looking.”

Corbeau tilted his head and held his hands behind his back. “Yes?”

“We can discuss work and battle about that forever if you want. However, I want you to know: if this ends up being permanent, I’m not leaving you. You can fire me, you can quit, it doesn’t matter: we’re still going home together. No matter what.”

Corbeau fixed his glasses. 

“Sorry to delay our appointment, Boss.” He let him go. 

“Philippe…” He fixed his hair. “What would I do without you?”

“Let’s keep moving. Any longer and we’ll draw eyes.”

He swallowed a slew of emotions to make it to this meeting. Their client better be ready. 

They entered some beaten up old apartment reminiscent of Philippe’s first place. Corbeau hung out there for a while when they were living off pennies. This guy was using the loan to pay for this place, but to his knowledge, he wasn’t working. 

Corbeau looked over his shoulder where he knew Philippe would be. “Name?”

“Last name’s Martin.”

“I don’t remember his place, if there’s anything I need to know.”

“I’ll tell you everything you need to know, Boss. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Philippe cleared his throat. “We’re in the living room. Let me find our host.” He raised his voice louder than he had in a while, “Mr. Martin, you have guests!”

The sound of stairs. The reluctant sound of footsteps approaching. The sound of hesitation at who came to visit. 

“Good to see you Mr. Martin. Do you have a minute? We’ve been trying to reach you regarding your payment plan.” Corbeau tilted his head. “Philippe, show him to a seat.”

Shuffling. Philippe’s footsteps beckoned him to follow. Loud struggling as Philippe shoved the guy to a seat. 

“Listen, Mr. Martin, Philippe told me you’ve been impossible to reach lately. So, I told Philippe that no one’s impossible to reach. You just need to know where to look.” Corbeau smirked down at where he knew Philippe put him. 

Philippe sat down loudly on a creaky couch so that Corbeau could sit if he wanted. “Mr. Martin, stay seated.”

“Trust me, you’d rather listen than try anything.” Corbeau leaned forward a little. A small tap from Philippe’s foot corrected his angle. “Do you know what assets are? You have a lot of furniture in here. You see, I know you have money and are choosing not to pay me. This upsets me because you made me a promise. A promise is a test to your integrity. You’re a man of integrity, right?”

The guy finally spoke, “Yeah, well, I can’t pay you back right now.”

Corbeau laughed when he heard him speak. Who needed sight when this guy gave himself away with his quivering voice? 

He shook his head and dropped the smile before he spoke again, “Damn right you can’t. You have no job, no money coming in anymore. If I took everything you own in this place and outside this place, I wouldn’t even hit the principal amount.”

“… so what’re you gonna do about it?”

“Really? Up to me to decide? Fantastic. Stand up.” He heard movement and waited for Philippe to subtly clear his throat to indicate that he did do it. “You can make it all back and owe me nothing—owe this place nothing, do you understand me?”

“Yeah?! What do I have to do?”

“Work for me.”

Philippe chuckled that amused way he did when Corbeau made someone question their life choices up until that moment. Normally no one could hear it, he increased volume to tip him off. 

“You’re stuck. Right now, you’re either homeless with a perpetual headache of a loan forever over your head, or you’re free and working for me until your debt is paid.” The guy lingered in silence. He hated not being able to see if he was being swayed or not. “Speak, say something, I don’t have all day. I’ll drag you out to the street to your new home if you don’t accept. What else is there?”

“Okay… okay… I’ll do it…”

“Address him properly.”

“And speak clearly.”

“Yes, Mr. Corbeau. I want to work for you. To keep my promise and repay my debt.” He must be shaking with how much his voice wavered. 

Corbeau nodded and straightened up. “Philippe will call you with details of your role in the Syndicate later. You will answer, or he’ll come and get you. You can stay living here, but I’m renegotiating your rent price: the guy’s a thief.”

“Stay local.”

“Yes! Listen to this if you don’t hear anything else, Mr. Martin: don’t try to run away from this debt, you can’t run from all the connections I have. I’ll find you and make sure you pay back the city what you owe it. This is the extent of my mercy, but I have limited patience. I’ll take it from you if I have to. No running.”

“I promise, sir.”

Corbeau frowned. “Your promises mean nothing to me. You haven’t kept up your last one, Mr. Martin.”

Philippe stood up. “No handshake. We have to write up a contract for you first. Verbal contacts aren’t legally binding. However, just as Mr. Corbeau stated, we expect you to show up when we have it written up. If you run… I think you understand. Don’t you?”

“Yes, sir—sirs. I’ll show up when you call.” 

He must have done something, but he couldn’t figure out what. 

“We’ll teach you to bow properly once you join the Syndicate.” 

Corbeau started walking out, annoyed with navigating in the dark. He hardly waited for Philippe, but he felt him catch up easily. 

They made it a few steps into the Rust Syndicate building before Philippe touched on any topic. 

“Tired, Boss?”

“Wait until we’re inside.” 

They entered, and Corbeau paused just inside. 

He couldn’t feel anyone in here but Philippe. But wisdom told him there would be a line of grunts creating a walkway like they always had. He could picture it in his head, but he didn’t feel they were there. 

“Something’s off about this room.”

“I’ll check on it—we should go upstairs, Boss. We need to get that contract done before Mr. Martin leaves town.”

Once they made it back to his office, Philippe stopped him in his tracks with a hand on his left shoulder. “Permission to carry the boss the rest of the way?”

“You know what? Yes, please. I can’t stand it anymore. Every movement takes so much thought, every part of me is exhausted.” He let himself fall and Philippe easily caught and lifted him. 

He carried him into the back elevator and up to a spare room in the Rust Syndicate building where he sometimes slept if he couldn’t go all the way home before the next day. 

“Any requests?” Philippe offered. 

Corbeau murmured that he was tired and didn’t want anything. 

So, Philippe granted him the peace of mind of not having to do anything. 

After arriving to the bedroom, Philippe slowly pulled off his jacket, button-up, pants, and everything else. He folded each piece delicately. He left him to get comfortable clothes. Corbeau hated having to wait for him to bring the clothes. Too much waiting. And he couldn’t even watch him do it. 

Philippe came back and eased him into soft clothes. He removed his glasses. They did more eye drops and cleaned off the excess. Philippe fixed his hair—his hand in Corbeau’s hair nearly made him swoon. The little adjustments calmed him from such a hectic day. 

He felt so exhausted suddenly and his sight situation made him uneasy in this state. Once finished, Philippe picked him up and placed him gently on the bed with warm, soft sheets. 

Corbeau reached out to him. “Stay?”

Philippe sat on the bed at the invitation. He knew because he shifted it with his weight. His voice sounded so quiet when he said, “Come here.”

Corbeau flew over to him and comfortably landed on his lap. He wanted to be here so badly, he could sleep all night right here. 

“You were great today, mon amour.” 

He hated pet names but let him this one time because fighting him took too much work and he already clocked out. Also, whenever Philippe went into pet name mode, a lot of affection usually followed, and he needed to not feel awful anymore. 

His eyes opened and still saw nothing. He nearly forgot because he was so tired. He couldn’t gauge if Philippe was close enough to kiss. Or what his face was doing. He hated this. 

He felt a hand gently rubbing against his cheek and focused on that sensation. Philippe could be the most gentle person in the world, and given his strength, that was absolutely his choice. 

As Corbeau started to doze off, Philippe moved him to the pillows, staying close to continue his little soothing touch. He moved up against Philippe’s chest and welcomed the arm that wrapped around his waist. 

The hand moved away from his face and into his hair now and gently scratched his scalp. The rhythmic movements slowly lulled him to sleep, but he kept shaking it off. The arm around him squeezed reassuringly. 

“It’s okay, mon coeur. You can sleep. You finished everything you had to do, get some rest. I got you.”

Once he stopped fighting it and let go, he fell asleep quickly. 

His alarm beeped; he turned it off without looking. He should skip work today and stay in bed. The warmth kept him in a drowsy state today. 

He opened his eyes and saw Philippe had stayed with him overnight and was still asleep, comfortably and peacefully. 

Wait, he could see his face! 

Corbeau touched his face and started laughing at his luck. This woke up Philippe who blinked away sleep and made eye contact with him. 

“Good morning.” Corbeau whispered to him with a smile. 

Philippe pulled himself up a little. “You can see?”

Corbeau nodded but he already knew by the way he followed him with his eyes. Philippe started laughing at it all, uncontrollably. He laid back against the pillows trying to settle down and failing. 

But hearing and seeing him laugh made his heart sing. And he was right, what a face. Happiness looked so good on him.