Chapter Text
The grass buzzed with insects. The countryside was supposed to be quiet, but there were songs of life out here that Corbeau had never heard within the walls of his lovely Lumiose.
It was a balmy summer twilight, and Philippe had stolen him away for an unplanned ride and respite on a Saturday night.
He wouldn't have agreed to the trip so easily, but... his bout of foolishness last week remained a heavy yoke. Borderline falling apart in his room like that, questioning Philippe's long-term loyalty of all things—he'd spouted all that nonsense about his right-hand man wanting to leave him someday in a fit of cringey insecurity, and it haunted him that he could ever doubt it at all.
Philippe had taken care of him, as he always did, but fuck. He needed to prove that such compassion wouldn't be wasted on him.
So when Philippe expressed an interest in getting out of Lumiose for some fresh air, Corbeau had agreed on the spot. Anything to leave his bruised mantle behind and focus entirely on the man in front of him. It'd be good for them. A little break—from work, and from themselves.
The motorcycle that carried them here leaned comfortably off the side of the road, just as relaxed as they were. A thin emergency blanket scrounged from one of her saddlebags offered a resting spot for them both, flattening a patch of tall grass into a clean oasis for two.
Their pokémon had tired themselves out. Skarmory roosted in the large gnarled tree nearby, while Scolipede curled up behind their heads and offered a break from the heavy summer breeze coasting over the field.
Every so often, a car would zoom by unseen.
His head rested on the beefy pillow of Philippe's outstretched forearm. Ankle propped aloft over his bent knee, suit jacket spread as an extra layer underneath him, shoes neatly lined up on a blanket corner. To his right, Philippe lied similarly, flat on his back with his far hand resting over his belly, outer layers shed and neatly folded. A small pile of empty pokéballs weighed down another blanket corner, and on the fourth was Corbeau's motorcycle helmet.
The upturned palm not far from his head begged to be stroked. Or tickled. Or made into a little stage for him to dance his fingers upon for no reason at all, like the lovesick idiot he'd become. The only reason he held back was because Philippe had indulged too much of his messiness lately. He'd promised himself to behave this time.
Behind his head, Scolipede heaved a sigh. The others were scattered around the low-lying hills and swaying grasses. Not terribly far. One call away.
Corbeau tugged his glasses off and gave them a light toss to the side, head settling back on the perfect height of Philippe's forearm. Without his glasses, the clouds overhead lost all detail save for their color—dregs of sunset, hustling along at speeds unknown to him that seemed a slow crawl from here on the ground.
The space between him and Philippe wasn't significant, but felt vast as a canyon. Nothing was stopping him from cozying even closer, but he was behaving, remember? They were comfortable enough already.
Imagine having this all the time... A bed would be more comfy than the ground for sure, and they'd be under covers they didn't really need because Philippe was a living furnace and Corbeau hated feeling sweaty on his sheets. There wouldn't be any space between them. Corbeau's pillow would be Philippe's bicep and not his forearm or elbow crook.
Philippe had gotten used to holding him when he needed it, or even staying the night after a particularly long fucking day, but imagine—just—cozying up for the hell of it.
This was pretty close. Enough that he couldn't complain. All things considered, he should be glad that his embarrassing display last week was allowed to pass as a bump in the road and little more, and Philippe had gone back to business-as-usual (unconventional as their usual was) with more grace than all the dancers in the Lumiose Opera Ballet.
Any man wiser than Corbeau would tell him to quit while he was ahead and enjoy what he had. They could all blow him. It wasn't in a businessman's heart to set desire down. Hunger for more was what had propelled him to where he was today; why abandon such a faithful friend when it came to other things like love? Philippe wasn't going anywhere—solid, reinforced fact that Corbeau could rely upon. He wanted to show he could rely upon it, too. Prove to Philippe that he had full confidence that he would never be abandoned.
Corbeau's mouth quirked dryly at the painted sky. Someone should go back in time and tell his past self—not the smallest one, but the one that found a knack for handling money and loved how good he looked in a suit—that one day he'd be enjoying the Kalosian sunset side by side with the same terrifying bastard who wanted to crush him like a stomped sand castle for being just a hair too smart for his liking.
(Although, he'd love to tell his smallest past self too, that one day there would be someone who'd never leave.)
He'd get the biggest kick out of the look on that younger man's face. And from getting told to go fuck himself in a mistrustful voice trying way too hard to resonate from the chest before it'd fully dropped.
If he told that past self that he'd eventually fall in love with that terrifying bastard (and eat his cooking all the time, and be protected like he was valuable, and that Philippe had a cute side once you got to know him) he'd be written off as a total charlatan.
And if he said that the whole love thing was mutual, as far as he knew?
Arceus, what sort of shit would he say? He was even mouthier back then: You think I'll take this comedy routine of yours seriously? That man hates my guts, he wants me run out of Lumiose. There's no way he's dumb enough to fall for someone he's trying to ruin.
And he'd smile and knock himself on the shoulder and tell him to just wait and watch. If you think I'm an idiot now, just you wait until it happens to you, too. Then you'll really want to laugh.
He wouldn't blame himself for thinking he was a lying piece of shit. Philippe really had been a force to be reckoned with back then...
Had Corbeau not been careful, and not treated Philippe with the caution the man warranted, he'd have found himself missing teeth he couldn't afford to replace and locked out of Lumiose, denied the home he'd tried to make for himself in the dark corners of her that most people tried to avoid.
Admittedly, he was only cautious regarding the don't get your body pummeled now that you're finally taking care of it part. He'd willingly baited that Bewear as many times as he could get away with, all in the name of being a good old-fashioned little shit just for the hell of it. The risk was high as Prism Tower itself, but like all good games, the risk was what made it fun. Frustrating that bastard over and over again had been a delight. Life was depressing enough; if there was a good time to be had in playing with someone who deserved the runaround, of course he'd milk them for every thrill they could offer. Philippe was the one who insisted on being Corbeau's problem, anyhow. There didn't have to be any conflict if only that man had kept his nose out of Corbeau's businesses.
He was glad, though, that Philippe pursued him so relentlessly. If you had no enemies, you were a nobody—a quote from the man who'd briefly watched over him when he was even younger. Philippe's dogged efforts really made him feel like a budding big shot.
It never stopped being fun, either. Even when he was getting hunted down alleyways or over rooftops. Cornered, threatened, challenged to battle with a type matchup that should have spelled his own doom. Kidnapped once (escaped before he could be delivered to the boss). Cursed at using every swear word in the dictionary twice over, cover-to-cover and back again.
Was it strange to be nostalgic for such simple times? Their relationship had been so easy back then. Sure, sometimes it meant staring down a fist approaching his face on the gamble it wouldn't connect, but there was a clarity there he kind of missed.
Though, he did vastly prefer the Philippe he had now to the one he didn't quite 'have' back then.
"I can hear you thinking at me," Philippe said, a knowing baritone beneath the trills of hidden insects.
"Nonsense." Corbeau bobbed his socked foot in the air. "Was just admiring the clouds."
His favorite colors were up there, melding in the growing twilight.
"Although," he fessed up on a whim, "I did remind myself of the time you almost punched me in the face."
It had the desired effect. The arm beneath his head tensed for a split second. Philippe huffed through his nose and scrubbed a reluctant hand down his face. "Come on, boss..."
Couldn't he still have a little fun at this man's expense?
"What? You didn't hurt me." His smile grew. "You were just trying to scare me."
"Yeah, and when you didn't dodge, obviously I had to stop myself. Never planned on knocking out a cocky brat who hadn't done much wrong yet."
The fist had stopped right in front of his nose, a level of control that had comforted him as much as it made his heart sing with adrenaline. The message it bore: stop fucking around in Philippe's territory. Or else.
The fact that Philippe began with a warning spoke volumes. It told him he could get away with so much more—he wasn't seen as a real threat yet, merely an annoyance only worth the brief scare. Small fry. A blip on the radar. If Philippe had really wanted to knock him unconscious, he wouldn't have been allowed to notice the wind-up at all.
That had been Philippe's very first mistake: not taking him seriously enough at the very beginning. Vanishingly few people in Lumiose were willing to make that same error these days, largely thanks to this very man who'd fucked up first.
"Maybe you should've done it," Corbeau teased, wondering if he sounded head over heels. "Would've made your life so much easier without me running you in circles all over your own territory."
"You bet I regretted not sending you to the hospital that time," Philippe grumbled, delighting him. "Pain in my ass."
"Past tense, right? On that last part."
Philippe waited the exact amount of time to grant plausible deniability either way before smoothly saying, "Of course, boss."
Corbeau couldn't help his laugh. The lazy breeze stole it away but left the lightness of his heart behind. He silently apologized to Scolipede for disturbing her, reaching blindly backwards and giving her soft side a pat so she'd settle down again.
"Well," he said indulgently, "I'm grateful that you didn't. Merci beaucoup, for leaving my pretty face intact."
And not smashing the glasses that were a gift from someone important to him.
Philippe fell quieter at his side, the contemplative sort that Corbeau knew was best not to disturb.
He turned his focus back to the sky and all the colors he rarely allotted appreciation for. The office didn't have windows by design; that meant his ritzy little apartment, tucked away in the upper floors, lacked them too. It was all too easy to go days without seeing the sun or sky if he kept too cooped with work—the one major downside of a commute that only lasted an elevator ride. It was deep into summer and he hadn't even worked up a tan, same as he failed to every year.
He turned his head when he heard Philippe's mouth open.
"We joke about it sometimes, but... I'm really not proud," Philippe said, gaze lost somewhere amidst the darkening sky, "of the way I was back then."
This again...
"Water under the bridge, Philippe," Corbeau reassured, as he'd done plenty of times before, getting more comfortable. "I've never begrudged you for any of it."
Corbeau hated repeating himself on his best days, but this was for Philippe's sake, so it was no bother so far. He'd shoo the old ghosts away from those broad shoulders as many times as needed until they found some other poor bastard to haunt.
"Still," Philippe chuffed. "I can't believe sometimes that you accepted me, or trusted me, as quickly as you did. Almost too good to be true, I thought."
He studied the lines of regret chiseled into Philippe's face. Old lines, been around for a while. In the slow dimming light, they looked even deeper.
...Ah. He'd better be careful.
Corbeau hummed low and willed his face to relax.
"Why wouldn't I start trusting you? After you proved yourself so many times."
"Even after I wanted to hurt you for so long?"
"You didn't, though." Corbeau's mouth quirked. "Thank your past incompetence for my faith in you, if you must."
"And you for always being one step ahead," Philippe half-muttered, voice burdened by some old bundle of memory. "How many close shaves did you squeeze out of me again?"
Corbeau scooted a little closer up Philippe's arm with the intention of lightening the mood. The past was the past. There was no good dwelling on old regrets when that energy could be spent ensuring a better future.
"If you've lost count, that says it all," he teased.
"You're the one always running numbers. You tell me."
"It really depends on what you count as a close shave. With how clean you keep your rugged mug, I expect a rigid definition first."
Corbeau grinned when the arm beneath him jostled in a harmless knock-it-off, you little shit. It was working.
"Dunno," Corbeau acquiesced. "At least four?" He rolled his eyes in search of the memories. "Pawn shop. Spring Florges Parade. That time I learned not to wear a scarf, or at least keep the ends tucked into my coat—whatever happened to that thing, anyways? Oh, and..." He sucked air through his teeth. "At least two sewer incidents, that time I used a berry cart to break my fall, and that time your men managed to kidnap me but—"
"Wait," Philippe breathed, "That last one. I don't remember that."
"They didn't tell you?" Corbeau raised a brow. "I did slip away before they could do anything... They must've been too embarrassed to report that they nabbed me at all." He adjusted how his head rested upon Philippe's arm, all too pleased. "They tied shitty knots. And it wasn't the first time I'd gotten out of a car trunk."
"You're telling me I could have had you tied up in front of me once and for all if only my men weren't morons?"
"I know. My condolences."
"...No, it's... That's a good thing." Philippe pinched over his eyes and shook his head in almost a shudder. "God knows what I would have done to you... Head was hotter back then, you know how I was," he reluctantly reminded. "Definitely would have gotten carried away if I had you wrapped up like a present in front of me at last."
No, no, none of that. No more regrets, no more bad memories or agonized what-ifs. Not until they made it back to Lumiose and had to be responsible adults again, with all the burdens that came with that. This outing was supposed to be a breather.
Keep it light. Make Philippe smile if he could.
"My attitude wouldn't have helped you hold back, that's for sure. I was a little shit to you back then." He conversationally poked Philippe in the side, greatly enjoying how his finger sank in slightly. If only he could really grab it. "My mouth alone would have pulled your fist right into my face."
"Hmmph... Yeah, you were one rowdy little mo—" Philippe tripped before he could finish.
Corbeau seized it, goading. "Just say it!"
"Rowdy little motherfucker," Philippe finished in an embarrassed growl. "Haven't grown out of it yet, either, I see. Sir."
Close enough.
"Who says I have to?" Grinning like a lottery winner, Corbeau's head turned back to the sky, showing the stars how pleased he was. "I've got you around to make sure nobody kicks my ass even if I deserve it."
"You..." Philippe let out a sigh that made Corbeau's grin widen. "I enable you too much."
"Is enabling me not the whole point nowadays?"
"...Far from, boss." Philippe's chuckle, tight as it was, put a pleasant tickle in Corbeau's stomach. "You know how it is."
"Of course I do."
He'd just rather not think about that right now. He trusted Philippe to do what was best for him, as he always had.
Corbeau watched the clouds creep by, losing their stain as the sun continued to seep below the distant mountains.
"If anything, I think I'm the enabler," he mused.
"...Pardon, boss?"
"Think about it. Why else would I let you drag me out of the city on that damn motorcycle when I could be at my desk right now, approving PTO and refining my latest spreadsheet formulas? You're bad for business, Philippe."
Philippe hummed a low hum that Corbeau swore he could feel in his chest. "Bad for business, maybe... but good for you, I hope."
Corbeau's heart nearly grew wings and took off through his open mouth.
He rolled spontaneously onto his side on the thin blanket, and studied hard Philippe's handsome profile in the diluting light as if it would calm him down somehow. He didn't need the sun to reverse its path to see well in this case; he had these hard-carved features memorized down to every plane angle divot and curve, in every configuration they could take. Which right now, was... a certain kind of contentment.
A knot Corbeau hadn't realized he was carrying loosened somewhat at the sight.
He stared at Philippe for a while. He could keep staring forever, but that bold little thing in his chest that kept him human had certain demands he was helpless against.
"...Hey. Philippe. Look at me."
He wasn't meant to give orders out here; he simply couldn't resist this harmless small one. Philippe displayed no reservations about listening, though, and rolled onto his side to mirror him with some difficulty, striving not to disturb where Corbeau's head rested in the crook of his elbow.
The distance between them, already comfortably close, all but disappeared.
Oh, that command was a great idea.
Grey eyes. Strong nose. Soft-looking lips, distracting lips. Framed by dark scruffy whiskers on either side and a strong chin below, practically screaming pay me mind:
Don't you want to kiss me?
Yes he fucking did. Every day, all the time, lately. If Philippe somehow had no clue about that yet, or was playing ignorant to be on the safe side, the way Corbeau was staring at his mouth this closely had to give something away.
He met Philippe's waiting gaze, intending to let himself be studied. He had so much to hide from the world at large, but so very little he could keep from Philippe in the long run. Lessons learned the hard way—lessons rewarded whenever he decided to be easy. Show a little faith; it went a long way. Proven over and over, over the years, over drinks, over his unmanageable pride.
Almost unmanageable. Something about Philippe made it easy to put a few doors and windows into the walls he'd built strong over the years.
"You are good for me," he agreed, soft for their close proximity. "In more ways than I think you know."
He was treated to the immense pleasure of Philippe's surprise. His eyes widened (a lovely gift, to stare into more of them), and were it not for the descent of twilight smothering all nuances of color from the world, Corbeau was sure he'd spot a dusting of pink on that handsome face. A sliver of bared heart here and there was so worth it if it led to sights like this. Maybe one day he could expose the whole wretched thing to the sun and see how carefully Philippe would shield it.
"C-Corbeau, I... Thank you, boss." Philippe's bashfulness—beautiful. He wanted to eat this man alive before anybody else could thieve the sight of him.
His hand itched to reach out and cup that blushing cheek.
...Come to think of it, why shouldn't he? It belonged to him just like the rest of the man.
Corbeau lifted his wrist cuff to Philippe's warm face. He shared the silken softness along that strong jaw, fingers tracing smooth the silhouette of Philippe's ear. Under such a gossamer touch, Philippe closed his eyes, and went completely still—like the wrong motion might take Corbeau's touch away.
The unseen insects sang their dwindling songs, and the wind drew its bow across the field, on strings of grass and flower stems. The air began to cool with the disappearance of the sun beneath not-so-distant mountains. The whole world, so far away yet wrapping them up all the same...
Corbeau nudged the flat of his thumbnail beneath Philippe's earlobe for no reason, and studied the edges of his facial hair. The longer bits of grey, the squared corners that required a precise hand with the Skarmory blade razor. Over time, the grey would no doubt spread. He couldn't wait to see what changed in this man who embodied the eternal. If there wouldn't be a wife or kids entering the picture anytime soon, it was up to Corbeau to properly appreciate every one of this man's good points, as they evolved over time.
"You really are too good to me..." he observed, mostly to himself. "Not going anywhere, even when I make your life harder than it has to be." A short chuckle left him. "What would I do without you."
Philippe matched his intimate volume. "You won't have to find out, boss."
Something within him deeply purred. He rewarded the pretty words with a stroke down Philippe's cheekbone, with the back of a lone finger, light as a feather.
Yeah... hell or high water, Philippe would stay. Even if Corbeau were to try something ridiculous, like close the gap and kiss him right on the mouth, Philippe wouldn't disappear on him, like all other good things disappeared. Philippe was special.
He lightly caught that velvety earlobe between his thumb and curled forefinger, and rubbed it like one would a lucky coin. He could feel the empty piercing hole, and wondered if new earrings might make a good gift in the future.
His knuckles ghosted lower over Philippe's cheek next. The rough texture of his facial hair was a familiar comfort, wherever or whenever it happened to find his skin. Bet it'd feel pretty good elsewhere... Nuzzling into his neck, his chest. Warming the space between his thighs. He was being foolish, letting his mind wander like this, but he found it immensely hard to give a shit when he felt like he had the world in the palm of his hand.
It wouldn't be so hard to give that world a little kiss.
His gaze dropped to Philippe's lips again, and a sneaky, familiar voice crept up on him. It crawled up his shoulder, found his ear, and snuck in deep, bearing a beautiful what-if whispered right into his hindbrain: why shouldn't he?
He was already touching all over Philippe's face. There was nothing he could do that'd scare the man off at this point. What was one little kiss on top of everything? Why, practically no different than adding a strawberry atop a finished cake.
Fuck, he couldn't stop thinking about it now. A kiss. Kissing Philippe. He was supposed to behave, but... just one kiss couldn't hurt a thing. Philippe wouldn't leave him over something like this.
And it was up to him to make the first move, if he wanted anything to budge at all...
Blood thrumming warmer in his veins, Corbeau traced along Philippe's eyebrow with a fingertip, and cupped the man's warm cheek as he reached the end of the thick, dark line. No protest. No discomfort. Philippe's eyes were closed, revealing very little, but there was no doubt in Corbeau's mind that their hearts beat in lockstep allegro over what might happen next.
Haltingly, like the air might shatter with too quick a motion, Corbeau let himself drift closer. This much should be okay. He wouldn't lose his most loyal to something as simple or significant as a kiss.
Their noses almost brushed. The heat always radiating off Philippe brought the same color to his cheeks as a fireplace would after a long, cold day. His heart accelerated even faster, as if he was battling his way through the recently established Royale.
His head tilted ever so slightly, so that their lips would, in theory, fit together perfectly. Just one kiss. Everything would be alright.
(And if one kiss led to more, he could finally throw those closet doors wide open and bare their big shared secret. It'd be perfectly romantic—a kiss, an I love you, and Philippe would have every freedom then, to say I love you, too...)
He just had to cross that infinitesimal gap, and he would find himself at home.
Corbeau's eyes fluttered closed. A little more. Just a tiny little bit more...
"Boss?"
"Y-Yeah?" He blinked, and was lying comfortably on Philippe's arm once again, heart a few BPM away from bursting. Shit, his palm was clammy. He relocated it to the precipice of Philippe's shoulder before it could be too noticeable.
"It's a... really nice night out, isn't it, boss."
Corbeau's brain refused to register this most basic of all basic statements.
Oh—Philippe must be shy. Of course. Giving his boss a chance to gracefully retreat should nerves get the better of him too. How considerate. And unnecessary. Corbeau knew exactly what what they both wanted. Had been wanting, for a long time.
"Sure is," he agreed, and leaned close again, this time curling his hand beneath Philippe's chin to seem even more confident.
Philippe would thank him later for being the brave one. The Copperajah in the room could finally be shown the door.
Before Corbeau could close any more distance, Philippe's head twitched back, and the larger man rolled onto his back once more, leaving Corbeau's hand supporting nothing but air, and his lips primed for nothing.
Slowly, he lowered his hand to the blanket between them, curled in a fist to make up for warmth lost.
Must be some really strong nerves...
"...You okay?" Corbeau asked. The hearth in his chest began to cool the longer Philippe took to say anything. Corbeau tried a smile, the kind he used to coax lost pokémon out of hiding. I won't bite. "Come on, Philippe. What's wrong?"
Philippe seemed to snap out of something. "Nothing, boss. Corbeau."
Using his name to lower his guard on purpose. There was no way that would slip beneath his notice.
Something was wrong.
He lifted slightly, supported by an elbow. Studied Philippe's face—and found telltale signs of reluctance tucked away where they liked to hide on the man.
"...I'm not sure I believe you," he said, hating that he resorted to a warning tone, subtle as it was. "I want to know what's wrong."
Philippe's flicker of discomfort lashed Corbeau like a whip. "I... don't think I can answer that."
Keep it together. This was nothing. Philippe wasn't going anywhere.
"Sure you can."
Another heavy beat of silence that drained the warmth from Corbeau's chest. "I won't, then. Respectfully, sir."
Corbeau's stomach displaced three inches towards the earth. Philippe was playing a certain kind of game that he didn't think he'd hear here of all places. Seeking, plying with titles, for the route that resulted in angering his boss the least. Like he expected Corbeau to flip out over what was surely a misunderstanding—one that could be clarified right away if only they talked about it. Talking solved so many matters. It could solve this too.
(Funny—usually it was Philippe trying to pull his guts out.)
"Why not?" he lightly treaded. Obscuring his own stance for now—he didn't even know what it was yet himself. "You knew what I was about to do, yeah?"
Stiffly, Philippe nodded. Now there was something to sink his claws into.
"Is there something wrong with me wanting to?" he pressed.
"...No, sir." Reluctant. Like he didn't like the honest answer.
"Wrong with me, then?"
"N-No. Never, sir."
How charitable a view you take.
He'd let that lie slide, only because Philippe was too kind to think of him as damaged.
"Then why did you avoid kissing me?" He pressed Philippe's chin up again, an insistence rather than a guide. "Look at me while you say it. You know I wouldn't treat this lightly—you don't get to not explain yourself." He couldn't keep the subtle tremor from his voice.
Philippe could only meet his gaze for a split second before diverting away in shame, jaw set for silence.
Corbeau narrowed his eyes, fought back the urge to assume the worst, and kept his tongue conversational. There could be some basic misunderstanding he'd missed. He could keep his temper at bay. This wasn't a disobedient subordinate he was dealing with that had to be scared straight—this was the man he was head over heels for. He'd embarrassed himself badly enough last week with all his pressuring and poking about Philippe leaving him someday. If he couldn't keep a cool head now of all times...
"I knew exactly what I was doing, if that's what you were worried about," he tried. "You're not my first or anything."
The first Corbeau would have actually enjoyed, but not the first he'd ever had. Philippe was a sentimental guy; it would make perfect sense if he hesitated because was unsure about taking Corbeau's first of anything (like Corbeau didn't wish Philippe was his first—at everything). They could recover from this if that was the case. Laugh off the disconnect, fall into each other's arms. It was only supposed to take one little kiss for those final walls to come down between them, and they could finally, finally stop pretending. Corbeau was getting so sick of pretending. Wasn't Philippe?
He held his tongue at proverbial knifepoint to stay calm. He would not fuck this up. A smile, a light tone. Nothing threatening here.
"If you're trying to protect me from something, that's commendable—but right now there's really no need to."
"There's always a need to, boss." Philippe's expression compacted into regret the moment the words left his mouth.
"You're fucking kidding me." Corbeau sat swiftly upright and stared down with an open jaw, all thoughts of calm pitched straight out the window. "You— Are you joking? You're trying to be protective right now? Of what, my innocence?" His laugh was sharp and disbelieving. "You know I've got none of that shit left, a simple kiss shouldn't be anything to make a big deal out of."
"Was it really just a kiss, boss?" Philippe asked with a soft grimace.
"Yes," he fired back immediately, lying through his teeth and reaching to adjust glasses he wasn't wearing. He twisted, snatched them from the blanket to shove them back onto his face. "Maybe you're the one reading too much into it. Relax, will you?"
There was enough light left in the sky to tell that Philippe didn't buy a word. A flush of shame crawled up Corbeau's back, but he was too proud to walk back on his word.
"Boss. You..." A deep sigh raised his hackles. "I didn't think it would come to this..."
A static fringe began to eat at his senses that he fought off with all his might. "What. Come to what."
"We shouldn't. You know that." The way Philippe slowly sat up, like the earth was fighting to keep him, wove an ominous cord around Corbeau's throat.
"What do you mean, we shouldn't. You're talking like you think I was trying to... to make something serious out of it."
He was, though. He wanted so badly to kickstart something he thought was simply waiting for him to pull the trigger on. It was supposed to be as easy as one little kiss. One little message that said, hey, we both know there's something going on between us. Let's stop playing dumb, yeah?
Wasn't Philippe also getting tired? This had to be equally hard on him. They were suffering from the same noose wrapped around both their necks—Corbeau refused to believe that he was the only one looking forward to slicing it off before it killed them.
He tried again, and hated how he sounded when the words left his mouth. "I thought—you'd like it. You always like what I..."
Philippe's discomfort was loud as an alarm. "That doesn't matter, boss."
"The hell it doesn't," he hissed sharply through the growing dark. The field had fallen completely silent, save for the hollow rattle of the breeze. "What are you trying to do then, huh? Killing the mood like that when we could be..." Be what? "Be something. We already are something. You feel it, I feel it. I don't see why we can't..."
"You should know exactly why we can't." Philippe's exasperation tested his temper. "I thought you knew better, boss. I shouldn't have to explain—"
"Don't speak to me like I'm stupid when I just don't understand!" He snarled. "You want me. I know you do, I see how you look at me and feel how you touch me whenever we're alone. And it's obvious in every little thing you do that you fucking love letting me want you, too. Why is one kiss suddenly too much for you to handle?"
In the face of everything they've shared already, a simple fucking kiss should cross no line. Philippe was supposed to love him back. This was supposed to be easy. All it'd take was for them to admit how strongly they felt for each other, and they could ditch all the pretenses and be something, and then...
"Boss..."
Then...?
Corbeau's throat went dry.
He hadn't actually thought about what would come next. He just... assumed everything would be easy. That because the feelings were there, everything would fall into place. Kiss, confess, happily ever after. Carried off into the sunset by his knight in shining armor, and nothing else would ever matter again.
An embarrassment for someone who fancied himself one of the sharpest in Lumiose.
Some things would change, but a lot of things couldn't: work, responsibilities, the way they were perceived by the people of Lumiose. What the grunts were allowed to know. What was already a secret would have to remain a secret, and if that were the case... why bother?
The static infringed further on the edges of his brain. Philippe was ahead of the curve for once.
In the distance, a car raced by unseen, headed towards Lumiose at this late hour. Towards her gates, her canals, her people and her many endless problems. The glow of her lit up the sky in that direction, a bright beacon that seemed to speak directly to him. A reminder that he couldn't stay away for too long; there were people out there who needed help that nobody else was willing to give. It would do her a disservice to get distracted by fairy tales.
His head turned with robotic smoothness back to Philippe. It was growing too dark to read him well, but his silhouette was a guarded one. Worried, but guarded. There was no room in his body language for convincing. Whatever his decision was—whether it was made just now, or long ago—it was as final as final could be.
Which. Was fine. Corbeau wouldn't want to convince Philippe to love him in a way he didn't want to. The whole point was that Philippe would want to. So this was fine. All fine. Corbeau shouldn't humiliate himself by wasting his breath.
Another hindsight hilarity, observed from a short distance outside his own body—he must've been the only one who treated this outing as an escape. Because even as they were surrounded by nature, lying together on the grass off the clock, practically snuggling like lovers, like newlyweds—any amount of time spent with him was still part of the job.
Corbeau was the job. And Philippe would never put his responsibilities down for anything.
He swallowed around the slithering knot in his throat, unable to care that Philippe had chosen to speak with his silence.
"If I ordered you to kiss me, would you?"
He shouldn't have asked. He didn't want to know, was too afraid to know, but he couldn't take the words back, and he was about to be hurt no matter what Philippe said or didn't say.
His subordinate's voice was soft. "You should know the answer to that too, boss."
The words dragged serrated against Corbeau's heart.
He did know, was the thing. And he was a fucking idiot for thinking at any time before now that the answer could ever have been yes.
He never had a chance.
Some fragment of that revelation must have reflected on his face, because Philippe tipped towards him slightly.
"You'll understand later that this was for your own good, boss," said Philippe, far, far more gently than he had any right to be. "I really am sorry."
That gentleness stabbed like a blunt needle. It felt remarkably like being talked down to. Like he was some dumb naive kid that needed the world's harsh realities spoonfed to him in small doses, swaddled in fluff. You'll understand when you're older, you dumb fucking kid.
His nails were cutting into his palm.
Calm. Calm. He would behave this time, remember? No tantrums, no letting his head run away from him. He was a calm, rational adult who could handle a simple, logical rejection without freaking the fuck out like the world was ending.
For his own good, huh? Sure. Okay. If Philippe was the one saying it... sure. He trusted him. Wanted to show that he still trusted him. It would feel so, so good to be angry, blow his fucking top like it might change anything, but he refused to. Not here. Not yet. It'd be pointless.
Head hollow as a bell without its clapper, Corbeau to his feet and grabbed the knot of his tie, gave it with a directionless yank so he could breathe. He couldn't bear to be still any longer. His insides twisted with listless uncertainty. What to do, where to go, what to say, he didn't know anymore.
As if waiting for his cue, Scolipede picked herself up with a shake of her neck and haunches. Her head swung low, nudging underneath his arm. He wasn't so pathetic that he had to be comforted, was he? He petted her anyways, obscuring the shakiness of his hand, as having nothing to do but stand here in obvious distress would have scrubbed at his pride like steel wool to table scraps.
Philippe might have moved in his peripherals. He stepped away before he was put in arm's reach, if Philippe meant to reach for him at all. Towards the flowers, towards the field. The moonlit hills where no human messes mattered. His feet slipped back into his shoes on autopilot, Scolipede steadying him.
"Wait. Boss," Philippe tried. "Bo— Corbeau?"
He paused, shoulders set artificially neutral. "The first was fine."
If that's how Philippe wanted their relationship to remain.
"Boss," Philippe confirmed, and Corbeau wanted to scream over how uncertain that word suddenly sounded in his mouth. "It's not that I don't... You were right in what you said earlier. It's just that I can't... we can't—"
"There's no need to waste your breath, Philippe. You've already made your point quite clear."
If they spoke about it for one more sentence, there'd be no putting him back together.
How tempting, to let this be ruinous. To fly into a rage and set fire to this idyllic countryside. There was nothing to shatter out here—no glass or ceramic, no walls to split his knuckles on. Just grass and dirt and all the unreachable stars beginning to twinkle overhead.
He refused to fall apart again when Philippe's inevitable comfort would only kill him the rest of the way. He didn't want to have to be comforted again—no wonder Philippe didn't want something too serious when he was constantly taking care of his boss. What on earth was attractive about that? About a reactive, hedonistic brat lagging over a decade behind on wisdom and grace. To Philippe, this must have felt like a kid trying to kiss their babysitter—
Breathe. This is nothing, you are fine.
Don't prove him right by falling apart over this.
Breathe.
"You really think this is what's best for me," he confirmed out loud. His hand formed a fist over Scolipede's back. She nudged into his side, solid and warm. "I get it."
"I'm sorry, boss." Philippe sounded torn—how dare he, honestly?
"I'm sure you are." He couldn't keep his derision from dripping like a Gloom's sweet nectar. "Though I'd rather you weren't sorry at all."
Philippe was plenty used to hurting people for their own good. This shouldn't be any different for him. Just another part of the job.
A tickle in his hair. Scolipede was preening him the way she did when she was nervous. He was stiff from his neck all the way down his spine, and willed his body to listen to him and relax. There was nothing to fight.
"Bo—"
"Not. Another. Word," he gritted. "If you care about me at all, this conversation is over."
Philippe shutting his mouth at last hardly brought him any peace. Scolipede bumped him towards the spread blanket again, but he stood rooted in place.
He suddenly hated how vast the field was beneath the open sky. How small he felt, adrift at the mercy of the sticky summer breeze wanting to sway him as it swayed the tall grasses. Out here, he was nobody. He wanted Lumiose back, with her maze of buildings and eternal sources of light, her dirty underbelly that he ruled over with increasing sway every year that passed. People who admired, feared, needed him.
Most of all, he wanted his room without any windows, where everything he could touch or break belonged to him and him alone. Philippe wouldn't follow him in, as would only be right. It simply wouldn't do to keep a subordinate so busy after hours like this.
It was rather unnatural that he invited a subordinate into his quarters so often to begin with, come to think of it. Hardly appropriate.
(Philippe might have only played along with his whims because so far, they'd been harmless. Enough plausible deniability to call it simply serving his superior. Because Philippe was so loyal, so considerate of his boss's needs at all times that an embrace or home-cooked meal was just... service. Of course a kiss would be going too far. He should have known.)
Corbeau filled his lungs with fresh air and gave Scolipede a controlled pat. Very well. Business as usual. If that's what was best for them both. For the Syndicate, for Lumiose. How silly of him to forget what truly mattered.
"Philippe," Corbeau said, fighting the sluggishness the name brought to his tongue.
"Yes sir." Too quiet. Corbeau only turned his head partly, waited in silence, until Philippe got the memo and replaced that with a more vigorous "Yes sir!"
(If he heard a slight fracture in Philippe's voice, he ignored it.)
"There's work I could be getting done. Let's not waste any more time out here."
He snatched his empty pokéballs up and beckoned his team with a call that carried over the dark meadow. They slithered and scurried back to his side, and he hoarded them close to his chest.
He paid no mind to how Philippe's team heeded the same call. He helped them back into their balls as well, unable to look long at any of them.
They silently packed up their little oasis before it got too dark to see, and Philippe led the way back to the resting bike.
Corbeau stared at the bulky helmet under his arm. It caught a metallic purple glint from the moon. A gift from Philippe. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to punt it and send it flying like a comet. Out of the universe, out of his life.
But if he refused to wear it, Philippe would drive slower. It'd be that many more minutes trapped behind him on that old machine when all he wanted was to be home.
"Boss?"
Philippe was already straddling the bike, hand extended for Corbeau to take, to help him on.
He suddenly thought about telling Philippe to go fuck himself. That Scolipede could carry him back, actually, or if he really wanted to be dramatic, Gyarados.
But that outstretched hand kept waiting. For him.
Corbeau ground his cracked heart under his heel like a cigarette butt on his first step back towards Philippe.
He donned the helmet.
Took the hand, but didn't hold it.
Gripped Philippe's shirt the bare minimum needed to hang on for the ride. He felt a million miles away from the man he sat directly behind, who shielded him from the wind if nothing else.
It was a long, silent ride back, punctuated by the cutting of an engine that left Corbeau's ears and body ringing. He vaguely recalled ignoring the soft "Good night, boss" Philippe gave upon dropping him off in front of the office. He only handed his helmet back with no intention of needing it again, and walked away without a backwards glance.
The clean lobby and sterile elevator led him to his windowless home at the very top floor. The lights flicked on, artificial.
The place was hollow as hollow could be. A styled-up penthouse so full of nice things it could pass for a showroom.
Corbeau suddenly hated every square inch of the place.
The first shatter of something worthlessly expensive against the living room wall didn't make him feel any better. So he tried again. And again, until shards crunched under his shoes and he could laugh at how stupid it was that he owned such fragile, pretty things in the first place.
Who the fuck was he trying to impress. Only one other person ever saw this space, and that man had never been fooled by any polished veneer Corbeau could try to paint on. He could act grown and noble all he wanted; underneath it all was a furious, immature, scared little brat who came from nothing and was destined to return to nothing.
If there was any purpose to him at all, it was working to better Lumiose. Nobody would have to claw their way up from filth as he had. This city was home to so many people whose goodness was worth protecting. Whose hands and bodies, minds and thoughts, weren't stained as black as he was.
This city and everyone in it—everyone in it—would be better off once he minded his origins and remembered his place.
He couldn't let Philippe's kindness go to waste.