Work Text:
Corbeau is a collector. Beyond piling debts, he always gets what he wants, and as he pushes Lysandre’s wheelchair into his private gallery, he wishes he could see his face.
He wheels him slowly past Lysandre Café branded china cups and packaged coffee blends, pressed Team Flare uniforms and documents on headed paper won at auctions via proxy. He lingers at each, letting Lysandre read their placards.
Philippe disapproves of the collection. Obsessive, he calls it. Preservation, Corbeau corrects him. Though, in gathering pieces Lysandre left behind, Corbeau must admit it’s easy to confuse which memories of the man are his own and which are history’s.
The gallery’s final exhibit is a glittering shard of Geosenge rock displayed behind glass. Not long ago, it was the collection’s pièce de résistance, but the man once believed to be buried beneath this strangely beautiful rubble now sits before it, still and silent. Corbeau’s chest warms with pride, as no fellow collector could match this: a coveted prize that’s his to keep and do with as he pleases.
He puts a hand on Lysandre’s shoulder and ignores his flinch when he squeezes.
“So,” he says, leaning down to whisper. “What do you think?”