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The corn blue glow of the moon poured in through the balcony window, illuminating the gentle face that rested atop Philippe’s chest. He couldn’t help the grin that seized his face as he watched the sleeping Corbeau, listening to his shallow breaths. The nasally way he’d inhale and the soft release through his slightly agape mouth. He only slept this soundly whenever he felt safe in the other man’s arms. A lifetime of unease and fear was erased from his visage.
Philippe was enraptured. He could stare at that face for a millennium and never tire of it. He’d see hundreds of sunsets, every last one breathtaking and awe-inspiring. He felt the same divinity every time he looked into those golden eyes. The way the dark eyebrows would release from stress or ire and soften the iris beneath. And how sometimes they would spark with a rare joy that almost felt forbidden to experience.
He released a gentle sigh. Corbeau’s head rose and fell with Philippe’s releasing breaths. This was the most relaxed he had been in what felt like years.
As he watched his beloved rest, his mind began to wander. Philippe couldn’t help the rushing thoughts in his brain much like he wouldn’t be able to stop a flooding dam. They had history together and every memory felt as fresh as the day it happened.
His mind traveled back to the first time he had ever seen Corbeau truly relaxed. Seeing his boss relaxed was rarer than winning a jackpot on the Goldenrod slots. The feeling of witnessing it was infinitely more euphoric than the rush of riches. When Corbeau felt joy, Philippe was a billionaire.
Corbeau had only been in The Rust Syndicate for less than a few months. He was fragile from loss. He would spend hours frozen by his own thoughts, his face a statue. Philippe could tell Corbeau was handling the news poorly. Just because he wasn’t a mess on the outside didn’t mean he wasn’t rolling in the torture nexus of his own mind. Philippe could imagine Corbeau hurling metaphorical knives into his heart over his grief. But to anyone else, he was just the same unflappable Syndicate member that most others relied on. He had spent so much of his energy pushing the grief aside so as to give tactical advice to Philippe. How many generators could he power with that energy alone? How could someone distraught over the betrayal and loss of a father figure push it aside like nothing, just to dedicate every waking moment to bettering the city nearly destroyed.
It was dedication like this that made Philippe realize he did not feel worthy of leading the Syndicate anymore. He had every intention of declaring his abdication any day now. But upon seeing Corbeau sitting alone in the hall with eyes transfixed on the floor, now was not the time to make that declaration. He was hurting and only Philippe could see past his typical phlegmatic facade.
Wordlessly, Philippe stood above Corbeau. Corbeau didn’t look up, but acknowledged the shadow with a slight twitch of his hand resting in his lap. Without invitation, Philippe sat down next to him. His presence was already comforting to Corbeau. Though he was still frozen in place, nonverbal, he appreciated the larger man’s comforting countenance.
“I know you’re probably not in any mood for banter right now, especially anything work related. So I’d like to extend an offer to join me for coffee, my treat.” Philippe began cursing in his head. Why did it sound like he was performing some cowardly quid pro quo nonsense? He was clearly not trying to sound like he was coming onto his subordinate. Definitely not a date, unless?
“I mean, as a gesture of comfort, er–solidarity?.” Philippe quickly added. He didn’t normally fumble over his words like this. He just wanted to comfort his friend, not just employee, in their time of need. Corbeau didn’t respond. He wanted to, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was turn his head slightly in Philippe’s direction and nod.
The dichotomy of a man who hours before spent every ounce of his being laying out a proposal for the next step of the Syndicate’s aid to the city and every contingency plan only to become a silent, burnt out ghost. Philippe knew he wanted to accept with grace, but if the best he could muster was a nod of the head and a slight thumbs up, that was all he needed.
Philippe and Corbeau walked together along the stony streets of Lumiose, nearing a small cafe that still remained open past 7pm. Corbeau wasn’t hungry, but if Philippe was offering, he wasn’t going to let him down.
“I ordered you an almond croissant. I know they’re your favorite.” Philippe exclaimed, setting a steaming mug on the table. Corbeau admired the latte art. The barista had managed to wiggle and pull the pitcher’s spout to shape the microfoam into the depiction of a Scolipede as per Philippe’s request. The corners of his mouth upturned slightly.
Philippe had always thought almond croissants were Corbeau’s favorite. The first time he found the frail body of Corbeau asleep on a bench, he handed him a wax paper bag with the pastry in it and watched him devour it, flakes of bread settling around the corners of his mouth. It’s true that almond croissants were his favorite, but not because he preferred the taste over any other kind. It was definitely because of that kind gesture. Truth be told, his actual favorite pastry was eclairs, but he wasn’t ready to tell Philippe yet. Though Philippe on occasion had offered to bake for him, especially since his birthday was in a few weeks.
“Thank you, Philippe.” Corbeau finally spoke for the first time in hours. Philippe breathed out his relief. Corbeau was finally coming back down to earth.
“You don’t need to tell me about what’s going on, by the way.” Philippe cut to the chase. “I just wanted to give you a night to not worry about anything. You did phenomenal today, after all.” He sipped his own latte, letting the scrumptious beverage wash over his tongue as he took in the flavor profile.
“You’re too nice to me.” Corbeau said. Corbeau had no idea of Philippe’s incoming intentions.
“I could say the same,” Philippe replied as he dipped his spoon into his Roseli parfait.
The two chatted for hours until the shop closed. Philippe didn’t want to leave, but he had seen Corbeau relax for the first time. It was almost as if the conviviality of food and beverage was all he needed to let his shoulders fall. The calories had brought life back to his face. No longer did he look like a marble bust carved in a grave expression, but a human being this time.
When they left the cafe, the waxing moon hung in the Kalossian sky, illuminating the streets below. A wish hung in Corbeau’s heart that could only be answered by Philippe’s magic.
As he walked Corbeau back to his small apartment, Philippe paused at the door.
“I have a surprise for you tomorrow. I think you’ve earned it.” Philippe said. Corbeau was confused by his boss’s vague words. “It’s a good surprise, I promise.” Philippe quickly added, once again realizing he was tripping over his words. Corbeau hated surprises and Philippe knew that.
“Was this not a surprise enough? I finally got a chance to be myself for once.” Corbeau responded, peering over his glasses. He pushed them up the bridge of his nose with a thin finger. He really ought to get a chain for them with how often they slipped from his small bone structure.
“I’m glad you can be yourself around me.” Philippe smiled. “Now get some rest.” He beamed an askew smile, lips slightly parted, in Corbeau’s direction. Corbeau slyly smiled back. It’s true, he had never let his guard down in front of anyone before. Even under the watch of Lysandre did he feel too caught up in reverence for the Team Flare leader’s presence. Philippe was so down to Earth, how could he not feel comfort in the Syndicate leader’s proximity.
“See you tomorrow.” Corbeau nodded. Philippe drank in the sight of that smile and watched him retire into the vestibule of the old building. Tomorrow would be his last day as the leader of The Rust Syndicate…
Philippe drew in a sigh as his thoughts turned from business to the much more domestic moments the two had shared. Their dichotomous relationship held such equilibrate fluidity. Philippe had always feared his intentions crossed some inappropriate threshold. It was always reciprocated, no matter how many times he felt his heart pounding against his ribs. For most, a relationship like this would be impossible, messy. But to them, it was effortless.
One of his favorite domestic activities he would share with Corbeau was getting dressed every morning. Something about the simple act of preparing for the day with his beloved caffeinated him more than any steaming cup ever could.
One of their first mornings together stayed emblazoned in his mind. Corbeau stood at the bathroom mirror, hands busy with an array of miniature bottles. His bangs had been pulled back by an elastic hairband. His left hand held steady a tincture that glided precisely across his forehead. He patted the dripping oil into the skin with gentle circles. Philippe stood in the door frame, enraptured by the small man’s routine. Corbeau couldn’t see the towering man in the mirror as his glasses were sitting on the counter.
“Whatcha doing?” Philippe asked after a stifled yawn.
“Come here.” Corbeau gestured. Philippe complied. Corbeau donned his glasses and looked up at the hulking man next to him. “Here, have a seat.” he gestured to the metal footstool he normally used to reach the higher shelves where he stored his extra towels. He wouldn’t need that stepstool much longer, though.
Philippe was almost too large for that stepstool. His knees angled up sharply, his back pinched. Corbeau rested a hand on one of his knees, gently pushing them to relax. He stood between Philippe’s stocky legs and looked into his steel eyes.
“Here, I use this serum to keep my pores tighter.” He said, running a tincture along Philippe’s face. He rubbed the serum in with small circles as he did his own. “It has cucumber in it. Keeps down any sort of inflammation.”
Corbeau reached into the black bag on the counter, pulling out another bottle. He squeezed a dollop onto the tip of his index finger. “Careful, I’m going to be near your eyes.” He said gently. His slender fingers swiped the cream under both of Philippe’s tired eyes and prodded the skin lightly. “I use this one to keep the skin tight. Don’t want eye bags at my young age.” He chuckled. Philippe opened his eyes and caught sight of Corbeau’s concentration locked tight on his work. Corbeau smiled at him.
“Okay, one more.” Corbeau reached into the bag for one more tincture that he applied to Philippe’s cheeks. He regretted not having any beard oil to rub into Philippe’s well-groomed mutton chops. He had some cologne he only wore on special occasions. He placed a few drops on his fingers and rubbed it into Philippe’s facial hair. He loved the coarseness under his touch turn soft. Philippe let out a gentle sigh of ecstasy at feeling the caress against his face. He leaned into the touch like a Skitty would lean into gentle chin scritches.
“There.” Corbeau smiled, letting his hands slide from Philippe’s face and to his broad shoulders. “Have a look.”
Philippe turned towards the mirror. “I look beautiful.” he said, examining how flawless his glowing skin looked for the first time. What magic was in those tinctures and bottles? Was Corbeau some kind of potion wizard? Did he wield the water of the fountain of youth in one of those bottles?
“You were beautiful before…” Corbeau cooed, slightly above a whisper as he watched Philippe examining his face, inches from the mirror. Philippe turned in Corbeau’s direction. He was starting to turn red.
“What was that?” Philippe teased. He wanted to hear that again. Corbeau tucked his chin to his shoulder in embarrassment.
“You’re beautiful…” He repeated. Philippe’s heart fluttered in his throat again. He needed to remain suave and sturdy, but no one had ever called him beautiful before. He was always called brutish, hulking, massive. But never beautiful.
Philippe reached for Corbeau’s waist and with a smile declared, “I know you are, but what am I?” Corbeau chuckled as Philippe kissed the top of his head. He thought he could get used to this.
It was those memories that Philippe could get drunk off easily. All those moments of bliss or any chance of lightheartedness in contrast to their usually chaotic lives. They were so few and far between that he relished every moment they had. Sometimes it was something so simple as sharing a cigarette on a city bench. Even something as mundane as the first time he had to teach Corbeau how to file the Syndicate’s taxes.
It would be remiss of him to forget the first time he saw Corbeau laugh. Legitimate laughter that loosened his muscles. The airy tenor in a fit of guffaws unburdened by social decorum as he let his guard down. The way he doubled over, hands gripping the sides of his stomach, gasping to catch his breath in between belts. Philippe couldn’t even remember the joke he had told. It must have been something stupid and corny. No way would Corbeau collapse in a fit of laughter over something as trite as a pun. He was always so uptight that seeing him seized in a moment of joy was nothing short of a treat.
The joy that nested in his cortex quickly turned. There never was a moment where Philippe wasn’t pacing back and forth in his mind the millions of threats that could approach Corbeau and the billions of ways he could apply force or wit to protect him. They had been in many tricky situations over the years. He remembered the first time he saw gratitude rest in those amber eyes, narrowly escaping from harm's way.
Back when Corbeau was still an insecure teen, he was often taking refuge on the streets, especially on nights where Lysandre had forgotten to leave the door unlocked. He was too short to reach the fire escape ladder and thus unable to reach the guest room window. Even then, it was latched shut. Cursing his luck, he scuffled through the alley, hoping to find an alcove to take roost. This neighborhood was territory to the up and coming Rust Syndicate and if he wasn’t careful, he might get caught up in their affairs.
The pounding steps of heavy boots echoed the stone corridor. Dammit. With no place to hide, he scampered through the alley, light on his feet. At the end of the alley a massive figure arose. A drunken man with a behemoth of a Rhyperior with malicious intent in his eyes stood firm, rubbing its Ultra Ball against his shirt. Corbeau steadied his hand around the Dusk Balls in his pocket. There was no way a simple Venipede and Trubbish would defend him from a Rhyperior. He sure as hell was going to try.
The Rhyperior charged forward after a command. Stone Edge would certainly knock out Venipede in one hit if it hadn’t managed to evade the attack on its lithe and skittering legs. Bits of rock flew past Corbeau’s face as he shielded himself with the sleeve of his hoodie. With precision, he commanded Venipede to use Rollout, knowing that Pin Missile or Poison Sting would barely make a dent. As Venipede rolled towards the Rhyperior, it flung its jagged rocky tail, knocking Venipede back into the alley wall, unconscious.
“Not looking so good for you…” The drunken man slurred as he stepped closer to the young Corbeau. He could smell the whiskey and sweat under the leather. Trubbish was going to be no help at all. As the man reached forward, Corbeau ducked and rolled to the side. But his shoelace snagged on the rusted dumpster to his left and he toppled over in between the man and his Rhyperior. He reached for his ball, ready to call out Trubbish to get between him and the grease-laden man, when he heard a howl crack through the corridor.
A tall man in a biker jacket and shaggy mohawk leapt down from a fire escape. It was Philippe.
“Bullying a kid? That’s pathetic. Get the fuck out of Rust territory before I turn you to dust.” The gravelly voice of the new figure on the scene commanded. Corbeau was enraptured.
“You think that’s a threat?” The drunkard barked back, releasing his switch blade with a sharp shink. Philippe cracked his knuckles and released his Aggron, sending it towards the Rhyperior with an Iron Tail. Corbeau had since scrambled to his feet and walked backwards from the scene as he watched the two pokemon locked in ruthless combat. Blow after blow and hand over hand, he watched the two men fight. Corbeau was still new to learning self-defense and studied the moves of the second stranger who had swooped in moments ago. His fists were merciless. With precision, he disarmed the drunkard of his blade, sending it sliding towards Corbeau’s feet. He peered down at the glinting metal. He quickly pocketed the knife.
The drunkard’s Rhyperior had since fainted. The bloodied face of the drunkard had turned to a face that begged for mercy as Philippe raised his fist one more time before stopping short. He shoved the man down the other side of the alley. After the figure had disappeared, he swiped the blood from his knuckles on his leatherclad pants.
“You okay, kid?” His voice boomed. Corbeau nodded. Philippe had seen that face before. He was the same urchin he tossed an almond croissant to. He was that very same bratty courier boy he had seen running errands for Team Flare. Many a time he had seen him hanging around Cafe Lysandre and delivering dubious packages to patrons. There had been no way this innocent lad knew what he was conspiring in. Philippe had remembered one of his missions was to intercept a package of rare mechanical parts for some kind of weapon he had been hearing about. He remembered how flabbergasted he was when the boy had skilfully knocked out his Skarmory with a single Venipede after a surprising combo of Rollout and Infestation. It was quick with Protects and evaded many hits that should have landed. He admired the tenacity of the youth he ran into time and time again. He didn’t feel any guilt for having just saved him from Arceus knows what that drunken bastard would have done.
“Thanks.” Corbeau managed, shakily. He tried to hide his vulnerability.
“I’ve seen you around. You got the chops to be a member of the Rust, you know that?” Philippe extended a hand. Amber oculars glanced at the massive, calloused palm outstretched in his direction. Then he looked back up at the hulking man’s face. No response. “I’ll keep the offer extended. Think it over.”
It had only been a matter of days before he saw that thin-framed boy again, knocking at the door of their warehouse in the Bleu District. Philippe always felt pride when remembering that moment. He loved protecting the innocent. But something about protecting this youngster felt different. In hindsight, he could see the red string of fate that strung them together through this memory.
He remembered how danger always tied them together. Especially from the very first time he had professed his love. He sighed, watching Corbeau’s limp body snuggled into his flesh. Every “I love you” felt just as powerful as the first. Even when it was gently whispered to his sleeping companion.
He remembered how the night before the profession of his love he was seized in a panic. The fear wracked every fiber of his being that he might lose his Corbeau. It was only months since he had abdicated his role of leader. Corbeau masterfully led the Rust Syndicate through the rebuilding of Lumiose after the events of the doomsday weapon. He certainly wasn’t aware of any other potential threats, especially one so close to home. The way the Kingambit Crew had captured their boss with a lure of false pretense, leaving Philippe clambering through the Lumiose sewers in desperation. The fear eroded any sense of coolness he normally carried. The ache in his heart as he screamed for help, hoping any of the grunts were close by as he carried the limp and bloodied body of his boss in his arms. He didn’t want to lose Corbeau before he could admit to him the very truth of his devotion.
Philippe felt a tear welling up to his eyes as he pondered that moment. Corbeau was so safe right now. He couldn’t believe the inhumane things people wrought upon the man he so adored. He swiped away a droplet from the corner of his eye and continued to gawp at the soundly sleeping man at this side.
He remembered the trembling in his arms. He was a pylon of anxiety as he walked Corbeau up to his apartment after he had been discharged from the hospital. The Syndicate building was still under renovations and had thought having living quarters in the office would be safer than having to commute a few blocks as a high profile figure of the city.
Corbeau limped up the stairs. Philippe had offered to carry him, but Corbeau was obstinate. What should have taken 30 seconds took 3 minutes of hobbling up each step and clutching the railing to catch his breath at the landing.
“Philippe, you don’t have to follow me in. I’ll be fine.”
“I have to.” Philippe’s face was stone.
“Why? I have two deadbolts and a chain… Nothing’s going to kill me.” Corbeau’s voice was sharp. Philippe’s thick hand shot to the door frame firmly.
“You can’t guarantee that.” He replied. Corbeau sighed and invited the man in. A normal bodyguard and second in command wouldn’t go this length to protect him. No near death experience could warrant this kind of behavior from any employee. This was devotion to the next level.
Corbeau trembled as he lowered himself onto his arm chair. The stitches and bandages at his sides ached.
“I guess while you’re here you could make me some tea.” Corbeau said flatly. He was growing annoyed. Philippe knew Corbeau wanted to skulk in peace. He was always like this after any failure no matter how small. Philippe complied, clicking on the electric kettle and rifling through the cabinet for a comforting blend. Some honey, some cinnamon. Maybe even a little cardamom would do the trick. He expertly swirled the mixture together in the hot water as the tea steeped. He knew his boss didn’t like milk in his tea. But he didn’t like it bitter either. He handed the steaming cup to Corbeau whose brows were knit together in frustration. Philippe could tell the young boss was churning frustration in his mind like a spit roasted Lechonk.
“I can’t believe I could be so stupid…” he mumbled. “Team Rocket has been dissolved for years! Why would Giovanni even bother showing his face here in Lumiose after his pathetic plea deals to Lysandre…” Corbeau’s ramblings turned to rants. The endless stream of consciousness tumbled out of his pretty mouth. “And like a fool, I took the bait! I’m smarter than that! A ruse like this? Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” He was practically shouting at this point. Philippe was scared he was going to pop a stitch with how red faced and irate he had become.
“Do you have any idea how stupid I was to fall for that, Philippe? How can I lead the Syndicate to greatness when I can get blindsided like that? The Syndicate doesn’t deserve me, Philippe! The Syndicate des–”
“I love you!” Philippe bellowed, his even louder voice drowning out Corbeau’s tumbling diatribe. Corbeau was silent, frozen. Had he misheard him? Was he still hallucinating from the drug cocktail from the emergency department? Philippe’s posture softened, almost appearing meek. Corbeau’s eyes read a confused “what?” in his direction. Soft, his voice almost cracking at his gentle reprise, “I… I love you.” Corbeau really felt stupid now. Every moment from their history rushed into his brain, but his face remained stolid. There was no doubt that Corbeau shared the same feeling, but he was so wrenched by exhaustion and feared letting his guard down as was his normal stress response.
“I’m… I’m sorry, boss. You don’t have to respond. Forget I sai-”
“I… do too.” Corbeau choked on the words. Philippe was unable to control himself as his face stretched into a sloppy, askew grin.
“You do?” He was in awe. Stars sparkled behind his eyes. Corbeau nodded. No more words exchanged between the two as they exchanged knowing glances. Love had many meanings, but they both knew it in the moment to mean devotion, adoration, loyalty. Transfixed by the glowing eyes of one another, Corbeau finally broke away. A searing pain approached his temple like a crack of thunder. He clutched the side of his skull.
“Need an ibuprofen?” Philippe offered, reaching into his jacket.
“And a nap…” Corbeau was dizzy.
“That’s a great idea. Lemme tuck you in.” Philippe escorted the limping Corbeau to his bed, still in the oversized cotton shirt and lounge pants he wore from the hospital. He lifted the wool blanket over the exhausted man and looked into the tired eyes framed by dark circles that refracted plum off the porcelain skin. Philippe, infatuated with the wan figure wrapped in textile, patted his shoulder and blinked him a goodbye. He turned off the light and locked the door on the way out. He heard a gentle “I love you, too,” as he latched the door shut and stepped into the stairwell to retreat to his own, lonely apartment.
His heart still raced every time he thought of that moment. He feared he’d wake the slumbering Corbeau with how loud the muscle pounded against his cavernous ribcage. He glanced towards the moonlight pouring in through the balcony’s sliding door. The way the light bounced along the folds of the bedspread and climbed up the pale arm wrapped around his rotund middle transfixed him. His mind began to wander again, after moments of his steel eyes observing his tranquil partner.
Philippe was not immune to suggestive thoughts, not at all. He gazed at the bare shoulders of the sleeping Corbeau and remembered the first glimpse he ever had of the boss’s skin and the air that roosted tight in his throat.
Through the crack in the door, the wire-framed man let out a disgusted sigh as he peeled away sopping fabric. The rustling textile of a soaked jacket slapped against the floor. Philippe glanced through the glowing inch that poured through the door frame. It felt forbidden, almost lascivious. He couldn’t help it.
Corbeau released his belt, peeled away the sodden wool of his dress pants. He let out a frustrated sigh as he struggled to keep his teeth from chattering. Philippe had to resist every urge to barrel through that door just to be the one removing those wet clothes. He didn’t want to do it as an act of perversion, of course not, but an act of devotion. To be the one to strip away each layer, to wrap plush terrycloth around the pallid skin, wiping away the wet gooseflesh beneath. To watch the blood rise to the skin’s surface as warmth returns. But he held his breath and chased the thought away.
Another groan was heard from the room. Philippe looked up through the gap again. What he saw almost made him collapse. A glimpse of his boss’s back decorated in ink depictions of flowers and the pokemon of his team. The tattoos looked like a shawl draped the muscles beneath. The yellow glow from the lamp illuminated the small definition of trapezius and deltoids raising the fabric of a thick robe. Just as quickly as he had seen it, the skin was covered again. Philippe had to practically fight to keep the blood from rushing to his face.
“I’m decent.” a voice from inside beckoned.
Philippe gently entered and stood at attention as he watched Corbeau lifting heavy, soaked fabric from the floor. His throat felt like marble, unable to ask if aid was needed. Clothes deposited in the bin, Corbeau turned and squinted in Philippe’s direction.
“You can have a seat. No need to be so stiff.” Corbeau whirled his wrist around in Philippe’s direction. Though his glasses were on the bedside table still speckled with rain water so his aim was slightly off. Philippe complied and settled onto the leather armchair. It squeaked under his weight.
Gentle pattering of bare feet echoed on the marble floor as Corbeau sauntered to the bathroom. He reached for his blow dryer. The wet strands of hair turned downy again. Philippe looked down at his knees. His leg was shaking. Oh, how he wished to be that blasted robe. To be the very gentle fiber that draped the shivering skin. To envelope every inch of the thin frame beneath. He tried to choke the thought away in fear his boss would see the red in his cheeks.
Philippe remembered Corbeau’s glasses. He gently rose from the leather seat and stepped quietly to the bedside table. He unfurled the golden square of fabric from his pocket and sweetly rubbed the dried streaks from the round lenses. Stubborn greasy stains melted under the hot breaths he puffed onto the glass. The glass returned its shiny nature, clear as the day they had been forged.
The blow dryer had ceased its whirring. Philippe heel-turned to see the squinting Corbeau at the bathroom door. Corbeau had expected Philippe to still be in the chair on the opposite side of the room. He felt surprised as the larger man approached him from the left.
“I cleaned your glasses for you.” Philippe managed through his strained throat. With bravado finally seizing him, his rough, muscly hands delicately placed the frames on the face below his. Corbeau blinked his squint away, eyes matching Philippe’s. He had stopped breathing. Philippe was frozen, awestruck. Dammit. He was beautiful.
“Th-thank you, Philippe.” Goosebumps returned to Corbeau’s flesh, but not from the influence of winter rain this time. Eyes stayed locked for what felt like an eternity. Philippe could swear that Corbeau could hear the monstrous pounding of his heart. He could only imagine what fantasies swirled in the boss’s meticulous brain at this very moment.
Did he want to act on instinct and gruffly lift the smaller man into his arms? Did he want to raise his hand and sweep away the displaced bangs that hung over the pale forehead they framed? Did he want to place a broad palm on his cheek and pull him in for a forbidden kiss? Yes to all the above, but he trembled under the thought of a mismatched intention.
A gentle sigh escaped Corbeau as the moment rushed into him as fast as a breeze would rip a flyer from a telephone pole. Philippe began to breathe again, each inhale shaky.
“I’m cold.” Corbeau finally managed to break the silence.
Philippe was punching himself from the inside. Grabbing the smaller version of himself that rested in his psyche by the shoulders and wrenching the intrusive thoughts free. You know you want to, the voice would echo in the cavern of his brain. You want him so bad.
Fuck it. Strong arms wrapped around the slender body. As effortless as lifting a pet, he lifted Corbeau into his arms and carried him to the loveseat adjacent to the leather chair he sat in moments ago. Corbeau let out a cracked squeal from his exhausted throat. There was no protest in his body at the action, however. He was languid and pliable in the larger man’s grasp.
Philippe cradled the shivering Corbeau in his embrace, letting his frail body drape over the round stomach and tree trunk thighs. His arms remained wrapped around his boss firmly. Corbeau let out a gentle sigh. The fabric of his robe had loosened from being handled, his chest becoming exposed. Always chaste, he suddenly didn’t care. He tilted his head back, resting it in the crook of Philippe’s neck, letting the warmth envelop him.
Kiss him, idiot. The thoughts continued to echo through Philippe’s brain. He shook the thought away again. This moment was too perfect. He couldn’t break the peace in Corbeau’s finally relaxed muscles. He was obedient. He was reserved. His only motive at this juncture was keeping Corbeau warm at all costs. He held him firm in his lap and refused to let any disaster befall the two heaped together in one form.
Just as quickly as he had lifted him off the floor, Corbeau had drifted into a light sleep. Had he really been that exhausted? I supposed an entire day of giving chase to ruffians during the freezing rain of February all to stop sloppy kidnappers would warrant this level of exhaustion. He refused to taint the peace and let his knackered boss sleep in the comfort of his arms. He deserved this one.
Then Philippe remembered their first kiss–how its sudden nature made him wish he broke all meticulous social restraints of their business relationship. How he felt his heart flutter in his throat. How he wanted more than anything in that moment than to take the smaller man into his arms and make him his entire world, right then and there…
Walking back to the Rust Syndicate office after a business deal in the west side of the Magenta District, Corbeau’s face scrunched, his brows knit in a tight V. Philippe followed behind him, eyes ahead watching his boss’s path, diligently. The clouds were growing dark and heavy.
I can’t believe I didn’t think to bring an umbrella… Corbeau thought to himself in disgust. He was well known among the entire city for how well-prepared he always was. Such was his perfectionist nature. Corbeau was a man of detail. Any mistakes he made felt like burdens. He knew he was too harsh on himself, even for the more insignificant slip-ups.
The clouds opened up. A harsh downfall collapsed all over the city, wet daggers slicing the pepper-dark sky.
“Dammit.” Corbeau scoffed, lifting his jacket over his head. Philippe had considered shielding his boss from the rain with his own jacket, but considered his size. He reckoned that Corbeau would more likely drown in the fabric than from the downpour.
Corbeau quickened his pace, light on his feet, trying to avoid forming puddles. Philippe nearly had a hard time keeping up with the cadence of Corbeau’s nimble legs. Philippe certainly lacked the grace to avoid the puddles. He didn’t care about his shoes getting wet–he only cared about making sure Corbeau got back to the office safely.
Taking a shortcut, Corbeau turned tightly into an alleyway. The office wasn’t much further ahead. Just a few more blocks to go. Despite his jacket held up like a Murkrow shielding itself with a wing, his glasses were obscured by droplets and his hair was becoming slick with the rain water. Corbeau’s frantic steps quickened even more, practically sprinting. In his haste, he misstepped. His left foot hitched onto his right ankle. He stumbled forward, arms outstretched to catch himself from hitting the pavement face first.
Without hesitation, Philippe bounded towards Corbeau, instinctively thrusting out his arms. His wide fingers formed a basket under Corbeau’s abdomen, catching him. Corbeau’s face was inches from the muddy ground. Philippe’s stocky arms lifted Corbeau upright with ease. But his laced fingers remained tight around the smaller man’s middle.
The two stood there for a noticeably long beat. Corbeau’s back was flush to Philippe’s round stomach. Philippe’s mind came rushing back to his frozen body. His cheeks flushed pink as he noticed the intimate nature of their position. Flustered by the realization, he started to remove his hands from his boss’s waist. With Sneasel-like precision, Corbeau clenched his hands around Philippe’s wrists, stopping the larger man from pulling away. Philippe was frozen by this gesture, gaze adhered to the back of Corbeau’s head.
“Boss, you’re going to get wet.” Philippe broke the silence.
“Already am.” Corbeau retorted without hesitation. He swiveled around, not loosing his grasp. His amber eyes locked with Philippe’s brilliant silver gaze. Neither cared about the downpour padding on their heads and shoulders. No natural disaster could intervene on the matched gaze the two were gripped by.
Just as quick as the sky had opened, Philippe bent forward, bringing his face to the shorter man’s. Corbeau flung his arms around Philippe’s shoulders as their lips connected. Their mouths desperately clung to one another, only parting for short breaths. Rainwater drizzled against their faces between each aching kiss. Every moment one was to pull away, the other would bring them back in with furious yearning. Soaking wet under the Lumiosian city lights, the two refused to break their passionate embrace.
Philippe’s racing mind had emptied. He couldn’t even recall what their business deal was about just merely 30 minutes ago. The only thing on his mind was the man in his arms. His heart felt like the overflowing fizz of a soda bottle, sparking in every muscle of his face. How he often spent days watching Corbeau talk, intoxicated by his silvery words. How he would glance away in fear his boss would see him staring at his mouth for too long. But now those lips were fervently against his. It was everything he had longed for.
Corbeau gently pulled away after what felt like an eternity locked against him. The corner of his mouth upturned slightly.
“Been waiting to try that.” He chuckled. Philippe cocked his head to the side, startled by Corbeau’s response.
“Wait… you…” Philippe struggled to find the words.
“Of course. I see how you look at me. If only you knew the things that cross my mind every time I look at you.”
Philippe was dumbstuck, jaw open slightly.
“Now let’s go home. I’ll dry you off.” And with a heel turn, they left the alley, hearts in knots, ready for what was to come in the privacy of the dry penthouse that waited to warm them from the drizzling sky.
Philippe’s head kept spinning the memories like a Spinarak weaving its web. The first time he had the pleasure of seeing Corbeau’s body in its entirety–gentle peaks and valleys leading to the holy land under folds of skin. The first time he made him truly his.
He remembered the first time they shared the night together. The way his voice cracked as he woke and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He remembered the way the pillows smelled like his shampoo and sweat.
He remembered their first trip to the beach. He smiled thinking of Corbeau struggling to gain his sea legs, anxiously toeing the rocky ocean floor and shivering under the lap of each wave. He remembered standing behind Corbeau with arms outstretched in case he slipped. The curl of the tide would knock into his sensitive ribs and he’d fall into Philippe’s arms, braced against his stomach and barreled chest. He would laugh and blush from the embarrassment. Philippe loved seeing his typically stolid boss in a subtle state of social distress, especially when they were alone and he was shedding his Nincada shell of stoicism.
He remembered the first time they danced together. Just cleaning the kitchenette after a stay-at-home date. A song on the radio, one of Corbeau’s favorites, sent his toes tapping and shoulders swaying. Philippe paid no heed to his soapy hands and grabbed his partner by the arms as they danced around the room, eyes never parting. The effortless movements they made as Corbeau was pliable and lithe. The way he breathily laughed in time with the song. Philippe remembered how red Corbeau became after a wink during the chorus.
He remembered their first date, punctuated by awkwardness. They felt bubbling braveness in their chests. A public image needed to be upheld as high profile figures of Lumiose. What would one think of the two men sitting at a candlelit table in Cafe Le Wow? What would one think of the rosy cheeks and attentive body language as they shared a bottle of sake. If approached, an alibi would be urgent. Just a routine business meeting. A performance review of sorts.
He remembered the first time they shared a cigarette together. The intimacy of their faces inches apart as he shielded Corbeau from the wind with the bountiful fabric of his wool winter coat. Corbeau would take an expert drag and slip the cigarette into Philippe’s mouth with grace. The smoke would slink out from the parted flesh of his lips as slow as a lava flow. Philippe nearly dropped the cigarette when his jaw parted in awe at just how sexy his boss was.
He remembered the first time they watched the sunset together. How they sat, huddled in an alcove on the rooftops. The sun grazed the western mountains and illuminated the sky in dapples of marmalade. Philippe looked at the sun’s reflection in his lover’s glinting golden eyes and felt overcome with emotion. He’d see hundreds of sunsets, every last one breathtaking and awe-inspiring. But none were as divine as the ochre iris that drank him in.
“I love you, Beau.” Philippe whispered to his slumbering beloved.
“Mmm nu.” Corbeau muttered in his sleep. Despite being deeply enveloped in the sopor of rest, the red string of fate delivered the message to him in his dreams. Philippe grinned from ear to ear, closed his eyes, and drifted off to join his beloved in repose.